The Healing Party (21 page)

‘It's Mum's money. Have you spoken to her?' I said.

He frowned with a righteous anger. ‘What do you mean, have I spoken to her?'

I couldn't respond.

‘You may not intend it, Natasha, but I sense a spirit of criticism in you. Do not entertain it. Of course Irene and I discussed the money. She asked my forgiveness for not trusting me enough. I forgave her. Immediately, and with all my heart. You see, God not only forgives the sinner but forgets the sin, and so must we. Even if you have not requested it, know that I forgive you, Natasha.'

He sighed. ‘Now take the money out and put it on the kitchen table.' He turned his back on me and walked down the corridor towards the family room.

I imagined striding after him, yelling,
Mum needs
your
forgiveness? Get the money yourself!
I took a few steps after him, then froze. I could not disrespect him. It would be beneath his dignity to get down on his hands and knees and scrape around the bottom of Mum's wardrobe. The very idea was inconceivable.

I tried to subdue my anger. In a few days I would be gone. I went to Mum's wardrobe and got the tin.

*

On the night before I left for Darwin, Anita had scheduled me to stay the night with Mum. At the end of evening prayers, packed shoulder to shoulder in her room, the group sang ‘Rejoice in the Lord Always' at the top of their voices. Afterwards, the family streamed out, taking their body heat, colour and verve with them, leaving Mum and me alone. A spell had been broken and all that remained was a harsh white cubicle. I could smell the bleach and formaldehyde again, see the things I didn't want to see: the red emergency button, the screen monitors, the wires sticking out of steel plates in the walls, breathing tubes, fluid tubes and catheters.

How silent it was without all of them there. I felt my own inadequacy, my inability to bring cheer. I asked whether she wanted me to put some music on, or the TV. Or did she want a massage? No, she just wanted a glass of water and for me to sit with her. Trying to think of things to say, I told her what I had cooked Dad for lunch and what he had eaten in the hospital cafeteria for dinner, and about the new patient I had seen wheeled in on a trolley to the room at the end of the corridor. We went quiet again. I reminded Mum I was leaving the next day. Since she had not mentioned it, I wondered if she had forgotten. She murmured something. No, she had not forgotten.

A young Filipino nurse, April, came in to take Mum to the bathroom. She was cheerful and very attractive, and I was glad for Mum's sake that Dad had gone home. While Mum and the nurse were in the bathroom, I extended the recliner and made it up with sheets I had brought from home. They returned twenty minutes later, Mum in a hospital gown with crease lines across the front where the fabric had been folded. April hoisted Mum into bed and performed the standard medical checks on her.

Mum pulled the neck of her gown down to reveal the catheter sticking out of her flesh like a carbuncle. April took hold of the catheter in one hand, and with the other injected it with a flushing fluid. She attached the morphine solution to the IV stand and pulled it closer to Mum.

‘Why do I need this morphine now when I don't feel any pain! Can't you wait?' said Mum.

‘Ma'am, remember what Doctor Richards told you?' said April. ‘We can't wait for breakthrough pain. It makes it more difficult to manage. Then you will need a stronger dose. So sorry.' She fed the tube from the morphine solution into the catheter in Mum's chest, turned on the pump and left the room.

At home, Mum had liked to wait until the pain got bad before she took her next dose. I could understand how she felt. How would you know if the pain had gone if you just kept topping up the painkiller? This treatment didn't allow for the possibility that a person might get better.

Mum frowned at the bead of pale-yellow liquid descending the tube. I sat on the side of the bed. Looking at the worry on her face, I wanted to touch her but felt nervous. I put my hand out slowly and rested it on her head.

‘Shall I massage your forehead, Mum?' I said.

‘No, la, you need to rest. Aren't you tired? You've been here all day.'

‘I'm not tired.' I moved my fingers over her forehead and face and felt her bones, fine like a cat's, under thin, loose skin.

Her eyelids fluttered a few times, then closed, her mouth softening. Her breath came out in puffs from her lips. I watched another liquid bead form at the top of the IV tube, then falter and break, dribbling down the tube into the vein in Mum's chest.

She suddenly shook herself awake. ‘Enough massage,' she said. ‘Very nice, thank you. Now let's read the bible.' She said it with such resolve that I knew she was up to something. ‘Open it where I put the paper,' she said. ‘Read where I've marked it. There.' She pointed to a paper serviette wedged between two pages of her bible.

I felt my heart quicken. She had thought of me – she knew I was staying the night and she had prepared for me.

