The Healing Party (15 page)

‘He wanted to talk. Can't we just talk?' said Maria.

‘Sure,' I said. ‘As soon as you see someone you think might be vulnerable, you just home in!'

‘Maria talks with people so she can help them,' Patsy said, her voice trembling. ‘What about you? What were you doing with him at the faith rally?'

‘What are you going on about?' I said.

‘Why did he ask you out? Were you at the rally to flirt?' said Patsy.

‘What's the matter with you, Patsy?' I said. I could have said,
Are you jealous?
but that would have been too mean; we all knew she had never had a boyfriend or even a male friend. Instead I gave a patronising shake of my head. She stood there in her pinafore, prim, prudish and furious.

‘Tsk-tsk,' Mum scolded again. ‘Anyway, he's a very polite, Christian man. Very good in the garden too.'

We all watched him in silence for a while. He was stretched up on his toes, reaching for the higher cactus stems with the saw.

‘Where are you going tonight? Don't let him take advantage of you, okay?' Mum said.

‘Mum, did you really have to say that?' I said.

‘Pity Jason wasn't a Christian. He seemed like a good man,' Mum said. ‘Why didn't you get engaged? So long you have been together. Must never have sex before marriage. Why marry if they can get what they want?

‘Jason was nice,' said Maria.

‘I know,' said Mum. ‘Anyway, now you will go out with a Christian man. Don't be a srut, okay?'

‘Mum!' Patsy, Maria and I said.

*

Ed showered at our home and put on a good shirt that he had brought with him. I had on a collared shirt under a black wool jumper. At the last moment I took off the collared shirt and put the black jumper back on so there was nothing under it but my bra, and my cleavage showed at the V. I covered up with a jacket before leaving my room. Ed suggested he book an Italian restaurant on Lygon Street, but I didn't want it to seem as though he was taking me out on a date. I insisted it was my shout after all his work in the garden, and told him I preferred something tasty and quick, like Vietnamese in Richmond.

It was dark by the time we got to Victoria Street. I was immediately excited by the smells, the food and the bustle. Everywhere were Vietnamese restaurants with menus written on tiled walls and plastic chairs and tables, filling up with hungry diners. Walking along the footpath, we skirted around people and the wares and crates of produce spilling out of the shops. Anglo Australians towered over the Vietnamese. A couple of older Vietnamese walked around in pyjamas, as they did in Hong Kong. Ed walked close to me, so that occasionally we bumped shoulders.

‘Crowded around here. I'd better not lose you,' he said.

‘Can't tell us Asians apart?' I said, and he laughed and seemed to be more at ease.

Ed liked the look of a restaurant that was only half full, but I persuaded him that a crowd was a sign of good food. I was enjoying myself, and feeling confident enough to say what I liked. I remembered the easy excitement at the start of a new relationship – how effortless it was to be thrilled at each other, the pleasure of feeling immersed. Before Jason, all my relationships had lasted a few months at most. They started with a bang and petered out as more and more self-doubt crept in. I became pathetic, constantly trying to second-guess what was expected of me.

But right now I felt I could do no wrong. I pulled Ed into a crowded restaurant. We squeezed into the only available table, ordered, then went outside for a smoke.

‘Your father and mother on stage at the rally – they really moved me with their faith,' said Ed. ‘I wanted to come to the healing party. And I wanted to see you, too. I didn't want to use the party as an excuse to see you, or to confuse the two things. That's why I decided to ring and ask you out. I thought that if you said no, then I wouldn't make you feel uncomfortable by turning up to the healing party.'

I didn't feel flattered or wonder what he had seen in me. I knew that sometimes guys liked you for reasons that had nothing to do with you.

When Ed was not talking or engaged, his gaze kept shifting around. I took the opportunity to look at him while he rolled a cigarette. He had a sharp, cultivated face and dark liquid eyes half hidden under heavy, long-lashed lids. I liked his eyes, his long hair and his nose too, which had a bulbous drooping tip and saved him from handsomeness. Bending his mouth to the cigarette, he licked the length of the glue-lined paper and looked up at me through his lashes.

An old man came up and asked Ed for a cigarette. A minute later a youth who looked like he had been sleeping rough asked Ed if he could spare some change. With each of them, Ed obliged with a warm courtesy and found something to talk about before they went their way.

