Revival Season

by Monica West

  “Look,” she said again.

  The gape in her shirt collar revealed a red, raised vertical scar that burrowed into her sternum like a worm. The furrows radiating from the main scar made the entire wound look like outstretched tree branches thrown into relief against the flatness of her chest. There were at least a dozen surgeries behind those scars—we had prayed for each of them. In all of that time, Papa hadn’t been able to make her heart whole again. Who was she to think that I could?

  “Help me,” she pleaded after my eyes hadn’t moved from her chest.

  I turned the knob all the way to the right and stepped into the glow of the church hallway.

  * * *

  Later that night, the veiled moonlight was replaced by an inky darkness that was thick and heavy as it poured inside the open bedroom window. My bedspread was a lead blanket as occasional lights from passing cars danced across the wall. I closed my eyes, and Dawn’s features—the hollow in her cheekbones, the unexpected dip of her Cupid’s bow—materialized. The burning emptiness of my stomach ached in the place where dinner would have been, but I hadn’t been able to eat after Dawn’s questions.

  What harm could it do? The question carelessly dropped from Dawn’s lips as though it was just about harm. But I knew it was bigger than that—it was about sin. According to First Corinthians, spiritual gifts were doled out to men and women equally, but according to Papa, women weren’t allowed to exercise those gifts over men. So even if a woman could speak in tongues or heal, it would be sinful to act on this ability. When Papa preached those sermons, I had written down his words as gospel, nodding as he spoke. Sitting awake in my bedroom, the words to his sermon ricocheted in my skull, louder than they had been when he preached them. But there were other questions that followed: Why would God give us gifts that we couldn’t use? Why had my words over Micah worked—even if just for a little while?

  Dawn had asked me what harm there was in trying. She didn’t understand that it would cause a scandal along the lines of something the church had never seen. My father, the head of the church, had tried to heal Dawn on multiple occasions. Anything I did to discredit him would disrupt the delicate ecosystem of our church, throwing everything that the Lord had established, and Papa had built, into chaos.

  * * *

  In the days that followed, I tried to forget Dawn’s request, but my attempts to push her to the back of my mind only meant that I thought about her with every Bible recitation and before-meal prayer. By the time we stepped out of the car at the next Friday’s healing service, I spun around when I heard a crackle, only exhaling when I discovered that the sound had been branches in the wind.

  I bowed my head and said a prayer before stepping inside the sanctuary—the selfish prayer that Dawn wouldn’t be in service today. On the other side of the heavy sanctuary door, Dawn was nowhere in sight to hear my mumbled prayer of thanks. Papa took his box of holy oil bottles from Ma—brand-new for today’s service—and marched into the pulpit with more confidence than he had last week. As each minute ticked closer to the beginning of service, Papa’s movements were looser and more languid as mine contracted until my muscles became ropes pulled too tight.

  “ ‘Give thanks to the Lord for He is good,’ ” Papa commanded.

  “ ‘His mercy endures forever,’ ” the congregation responded.

  “All who have come to be healed, come to the altar for a touch from the Lord.”

  The usual suspects got out of their seats—next to me, Micah shifted and leaned forward. I looked over at her—this would be the worst time for her to have another episode.

  “Are you okay?” I tapped her leg, reaching into my pocket reflexively for a piece of candy. Papa was making his way to the ground—too busy to see Micah having a relapse. But she was still, not shaky, and her skin wasn’t clammy to the touch.

  “Micah,” I repeated. I held the wrapped candy in my lap for her to grab. But she didn’t see it as she craned her neck forward and made eye contact with her dad. Deacon Johnson looked back at her and winked. Micah stood up and stretched her legs, then she took careful steps into the aisle.

  “Micah,” I thought I whispered, but it must have been loud enough for Ma to hear two rows in front of us. Her finger shot in front of her lips, but her eyes widened when she saw Micah standing. She shook her head, but it was too late—Micah was already in the aisle. Papa had placed his hands on an older woman’s head, completely oblivious to Micah, who was now at the end of the line.