It was the parable of the unmerciful servant in the Book of Matthew. A servant is forgiven a debt by his master, but refuses to forgive a debt owed him by another servant. When the master finds out, he beats and punishes the unmerciful servant. Mum had underlined the part where Jesus tells the servant to forgive his brother not just seven times ‘but seventy times seven'. As I read the words aloud, I kept thinking,
Yes, my mother knows me. I am the one with sores, the resentful one.

I closed the bible. ‘I might get a cup of tea, Mum. Do you want one?'

‘Wait,' she said. ‘What do you think of the bible reading?'

‘Well, shouldn't the master have forgiven his servant for being unforgiving?'

‘Don't always question things,' she said, sighing. ‘Natasha, you need to forgive! Let go of bad thoughts.'

‘Okay, Mum, I forgive. If to say I do is enough, then I forgive.'

She frowned at me. ‘No, you don't.'

‘No one needs my forgiveness,' I said.

She rubbed at her throat. ‘What about your dad?'

‘He needs it least of all.'

‘Natasha, you must forgive your dad.'

‘What would I be forgiving him for, Mum?'

‘Aiya, don't be a bad child. None of us are perfect.'

‘What would I be forgiving him for? See, you can't say it. No one can say it. Do we all need to play along that he's a saint?' I stood up. ‘Don't get me wrong, I do feel for him. I know his childhood was hard. But that doesn't mean he can just —'

‘Do it for yourself and for God!' Mum cried, raising her voice and pointing her finger at me. ‘I used to have bad thoughts. Then the Holy Spirit filled me, and I gave it all to Jesus.' She waved her arms and tried to lift up her head. ‘If you don't forgive, it will make you sick!'

‘Mum, rest, please! Lie back.'

‘Why can't you listen?'

‘I'll try,' I said.

She sighed again. ‘Now, take my prayer book and read it out. Where I marked it.' Another paper serviette was wedged into this book. In that crumpled serviette, which she had saved from her dinner tray and folded into a book so that she could deliver me a message, I felt her love for me.

‘“O Lord, Jesus Christ, Redeemer and Saviour,”' I read. ‘“Dispel with your love my resentment and bitterness. Allowed to fester, these sins will destroy and kill. I ask that You forgive my sins and give me the grace to forgive others. You forgive us seventy times seven. You forgive so that you do not even remember our wickedness.”'

I stole a look at Mum. She smiled and nodded. ‘Keep on reading,' she said.

‘“Baptise me with the Holy Spirit, help me to cleanse my memory, so I can also forgive and be forgiven.”'

I read the prayer in a monotone, not wanting to show any emotion, but each word pierced me.
You are pretending
, I screamed to Mum in my head.
You go into this fog so you don't have to feel the rage. You can't even look at another woman without thinking,
Is she his type? My mother, my sisters and I, we all knew what to look out for – she would be a natural beauty; she would have something of the pleasing little girl about her. He would be so kind to her. He wouldn't even know what he was doing.

I looked at Mum again. She was smiling nervously at me, grateful that I had recited the prayer. Forgive and forget? I wouldn't know where to start.

*

The morphine ensured that Mum slept. I moved in and out of consciousness. Flashing buttons, lit displays, beeps, muffled footsteps and voices reminded me where I was. We kept the door slightly ajar, but it was not enough to stop the sickly-smelling gas that came from Mum's intestines building up in the small room.

A nurse with a pen torch came in to check on her. She walked out. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew the nurse was there again with the dimmer lights on and a trolley. I sprang up from the recliner. ‘What's wrong?' I said.

‘Nothing to worry about, dear. She's had a little accident. It's very common with the medication she's on. I'll just clean her up.'

The nurse pulled at the sheets. I saw the wet patches on them and on Mum's gown, and smelt the warm tang of it. ‘She did this last night when I was on duty as well,' the nurse said. ‘I'll just clean her up and she'll be none the wiser. She's got enough on her plate as it is.'

She pushed Mum onto her side while she pulled the sheet from under her. Mum was completely out of it. I tried to help.

‘It's all right, love. You need to sleep. I'll do it. That's what I'm here for,' she said. We had not met before. She was one of the older nurses, with large strong hands and a tired, kind face. I lay back down, but did not sleep. I watched the nurse's deft movements and her gentleness with Mum. In a low, calm voice, she explained to Mum every time she was about to move her, although Mum was lost to the world. ‘That's right, love, I'm going to put you on your left side now so I can put the nice fresh sheet under you.'

