The Healing Party (12 page)

When I had broken up with Jason, after the initial devastation I felt light-headed, almost exhilarated. I had caused an ending and created a new beginning. He had done nothing wrong, but I had been an actor, not a reactor, as my father would say. It would have gone on, and I would have become increasingly insecure, more like my mother – the smile that fell away when people were not looking, the anxious fluttering of her hand under her neck and the silent watchfulness.

Now I read his letter.

Dropping the letter, I covered my mouth so my parents would not hear me cry from the next room. I knew I would not be contacting him.

I suddenly felt weak and tired. Fully clothed and unwashed, I clambered into bed. I had bought an electric blanket a few weeks earlier, and had left it switched on during the rally. The warmth was glorious and stupefying, like lying on sunbaked sand.

As I was about to sleep, I remembered how he had fucked me the night I found out that Mum had cancer. I had his penis in me and I was astride him, leaning my hands on his chest, my eyes closed, feeling sad and raw and taking him in deep. When I opened my eyes, I saw him looking up at me with such compassion that his eyes, usually a cool grey-blue, although not crying, looked to be dark and flowing. He turned us over, still inside me, and rocked me gently. He dipped his head down to mine, closed his eyes and pushed his tongue into my mouth. In and out, his tongue and penis pulsated in rhythm, kiss-feeding me.

I
T WAS A COUPLE OF DAYS AFTER THE FAITH RALLY AT
Dallas Brooks Hall. Maria was helping Mum shower. I ate toast by myself in the kitchen. Dad's urgent phone voice travelled down from the studio. Although the sun had barely risen, he was already making his calls, stirring people to join in with the preparations, and to serve, sing or dance at the healing party. He would not wait until 9 a.m. to ring, no matter how often we told him to. ‘I guarantee that people want to rise, to be galvanised for important news,' he would say.

At yesterday's appointment with Doctor Richards, I seemed to be the only one listening. Mum had responded as well as could be expected in her situation after two cycles of chemotherapy, Doctor Richards advised. He then went into some detail about the risks involved in the third cycle. But this was scheduled in about five weeks, which was
after
the healing party, and Dad, Mum and Maria let the details skate over them, their vision filled by the imminent miracle.

Clearing the breakfast dishes, I studied the poster Dad had stuck to the kitchen wall. With an exuberant hand, he had sketched his plans for the party. There was artistry even in his planning notes. In the centre of the poster, he had drawn a cartoon of Mum rising from her wheelchair like an athlete springing from the blocks. Next to the drawing he listed the order of events at the party, starting with the food and song and finishing with the miracle. The poster had sections for contacts, to-do lists, room arrangements, and drawings of food. His menu planning was simple – more, more and more. Mum let the organising swirl around her. Anita argued with Dad about quantities, taking on Mum's usual role. My sisters and volunteers would need to be here every day in the lead-up to the party to prepare the wontons and curry puffs, which we would cram into the bulk freezer.

Dad came into the kitchen. ‘You like my poster, don't you?' he said.

I agreed. His face was warm and lively, and he was giving me his full attention.

‘You must come along to breakfast at McDonald's with Geoff and me this time,' he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘The bacon and egg McMuffins are marvellous.'

Dad and Geoff had breakfast there several times a week, but this was the first time he had invited me. I told him I had to do meditation and massage with Mum when she came out of the shower, that I had eaten breakfast and didn't like McDonald's.

‘We will be back in time. I need to talk to you over breakfast,' he said.

‘Why don't we just talk here?'

‘Geoff has something to share with you.'

‘Could you just tell me what Geoff wants to say without me coming to breakfast?'

He was no longer smiling. He raised his voice. ‘You have been called to have breakfast with us. Just do what you're asked. Now get to the car.'

I stared into the distance for a moment, then got up to get my shoes.

We arrived at our local McDonald's before Geoff. Even though it was not yet eight when we stepped inside, the air was warm and salty with the smell of frying, and the postbox-style bins were already overflowing with food wrappers and burger scraps. There was a queue at the counter, but most of the rows of small, square tables were vacant. Dad, beckoning me to follow, walked to a table next to the window overlooking shrubs and the car park. He moved the tray that had been left there with its used wrappers and half-drunk milkshake to another table, and went to the counter to order.

I could hear the boy behind the counter greet Dad by name and ask where Geoff was. Dad came back with a laden tray. He put my coffee in front of me.

‘I got an extra apple pie,' he said, ‘just in case you change your mind.' I ignored the pie. ‘You know what I like about McDonald's?' he said, getting stuck into his McMuffin.

‘It reminds you of the coffee shops in Hong Kong,' I said.