  I kept my eyes on where Micah had shifted two steps closer to the front of the line. My heart sped up as Deacon Johnson came from the altar to stand by her side. As he put his arm around her shoulders, I waited to see him lean over and tell her that she was making a mistake. But instead, they inched closer to the front where Papa still hadn’t looked up.

  Unlike her traditional slouched posture, Micah stood with her shoulders pulled back. I had just seen her that morning, and in all the time we’d spent together, she’d given me no inkling of what she was about to do. I had kept my end of the bargain—I hadn’t told anyone that she had gotten sick again. And she had kept my secret about healing her. So what was she doing?

  Papa saw them when they were in the middle of the line—a flash of confusion passed over his squinting eyes and creased brow. He managed to compose himself for the next few healings, ironing his rutted forehead as people fell to the ground in heaps and stepping over them to move down the line. Finally, Micah and her father reached the front.

  “Deacon and Micah Johnson,” the words sputtered out. “I must admit that I’m surprised to see you here.” His eyes darted in their sockets, and his bottom lip quivered with rage. His jittery hands made oily stains on his suit pants. The congregation that had seen him march Micah to the pulpit during his triumphant return tour grew silent.

  “What ails you, Micah?” He was breaking with precedent because healings were always quiet and never meant to be broadcast over a microphone.

  “She got sick again, Reverend Horton.”

  Papa took a big step back as though Deacon Johnson’s words had force. “What do you mean, got sick again?” He was supposed to be talking to Micah, but the angry words that he spat through clenched teeth were directed toward Deacon Johnson.

  “You healed her, and we’re grateful, but there’s been a setback.”

  As I stared at the graying patch at the back of Deacon Johnson’s head, I imagined the hope in his eyes at the renewed request for his only daughter’s healing. But only new Christians believed in do-over healings, and Deacon Johnson had been a Christian longer than most people in this church had been alive.

  “A setback? You have to be mistaken.”

  “No mistake. It came back. The diabetes. About a week ago.” Deacon Johnson flung words out at a frantic pace.

  “We just wanted you to try it again. Please.”

  “You know that healings are as much about faith as anything else.”

  “I do know that. But I figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask you again.”

  “How weak is your faith, Ray?” Papa roared. The microphone’s feedback obscured his words and droned louder, even as he seemingly tried to yell over it. A hollow tap on the mouthpiece was a thunderclap. Papa must have just realized that he was speaking into the microphone because he pulled the black wire from behind his ear, and it clanged to the carpet with a wave of static.

  He was backed into a corner: he could either walk away or heal her. And with all those people watching, he wasn’t going to walk away. So he flipped the lid off the bottle of holy oil without removing his gaze from Micah and her father. Then Papa took quick steps toward her, and his healing words soon reached a crescendo.

  His hand all but smacked Micah’s head, making her reel backward into her father, who caught her. My fingertips tingled as he pressed his hands on her forehead, and I slid them under my thighs. The healing words were faint, but even though I couldn’t hear anything, I could tell the cadence was off. He wasn’t
even trying. And Papa didn’t close his eyes to summon the power of God: he stared at Deacon Johnson even as he declared Micah healed.

  Papa knelt to pick up the microphone. He closed his eyes for a moment, then threaded the wire behind his ear before walking toward the edge of the sanctuary and exiting through the door that led to his office. A few seconds later, Deacon Johnson rushed from Micah’s side and followed Papa through the door. A handful of deacons and Caleb stood in front of the congregation and helped people to their feet.

  Micah was in a daze as she walked back up the middle aisle—her forehead gleamed in the overhead light. Her stiff movements were slow and rehearsed as she returned to the seat next to me. She refused to meet my gaze.

  “What did you do back there?” It was Papa’s voice from the other side of the wall. He must have forgotten that his microphone was still on. “Are you trying to make a fool of me, Ray?”

  “It’s a healing service. I wanted you to heal her.” Deacon Johnson’s reply was muffled at first, but it got clearer and louder as I imagined him stepping closer to Papa.