She looked after her like a mother would. ‘There, I'll just wipe you so you won't smell it in the morning,' she said, brushing Mum with a warm towel and putting a fresh gown on her. When the nurse left, I got up and pulled Mum's sheet down. The nurse's care had touched and amazed me. There was no reward for her other than the wellbeing of her patient. Mum lay there, asleep, warm, dry and clean, in tenderly smoothed-out sheets and gown. I bent down and hugged her, laying my head softly in the crook of her neck and feeling her breath on the top of my head.

*

The next morning, Mum was agitated – her eyes were clouded and her hands could not keep still. We could find nothing to talk about. It was time to say goodbye and there was nothing else in my mind. Patsy had arrived early. A young couple whom I had never met before, who knew Mum and Patsy from a prayer group, arrived after breakfast. I ignored them.

Patsy was on the guitar, and the man and woman were singing and laughing. It was time to go. Mum sat in her wheelchair by the grey-tinted window, its glass so thick that everything outside, though the sun gleamed and the wind swayed the branches of trees, looked not quite real. She smiled at the couple and sang quietly. My backpack was ready and packed, sitting outside the door.

Abruptly, while they were singing, I stood up, squeezed Patsy's shoulder and turned to Mum. ‘Bye, Mum,' I said. ‘I'll see you at Christmas.' I bent down to hug her and let go quickly so that she did not have the chance to lift her arms to me. I walked out of the room, frightened that I would break down. Outside, I grabbed my backpack and turned to wave. Patsy kept on with her strumming and the couple with their singing. Mum had turned her wheelchair towards the window. She did not even pretend to sing anymore. She gazed out the window with haunted eyes, already departed from me.

A
T
D
ARWIN AIRPORT,
I
JUMPED INTO A TAXI.
‘Could you let me off here?' I said to the driver on impulse as we drove by the foreshore, still a couple of blocks from home. He let me out at the pub opposite the beach.

My watch, still on Melbourne time, said it was 4.30 p.m. Around now, Mum sometimes visited the small hospital chapel on the ground floor for a last prayer before it was locked for the day. Here it was 3 p.m. Through the wire mesh that formed the walls of the pub, I could see a man hosing down the concrete floor, removing last night's beer swill and preparing for the next onslaught of drinkers. It would be standing room only inside the cage by sunset, and I would be able to hear them from where I lived.

I crossed the road to the parkland of the foreshore and walked down to where sandstone rocks jutted out, broad enough to lie on, and casuarina trees cast some meagre shade. There wasn't a soul in sight. Leaning my backpack against a rock, I took out the letter I had written to Jason on the flight. In the past few weeks, I had started this letter many times, but it still felt wrong. A voice in my head would say,
You don't deserve to be forgiven by him
, or else,
You
were right not to trust him – he's sure to have moved on and a letter now will just make him feel awkward
.

God, I'd almost forgotten how hot it was this time of year. Holding the letter still folded in my hand, I walked down to the water. From there I could see a recess further along the foreshore where a handful of Aboriginal men and women camped. I loved this stretch of sea, knew it glistening and full, and so depleted that it seemed you could walk halfway to Asia on the flat sand.

The heat was overpowering. It pressed in on me, making my skin burn and my insides melt. I unfolded the letter and read it.

I walked back to the rocks and took a pen out of my bag. I couldn't think in this heat, but knew there was more to say. At the bottom of the page I scrawled,

I had to deliver it before he got home from work. I put the letter in the envelope, picked up my stuff, ran all the way to his place and dropped it into his postbox. I didn't dare look at his house, at the window where his bedroom was, even though I was sure he wasn't there.

To get from his place to mine, I walked through the small park and zigzagged through the backstreets that curved around the foreshore. The glare of the sea, the hot sky and verdant gardens seared me. My step was light, though my backpack weighed heavily on me and sweat ran down my face and body. ‘I'm home!' I said with a joyful heart when the house I rented with Shelley, Ian and Pip, elevated in the treetops, came into view.

Music, voices, Shelley's deep laugh and the smell of incense travelled down through the cracks in the floorboards. I climbed the metal steps and saw Shelley and two women sitting on the verandah.

‘Hey, look who's here! I told you to ring me to pick you up from the airport!' Shelley said, springing up.

‘I took a taxi,' I said.

‘Is that sweat dripping off you?'

‘I stopped for a walk at the beach.'

‘Walking around the beach in the middle of the day during the build-up! What are ya, a bloody tourist?' she said, laughing.

‘Yep, I've been away too long,' I said.

‘Welcome home.' She stood at the top of the stairs, sarong wrapped around her, with open arms.