Through the restaurant's glass front, we saw the food arrive at our table. We stubbed out our cigarettes and went back inside. I ordered a beer but Ed, looking down at the table, said he would stay with the tea. The waiters zipped around, unerring with their hot, heavily laden trays. I thought he was being over-polite, stopping them to ask how their day was and to thank them. I liked the way he ate. He divided stuff up, pushed portions over to my side and said to me, ‘Eat.' Some men, like my father, ate with an eagerness that bordered on desperation. Others, like many Anglo men, ate with a disdain for the food, but Ed ate well and with ease.

‘Your family are really funny and nice,' he said.

‘Funny and nice. I'm glad you said that and not “inspiring”, which makes me want to throw up.'

‘They are, though. Something about the way your father talks makes you feel there are exciting possibilities in this world and you can be part of them. And your mother is beautiful. And your sisters are very interesting. And your cacti are out of this world and
inspiring
… I can't believe I'm slaving away for that ramp your father made. Worst piece of woodwork I've ever seen.'

We laughed, but his eyes were moist and I thought,
Oh no
,
he has fallen for my family
.

‘What would you normally do on a Saturday night?' I said.

‘There's a meeting at the Christian Life Centre in North Fitzroy. Tonight there's a preacher from South Africa. Would you like to go to that? We could catch the end of it after dinner.'

I shook my head. ‘You must have the wrong idea about me. I was only at the faith rally for my mum.'

‘Were you ever into it?'

‘For about two years when I was twelve years old and my parents became born again,' I said, then changed the subject. The last thing I wanted was to swap conversion stories.

After dinner, I wanted to go to the Tote for a drink. It was only a few blocks away, I remembered. I had not been there since Bonnie and I would sneak in when we were seventeen. Ed was not keen, but in my assertive mood, I persuaded him to go.

He drove the couple of blocks, past a bluestone school, boarded-up warehouses and rows of toy-like wooden cottages, and we saw the tired old pub on the corner.

We felt the thumps before we entered the narrow door. It was half dark, crowded, fuggy and smoky; a punk band screamed from the low stage.

‘What would you like to drink?' Ed shouted in my ear.

‘A vodka and soda. I'll be over there.' I pointed to the gyrating throng in front of the band. Ed made his way to the bar. I squeezed closer to the stage and soon I was jumping in rhythm with the group next to me. Some minutes later, I turned around to a tap on my shoulder. Ed handed me my drink and gestured that he would be on the other side of the room. He looked too serious. I emptied the glass, closed my eyes and bounced around some more to the beat. Then I left my space near the stage and went looking for him.

He sat with his back against the wall in a corner near the door. His jaw was held at a weird angle and his eyes, surveying the room, looked agonised.

‘Why aren't you drinking?' I shouted at him, almost angry.

‘I'm an alcoholic,' he shouted back.

Of course I knew. The realisation had been growing since I'd met him – the way he seemed so lost and vulnerable, his eyes that were always on the alert, his careful courtesy to others, his reluctance to drink or go to the pub.

Without talking, we walked outside and found the car. In the car he pulled me to him, pushed his lips against mine so fast and hard that our teeth clashed. He poked his tongue deep into my mouth. With one hand gripping my neck and the other my back, he clasped me to him, his heartbeat frantic at my breast. I kissed him back, caressed his hair, his back, stroked down towards his hips, his groin.

He pushed me away. His breath was ragged. ‘I'm sorry. I want to respect you,' he said.

‘You are respecting me,' I said, and moved back towards him. He yanked open the car door and stepped out. With quick steps he walked to the corner and back, then got in and started the car.

He smoked one cigarette after another as he drove. On the freeway he asked me, ‘Do you believe in God?'

‘Yes, I do,' I said. ‘An abstract one.'

‘I knew you did,' he said.

‘What about you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you before becoming Charismatic?' I asked.

‘Yes, in an abstract way, too. I think it was beauty I was looking for, rather than God. But adoration of beauty causes pain. I remember looking at the sky as a child, seeing its blueness and crying because I couldn't hold it in my hands.' He glanced at me and shrugged his shoulders.

‘And now?' I said.

‘Now I find Jesus is tangible,' he said. ‘Have you ever experienced Jesus in a real way?'

I put on my mock American preacher voice. ‘Sister, have you experienced Jesus in your life?' I looked at his face and immediately regretted my gibe. ‘I'm sorry, I know it was a genuine question,' I said. He picked up my hand from my lap and squeezed it. I stared out the window at the road and concentrated on answering his question. ‘Earlier this year, in Darwin, everything seemed to be going wrong and I kept trying to get on top of it, find solutions, change, but it just made me more and more anxious. Finally, one night I was having a kind of panic attack. I felt like my head would implode. Then I just let everything go. I gave up control and suddenly felt God or some kind of peace or infinite power fill the space.'