  “You could have come to me privately. How dare you show me up?”

  “How could I be showing you up? You’re a healer, right? Unless you’re not. Correct me if I’m wrong.” On the last word, I imagined Papa lunging at him like a rabid dog before getting jerked back by a chain.

  “It’s my daughter, Sam,” Deacon Johnson continued with uncharacteristic boldness. “My only daughter. Did you expect me to do nothing? What would you do if it had been Miriam?” At the mention of my name, my skin prickled like all the eyes in the room were on me.

  “Or better yet, Hannah?” Deacon Johnson knew that Hannah was always off-limits. Papa’s Achilles’ heel.

  Hannah looked around for the origin of the voice saying her name, and I pulled her hand into my lap. Caleb rushed toward the door while the rest of us were pressed into the pews in some form of collective paralysis.

  “Get the fuck away from me, Ray. Get the fuck out of my office and out of this church. Now. And I never want to see you back here again.”

  Papa’s curses slapped the air, followed by shrieks and gasps from the crowd. Ma sank into the pew.

  The door leading into the sanctuary was thrust open, and Deacon Johnson walked toward the congregation with an ashen face. Micah had been sitting next to me, wooden, but as Deacon Johnson slid back up the middle aisle, she came to life, grabbing her Bible and standing up to meet him. I reached for her; my fingers wrapped around the protruding bone of her wrist before sliding to her hand. She looked down, puzzled, like my hand was a foreign appendage.

  “Micah.” It was hard to know what to say to her in that moment. I squeezed her wrist tighter. We had a million silent languages—she’d be able to understand if she would just look at me, but she was still surveying my hand.

  “Micah,” Deacon Johnson’s voice snapped from the aisle. She looked over at him.

  “I’m sorry,” I mouthed, tugging her back toward me. I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for: for her sickness, or my dad’s pride, or the fact that she wasn’t healed after all. Or that she was walking away and all I wanted to do was follow her.

  “I’m sorry too,” she mouthed before pulling away. I let her go, my hand falling to the still-warm empty space on the pew next to me.

  Long after Micah and her father left, I abandoned Ma and Hannah in the sanctuary’s cavernous emptiness and followed the departing parishioners into the parking lot that shimmered in the fresh rain. It was tempting to pretend, even if only for a few seconds, that I could jump into one of their cars and drive far away from here. When the parking lot was empty, save for our van, I stared at the crescent moon that dangled overhead like a fingernail in the starless night, reveling in the stillness and silence that would shatter as soon as we got home.

  * * *

  Back home, I pressed the cylindrical lock on the bedroom door when Hannah, Caleb, and I were inside. When we were younger, Caleb would come into our room on nights like this, saying that he wanted to comfort us when he was the one who really needed comfort. Through the thin floor of safety, I heard Ma pleading with Papa to sit down and have a cup of tea. Then their voices shifted to a lower register. I slipped Hannah into pajamas even as she complained about being hungry, her hand pointing to her stomach. There will be no dinner tonight, I wanted to tell her, my mind bouncing back to the way the women left with their foil-covered pans long before the deacons exited.

  A crash of dishes. Ma’s pleas rose through the vents, curdling by the bedroom carpet. Another crash—a harder one this time—followed by a plaintive scream from Ma. Hannah rustled against the tight bindings of her comforter and sheets, howling even as Ma kept screaming and more plates and cups shattered downstairs. Papa yelled in between the crashes. I shuddered with each roaring swell; then there was a deafening crash that sent my head into the detergent smell of Hannah’s pajamas. I waited for it all to stop while Caleb buried his head into my pillow.

  Papa’s rage subsided sometime later; in its wake, I twisted the knob until the lock popped and cracked the door open. One step into the upstairs hallway, past the study on the right, and then another few steps toward the stairs. Downstairs, I rounded the corner by the open front door, and then I was at Ma’s side, placing my hands on top of hers on the broom handle as she continued her work of sweeping ceramic shards into a pile. She swiped at long rivers of mucus that glistened on her face.

  “Where is he?”