‘Yes, you know those coffee shops. Nothing fancy – the tables and chairs are bolted to the floor like here. But you can just waltz in, choose a table and order drinks and food, and sit for as long as you like and no one will bother you. You know, Natasha,' he continued, all in the same breath, ‘have I told you about the reign of terror in my childhood home?'

I nodded.

‘I loved my parents and always wanted to please them, even though they were, let's face it, imperfect. I was always looking for opportunities to make them proud of me. I could speak salutations in classical Chinese. My brothers never learnt them, only me. When my parents had guests, without being asked, I would come out and serve the oolong tea and impress them. I still remember the salutations I recited to them: ‘May you prosper like the eastern sea and receive longevity as long as the southern hill,' and ‘May your fortune come gratuitously and flow with profits.' Of course my parents gained face from having such a clever son.

‘I was always fearful when my parents had a day at the races, and dreaded the moment they returned. If they returned with packets of
sao o fun
noodles, everyone could relax, down to the servants – it meant they had won. If they lost, everyone was scared. My parents would not be satisfied until they found someone to blame. They would ask who swept the floor, who dropped chopsticks? Sweeping and dropping chopsticks, like dropping your livelihood, are the worst offences when it comes to gambling. Inevitably one of my sisters or the servants would be beaten.'

I had heard most of this before, but still it touched me. I imagined that cute, smart, fearful boy and could feel my heart softening. I picked up the apple pie and took a bite.

‘Mmm … it's good, Dad,' I said.

‘Yeah, good stuff, eh?'

‘Did your parents ever beat you?' I asked.

‘Seldom, rarely, compared with my sisters. Once my schoolfriend and I were playing hide-and-seek in the house. I thought the boy was hiding in the bathroom, you know, the outdoor one by the drain.
Hiyah!
I kicked the door open, kung fu-style. How awful! I saw my mother sitting on the toilet! For that offence, my mother made my father cane me until I was striped all over. But you know what the terrible thing was? She didn't do it straightaway. She did it two days later – when I didn't expect it and thought she had forgiven me.'

It was a cruel, heart-rending story that he was telling me. But watching him performing the kick, the gasp at the sight of his mother, the swish of the cane, I became aware that it was the actor in him who was telling the story.

‘Yes, forgiveness is paramount,' he continued. ‘I have forgiven all my family. Even my brother Boon Meng, the sadist who beat my sisters. When I tried to protect them, he would have beaten me too if my mother had not intervened. I wanted to carve
Revenge
into my skin. I took out the blade, put it to the skin on my forearm.' He acted it out, digging into his arm with his finger and flinching. ‘One prick – yow! It hurt too much and I stopped immediately.'

I laughed. He was being charming now.

Geoff walked in. ‘Gidday!' He called out greetings to us. ‘Great to see ya,' he said to the guys and girls working behind the counter.

‘I've got your order,' Dad shouted to him.

‘Praise Jesus!' Geoff shouted back. They acted like they owned the place.

He slid his pot belly under the table. ‘There you are, princess,' he said. I said hi, but wouldn't look at him.

‘I might be ugly as sin, but Jesus loves me,' he said, guffawing.

I took another sip of my coffee. Geoff started laughing and pointing at Dad and me.

‘You've got a dirty brown coffee mo above your lip, Paul, just here,' he said, and pointed to Dad's face.

I saw the brown smudge above the left corner of Dad's mouth and laughed.

‘And lookee here, don't you laugh, young lady – there's coffee in exactly the same spot on your face!' he said, pointing to my face now.

‘We must have the same shape face,' Dad said.

‘Yeah, round like a rissole,' Geoff said. ‘Not like me, I'm like a dog walking backwards, that's what me mum always said. Ah well, we can't help our genes, can we? Nor our T-shirts either.' He laughed again. Dad and I rubbed at the same spot on our faces.

Geoff's face became serious. ‘Let me tell ya, Jesus doesn't want us stuffing up. He loves you guys so much that He sent me another message last night. Jesus said to me, “Tell the Chan family that if so much as one of the Chan family doubts, it will hold your mother back and ruin everything.”' Geoff stared at me. He went on, ‘You are all at risk. The devil is jealous! If just one of you has resentment and doubts, that's him, in!'

‘That's right,' Dad said. ‘The Lord's protection has to cover us every moment. Especially now that the miracle is drawing near.'

I stood up. ‘Are you doing this with my sisters too, Dad? Will they get a breakfast invitation?'

‘Please, Natasha, sit down,' said Dad. ‘For the love of Jesus and of your mum, let's pray together. This is what we do every time we come here, don't we, Geoff? You don't have to join in if you don't want to, but we're going to do what we always do.'