‘I know what you mean,' he said.

Blondie's ‘Atomic' came on the radio. ‘I love this song,' I said, and turned it up. My heart thumped with the urgency of the rhythm as it lifted off, the synth, her moans and the lyrics:
Uh-huh, Make it magnificent/ Tonight …
I thought about the healing party a fortnight away, and of the magnificent efforts of my mother, my father and my sisters, and I felt so proud and desperate that I could have sobbed.

Ed dropped me back home and I saw him every day until the healing party. Each day, after he finished the early shift at the old folks home, he would arrive at my parents' house and do battle with the monstrous multi-limbed cacti. He would take to the thick, tough stems with an assortment of saws, axes and spades, starting with the outer layer and working towards the centre. He learnt to wear goggles after a thorn stabbed him near the eye, and he discovered that the white slimy cactus juice would infect the cuts that multiplied on his arms and legs. When the stems lay hacked and weeping on the ground and there was only stump left, Ed would dig, ram and saw into the ground to remove the cactus's massive root ball, buried deep and knotted in the earth.

T
HE COVER OF CLOUD HUNG AROUND ALL DAY
, neither brewing into rain nor dispersing. Silver-grey and implacable, it filmed over our heads, too high, it seemed, to give the clear sign my family asked of God that all would be fine for tonight's healing party.

On the left side of our house, a cladded-steel gate blocked the driveway that gave access to the backyard. It had rusted shut, but we wanted to open it for the party, so people could enter without going through the house. Ed and I put our shoulders to the gate, rocking and pushing until the hinges screeched and it cracked free. We then moved behind the gate and pulled it open until we were sandwiched between it and the side of the house. Hidden behind the gate, we kissed.

How happy Ed seemed, working in our backyard. He had removed several years' worth of junk and wild growth. He'd tamed the lawn, vanquished the cacti and set up the ramp, even decorating it with fairy lights, all with an inordinate amount of pleasure and purpose. Not for the first time, I felt a twinge of sadness for him. What emptiness possessed his heart that he was so content to serve someone else's dream?

The guests were arriving at about six o'clock, just over an hour away. The drama group, musicians, friends and church people had been coming and going all afternoon, laden with crates, props, instruments, ice, eskys and trays of food.

Dad was sleeping in his studio to build up his energy. ‘Wake me at five o'clock, or if there is an important call,' he had said. Mum was lying down in her room. The dozen or so members of the drama group were still rehearsing, directed by Troy, a priestly young man Dad had made his second in command. Patsy and the music ministry had set down their instruments and were bringing out the plates and glasses. Anita, in full director mode, could be heard snapping out orders in the kitchen and all through the house. She was clear and good-humoured with the ten or so mainly middle-aged ladies volunteering in the kitchen, the same ladies you saw preparing the refreshments at all the Charismatic gatherings. Out of their earshot, however, she would be terse, giving tongue-lashings to Charles and her sisters. Maria was well out of the way. She had been given the job of doorknocking the neighbours to remind them our street would be full of cars and visitors tonight. We had letter-boxed invitations a couple of weeks earlier and hoped their sympathy for Mum would lead them to be tolerant.

‘Get off from there, you might fall,' I told Will and his friend, a neighbour's five-year-old daughter. They were crawling up the ramp, which took centre stage against the back fence, flanked by the six remaining cacti. Ed had put in hours of cutting, sanding and reinforcing to improve the ramp. Still, it remained what it was – a few pieces of timber knocked together by Dad, a rough and ready makeshift gangplank leaning against the fence at an odd angle. The ramp was attached about three-quarters of the way up the fence, low enough so that it wasn't too steep to climb, and high enough so that Mum, in fulfilment of the dream, could jump over the fence. But who would do that unless they wanted to break their neck in the deep fall to the alley on the other side? All the same, there was something precarious and grand about it. You could imagine the ramp as a platform to raise you into the sky, maybe.

Neither Will nor his friend got off the ramp as they were told, so I strode over to them. Will sat halfway up the ramp with his legs out in front of him as though he were on a slide. The little girl, giggling, crawled up the ramp, past Will, then raised herself to a standing position and looked down her nose at me. ‘Is Mrs Chan going to get up out of her wheelchair and run up here? That's what Will said!'

‘Did not!' said Will. ‘I only said she
might
!'

‘Well?' they both demanded.