  She shrugged as she released the broom. “Gone, I guess. He didn’t say where.”

  “Did he—?” I couldn’t get the final words out. She wrapped her arms around her expanding stomach and shivered. I scanned the visible parts of her—her wrists, her neck—for bruises. She pulled her sleeves down as though feeling the heat from my gaze.

  “No.”

  Images of him in the middle of the mob in Bethel came back. Then I remembered her knowing moan by the pool when I’d told her about his violence.

  “Can I see?” I tugged her wrist, but she tugged back harder.

  “There’s nothing to see, honey.” She choked on the last word. “I’m okay. I’m going to bed.”

  Her kiss on my forehead was a reflex without feeling before she turned away and walked upstairs. A few seconds later, her bedroom door clicked, and I surveyed the damage in the kitchen. Jagged shards of all our dishes were on the floor, and kitchen cabinet doors had been flung open. I knelt in a square of linoleum next to a beige dish that I’d made for Mother’s Day a few years back. We are all clay in the Master’s hands, Ma had said as I dug the heel of my hand into the wet clay and left behind an imprint that my hand currently dwarfed. Now a ragged fault line ran through the center of the hand. I dropped the piece back on the floor where I’d found it and swept it into a pile.

  The sharp hunks fell into the trash bag, making the thin plastic bulge and tear. The patio blinds were open, and the rain outside had become more violent over the course of the evening. I slid the patio door open and stepped into the driving rain as a streak of lightning split the sky in two. A clap of thunder resounded overhead; I balled my fists and screamed once, and then again and again until my throat burned. My weight pitched forward until I fell on my knees on the wooden planks of the patio, the splinters digging into my skin. I used to think that storms were evidence of God’s wrath at His people, and though I knew now that the God of famines and floods didn’t punish people that way anymore, there had to be some message in the way the clouds roiled and the sky illuminated in patchwork flashes. God was punishing all of us for Papa’s sins now. Or maybe he was punishing me for the sin of healing Micah.

  Another jagged ray of lightning made the house white and then indigo before returning it to black. Somewhere out there, Papa stood under the same rain, raging against a God who he thought was taking away his ability to heal. Meanwhile, Ma was probably upstairs cleaning cuts on her hands and icing other wounds that she hadn’t let me see. Ma’s words came back again�
��We are all clay in the Master’s hands—we only had one Master and that was God. Ma had always used that saying to remind us of who was in control of our destiny, but on nights like this, it felt like we were clay in Papa’s hands rather than God’s.

  The news would pass quickly in the church—the families who’d been gathered at the healing service had probably already told their friends, who were calling their friends now. He had gotten too big too quickly, they would say. A fighter can never really be a preacher. It was the salacious news that they salivated over, not thinking about what that fall meant for Papa’s family. And now that other people knew what I knew—that he hadn’t been able to heal for a while—what would that mean for the sick people who still needed to be healed? For the Dawns of the world?

  I stepped back inside the house in my rain-soaked pajamas; a puddle collected on the kitchen floor below my feet. I didn’t have Dawn’s number, but Papa had it in the log where he kept the contact information for anyone who had ever been to a service. I crept upstairs to the study, where I flipped through the log and found the number. It was too late for calls, but I wouldn’t have the nerve in the morning, especially when Papa would be back.

  The phone rang several times—it was silly to think she would answer this late. I pulled the phone away from my ear to hang up when a man’s voice, scratchy with sleep, answered.

  “Hi, Mr. Herron. It’s Miriam Horton. I know it’s late, but it’s urgent. Can I please speak to Dawn?”

  He called her name into the echo chamber of a house that sounded empty. Then the rustle of a phone being passed.

  “Hello?” Dawn’s breathy voice finally said.

  “I’ll do it. Next Wednesday.”

  NINE

  I woke up the next morning with the residue of my words to Dawn still on my lips—I’ll do it. A sleeping Caleb was in a heap in the middle of the floor, and I stepped over him on the way to the hallway. The study door was closed—not how I left it last night. Papa must have come home when I was sleeping.