They bowed their heads, raised their open palms to the ceiling and prayed aloud. I sat back down, my head held high. A few people walking by looked startled by the sight, but the others on the nearby tables continued to eat, ignoring them.

‘The spiritual battle is strong,' Geoff said. ‘Strongest now. The devil roams like a restless tiger. By the mighty blood of Jesus, we will have the victory.'

*

Mum and I sat in front of the glass panels in her bedroom, looking out onto the backyard. A row of grey-green cacti, left to grow on their own until they were higher than humans, lined the wooden back fence. They were the only trees, if you could call those giant spiked stems trees. The ground was covered in thick waist-high weeds, except along the right fence where a path from the back door led to the Hills Hoist and the shed. Piles of cement rubble, old planks and debris leant against the left fence.

Normally the sight of the backyard would elicit bitter sighs and accusations from Mum for all the gardening that Dad had not done. But now she looked upon its unkempt and loveless state and didn't say a word.

Mum directed me to push the windows as far as they could go until they stood out at right angles.
Must let out the germs
, she always said. Cold air poured in, but so did the morning sun. I positioned Mum near the window so she could feel the fresh air but was out of the sun. I moved my chair into the shaft of golden light crossing the carpet.

‘Get out of the sun, dear,' she said. ‘You want wrinkles?'

‘In a minute,' I murmured.

When we were both sitting comfortably, I talked us through the meditation as usual –
lightly in and lightly out, focus on the air passing through the nostrils, relax each part of the body starting from
the crown of the head to the tips of the toes
. It was the part of the day I loved most, when everything, for a brief moment, seemed still and clear, and I felt some connection with Mum.

This morning, however, she kept clearing her throat and wriggling in her chair. She seemed impatient. ‘No need for so much relax your neck, relax your arms, relax this and that. Anyone can relax. We need to forgive!' she said.

‘Fine,' I said. ‘I can change it if you want. Next time the meditation can be on forgiveness.' She looked at me, suspicious for a moment.

I turned her wheelchair and my chair so that we were facing each other. I reached forward to pick up her foot to massage it, but she said she would take her shoes off herself today. Her face was freshly made up, and she looked sweet in a purple floral skirt, matched with a pink cardigan and pink hair clips. Trousers were now too difficult to pull on, and tracksuit pants were
upchup
and sloppy, so Mum always wore loose dresses or skirts that Patsy had let out to fit over the lump on her stomach.

Mum lurched forward and took hold of one ankle with both hands. Jerking backwards, she hoisted her leg up. Sprawled against the back of the wheelchair, skirt fallen back, she lifted her foot towards her chest and yanked at her shoe. Her legs splayed, revealing pale knickers and bare thighs, still fleshy and not yet wasted.

I stood up to help her, at the same time averting my eyes – how coarse and clumsy she looked, but also sexy. An animality had appeared since her sickness that I had not noticed before. During all those years trussed in figure-hugging clothes, straight-backed and elegant, taking small steps and tugging her skirt down, she had been alluring but less alive than she was now. I wished Dad had caught a glimpse of what I had just seen in Mum. But perhaps he did see her like that behind closed doors. I hoped Mum had enjoyed sex, that somehow she was a different person in the dark, that she shed the constant self-discipline.

Dad had first noticed her, the prettiest and most elegant woman in Hong Kong, walking to and from church, surrounded by her suitors and friends. He had to work hard to attract her attention. He described her as ‘exclusive'.

Dad had told me that while his seven brothers shared one small room and his sisters slept on the floor in the kitchen, he as the favoured son was allowed to sleep in his parents' bedroom until he was thirteen years old. A camp bed was kept at the foot of their four-poster bed for him. The first time Dad was woken up by their lovemaking, he called out, ‘Get out! Get out!' He told me that in his half-sleep, he had thought someone was trying to saw a leg off the bed. ‘Go back to sleep,' his father said. Dad imitated his father's gruff voice.

I never heard or saw my parents having sex. In my later teens, I realised how they had adapted to the thin walls between our bedrooms. First there was a click as the latch on their door came down, and then the rickety ceiling fan would be switched on to high, and soon all that could be heard was its thud, whirr and clank.

Up until our early teens, Mum would sometimes check on us in our rooms after we had gone to sleep. So quiet was she that often I did not wake until I felt her tugging at the bedsheet that was pulled up over my head. She feared I would suffocate, even though I told her that I always arranged the sheet so that there was a breathing-gap above my nose. Before leaving, she would sprinkle holy water on me and around the room. As soon as she closed the door, I covered my head with the sheet again.