I realised I was exhausted. ‘We can only hope,' I said.

They scrambled down and ran off, no longer interested, and I went back inside. The double doors between the lounge and family room had been pinned back to create a large open area. Furniture and effects had been removed and jammed wherever there was space in the other rooms. The floor had been cleared, but Dad's pictures stayed on the walls, taking on an even greater prominence. The house had the look and feel of a public gallery waiting to be filled.

I went to see if Mum was ready to get up. This was, of course, a different kind of party, but we couldn't help but compare it with the many Dad and Mum had hosted in the past. Mum should have been out there, taking charge of the kitchen and house, whipping up her dishes, counting the guests, calculating how much food and drink was needed, sorting out the serving, getting stressed and curbing Dad's excesses. A few times she had ventured out of her room to join in the preparations but had been distant and abstracted, and hardly able to string sentences together.

In the bedroom, Patsy was pulling a dress over Mum's head. ‘Soon you'll be doing this yourself,' she said. ‘You won't need me!'

‘Praise the Lord,' mumbled Mum.

I helped her lean to one side while Patsy pulled the dress under her bottom and arranged it around her legs. It was the ankle-length blue silk cheongsam that Dad always said made her look like the glamorous Hong Kong star Nancy Kwan. Dad had insisted that the family wear Chinese garb for the healing party. ‘Our guests will think it very cute and Asian,' he had said.

Patsy struggled with the zip of the dress. Mum's eyes slid away from the image of herself in the mirror. The dress had always cinched, slinked and slid in all the right places, but now it strained over her bloated belly and sagged everywhere else. Patsy draped a shawl over Mum and knotted it at the front.

‘It's going to be difficult using the toilet with that long dress,' I said.

‘That's all right. Mum's going to be healed,' Patsy said, lifting her voice at ‘healed' and smiling. Patsy had her ascetic look on, which was usually reserved for singing. Mum nodded and forced a smile. I started to arrange her shawl as an excuse to stroke her shoulders.

She pulled away. ‘You haven't dressed yet?' Mum said to me. ‘Go on. Wear something nice. And wake up Dad now.'

Dad was already showered and dressed in a bright Confucian-style shirt. He was gleaming with freshness and the Brylcreem in his hair. Geoff had arrived and was in the studio with him. They were in deep conversation about some further messages God had given Geoff about the healing party. Geoff craned his thick neck forward, droning on. Dad nodded at everything he said. ‘I rang Father Lachlan,' Geoff was saying. ‘He said he's gonna be late tonight. Of all the bloody nights. He's doubting. Satan is on the prowl. We'd better pray.'

‘While we pray, Natasha will go and get us an early dinner,' said Dad. ‘I always eat before a party so I can focus on being the host. Natasha, bring up a plate of food for Geoff, with the lot. And one for me too.'

After they had eaten, there was the blessing. Dad, Geoff and Mum proceeded through the house. Maria followed, carrying a bowl of holy water and sprinkling it to her left and right. Ed and the volunteers outside switched on the fairy lights and laid down canvas sheets for guests to sit on. In the kitchen, Anita, Charles and the helpful ladies administered the final touches. Patsy and her group started to sing the beautiful ‘Come to the Water' song: ‘I know you are thirsty/ You won't be denied …' The drama group, who had finished rehearsing, were the first to join in, and then came the busy people in the kitchen. Soon everyone inside and outside the house was singing. Over the weeks, I had come to know some of the Charismatics who helped us prepare for the party. We had never connected before; it had always seemed to me that they didn't really see who you were or who they themselves were, and that they only did things because they thought God told them to, or to resist the devil. But now I felt gratitude, warmth and the bond of shared effort.

What a beautiful ending to our weeks of toil and preparation, I thought as I sang. From the back window, I saw Mum, Dad, Geoff and Maria continuing the tour, making their way to the ramp. Dad pointed out to Geoff his handiwork in constructing the ramp. Maria positioned Mum at the base of the ramp and put the brakes on. She then stepped around Mum and ascended the ramp. At the top, she held the bowl of holy water high, turned it over and let the last drops fall. Mum sat there facing the ramp, as though she were about to roll up it. Suddenly the reality of the party hit me. Tonight, Mum was supposed to rise up out of that chair and walk up that ramp. Is that what we all believed? Her chair would be pushed back, she would stand tall, her dress rippling, her body erect, her head and shoulders held high, and she would walk, placing one foot after the other, up that ramp. Panic swept through me.

Then I closed my eyes and sang with the others. I screwed my eyes shut tighter and shouted the words of the song.
All will turn out well
, I told myself. There was nothing else I needed to know. A warm, vague feeling returned. That's all hope was.

*

Right on six o'clock, the first guests arrived – neighbours who warned us they could only stay for a few minutes, because they had a prior engagement. Next through the door were the Charismatic families, with their van-loads of children. Then Maria came back with three men and one woman she had picked up from a Catholic hostel for the homeless. At first the guests came in dribs and drabs and we had time to offer them a drink and somewhere to sit, but soon the door was left open as more and more people spilled through.

Formally dressed churchgoers, young dating couples, Chinese and Italian Catholics, a family of shy, recently arrived Burmese refugees, brassy Pentecostals, the euphoric recently born-agains, hippies, goths, conservatives, the destitute, the glamorous or crazy-looking – all came through our door. Mum was seated in a corner of the lounge room next to an armchair. People waited to greet her, each sitting on the armchair in turn. She never stopped smiling and nodding, though her eyes often wandered.

Every time I came back out of the kitchen with another tray of drinks, the house looked fuller and the noise was a notch louder. Of their own accord, people were flowing deeper into the house, the kitchen and the backyard, finding a space and helping themselves to food and drink from the tables set up here and there. The spring rolls, wontons and curry puffs were going fast. It was dark outside. When had that happened? The air was alive with chatter, laughter, enthusiastic greetings, high spirits and hilarity. ‘No alcohol needed,' they boasted – ‘we have the holy spirit!'

The tempo picked up again – Lara Morris and her boyfriend, both recovered heroin addicts, walked in the door with their followers. A further frisson ran through the crowd when the imposing Terry Morris and the rest of his family arrived, and, fifteen minutes later, Lou Mercier and his family. The two celebrity families of the Charismatic movement, in our house at the same time! It was a success: the leaders were here, and the young ex-heroin addicts too. People turned their heads, called out, greeted them and parted the way.

Anita and Charles barely stepped out of the kitchen. Maria whirled around the house, seeming to know and love everyone. Patsy and her group played their guitars and sang their hearts out, but you could scarcely hear them above the throng. Dad joined the other Charismatic leaders, working the room like a politician – kissing the ladies, clapping the men on their backs, laughing uproariously. The people kept on coming. Dad led Terry Morris and Lou Mercier up to his studio. At the top of the staircase, the three of them turned around, and gazed down at the party. With a satisfied smile. Dad threw out his hand and grandly swept it across the scene spread out below him.

For a while I sat with Mum in her corner, making sure she had something to eat and drink. She refused to leave her spot while people were waiting to talk to her. I tried to answer for Mum so that she would have a chance to chew or sip. ‘How are you, Irene,' they said, kissing her cheek, holding her hand or squeezing her shoulders. ‘How lovely you look, what an inspiration to all of us, what a wonderful party, the Lord will bless you and your family, He will heal you tonight – yes, tonight!' Mum nodded with a haggard smile. ‘Praise the Lord,' she said, over and over again.

Patsy and her music ministry moved outside, where it was less noisy and crowded and they could be heard. Ten or so single girls danced, waving their hands in the air. Couples held each other tight and swayed. Lara sat on the ramp at the back fence and held court before a large group including Ed and Maria. In the middle of the backyard, on the canvas sheets, about twenty young men and women stood in a circle, holding hands. Geoff Atkins, standing in the middle of the circle, the only old man among the young, stretched his hand heavenwards. ‘Jesus!' he shouted, and babbled in tongues. He placed his hand on a woman's head. She fell backwards. He touched the next person – he fell. One by one, Geoff felled them where they stood, so that in the end their bodies radiated from the inner circle like petals on a flower.

Later, while I was trapped in the lounge room talking to Kevin, an awkward middle-aged man who turned up at every prayer meeting and whom most people avoided, I noticed Dad on the other side of the room beckon to Ed and pull him aside. From the look on Dad's face and his gesticulations, he had something urgent to say. At the end of his conversation with Dad, Ed signalled to me that he was going out. I guessed he was checking on the parking.

When Ed had been gone for almost an hour, I went out to investigate. Our guests' cars clogged the end of the court and spilled out onto the oval. I walked down the street and around the oval, but could not see Ed. The darkness and silence of the field drew me in deeper. It was colder the further I got from the warmth around our house. From the middle of the oval, the party's noise was deadened to an even thrum. I gazed back at the house, which glowed and vibrated with light and verve, and looked like a magical living thing.