‘Don't touch me, I stink,' I said, then realised that sounded a bit uptight. Not right for here. She took me against her loose breasts and hugged me close.

*

At dinner that night, on the verandah with housemates and friends, Shelley raised her glass of pinot. ‘To Natasha's beautiful mother, Irene,' she said. Leaning into the candlelit table, we clinked our glasses. I thanked them for their concern and told them it was good to be home. I was nervous to be the centre of attention – they seemed so effortlessly intelligent, witty and stylish. Dad would probably call them politically correct, self-serving humanists. Shelley, who held the lease, had handpicked her housemates. They were all social activist and creative types. I felt grateful to have been included. Even after three years in this household, I still wondered why she had picked me. I gulped down my chilled wine.

A distant flash of lightning showed on the horizon, and the air was hot and damp and scented with frangipanis. For a while we caught up on each other's personal news. I hoped Jason would come up in the conversation, but no one mentioned him, even though he had been a regular here. As with so many of our dinner parties, the conversation soon turned to social justice issues. Ian had been scratching his shirtless chest and rocking on the back legs of his chair, unstimulated by the catching up. With the change in topic, he sat forward.

Pip was writing an article about reforming laws that discriminated against same-sex couples. A discussion ensued that had the whole table going. They were so clever, fluent and strategic in the comments they made, while I went mute.

After a few wines and a joint, everything seemed to glow. Although the air was thick with loud talk and the stereo blasting, I had the feeling I could hear myself breathe.
This is my home and these are my people
, I thought. I poured myself another glass of wine.

Now Ian and Pedro talked about the Free Papua march they were organising. Pedro, a socialist from Sydney, had come to Darwin in solidarity for the movement. Pedro and his girlfriend Jasmine were staying with us and had set up their swag under the house. My concentration kept lapsing. I heard something about ‘Australia's mining deals with Indonesia' and the ‘torture of freedom fighters'.

I was drunk enough not to care if I appeared stupid. ‘Are you saying Australia is involved in the torture?' I asked

Pedro stopped his rapid flow to stare at me. ‘Australian Federal Police have been training the Indonesian forces that are torturing and killing the freedom fighters,' he said. ‘You don't know about this? It's been in the news for the last month!'

Shelley filled my glass. ‘Natasha wouldn't have had time to follow the news while she was looking after her mum,' she said.

‘I've been in another world,' I said. ‘Charismatics aren't interested in human rights or the environment. They're only interested in our souls.' The joint came around again.

‘They're obsessed with sex, you mean,' said Pip's girlfriend, Ruby, standing up. ‘My brethren, God made Adam and Eve. Not Adam and Steve!' she intoned in the style of an American evangelist.

‘Natasha's family aren't like that,' said Pip, stroking Ruby's arm.

‘I wouldn't be so sure,' I said. ‘But don't worry – they don't hate you. They love you. They just hate your sin.' That got a laugh from the table.

‘Someone should assassinate all the fundamentalist leaders. They're dangerous people,' said Pedro.

‘Whoa, settle down, Pedro,' said Ian.

I had drunk too much. ‘Yes, dangerous people,' I kept saying. Letting the talk flow around me, I filled my glass and drank some more. I couldn't stop giggling.

I heard myself say, ‘Did you know that my mother is going to get up and walk?' I was gabbling on now, not knowing what I was talking about. Somewhere in my ramblings, I was conscious of telling them about Mum's dream of jumping the three-metre-high back fence, and the ramp to salvation, and the ridiculous healing party and the look in Mum's eyes when she opened them after the marathon of prayers and knew she wasn't healed.

The room was spinning, I was zoning in and out. Someone was laughing too loudly. I realised it was me. The faces around the table were alarmed.
Are you okay?
Shelley's and Pip's faces were right in front of mine, they were holding me under my arms and pulling me to my feet.

*

Waves of shame rolled over me, waking me in the dark before I was aware of the drilling in my head and my dry, filthy-tasting mouth. I put my hand up to wipe my brow and knocked something hard next to my pillow. Someone had put a bottle of water there. I gulped it down.

How vile I was, putting down my family in front of others. At least Dad knew how to inspire Mum, my sisters and his admirers; I knew nothing except how to judge and destroy.
Admit it
, I said to myself,
you couldn't help your mother. You weren't there digging things up for her, or for Bonnie, or for the sake of the truth. You were doing it for yourself. You wanted some bloodletting. You're nothing but a nasty piece of work.

I was heavy, pinned to the bed, burning up. Every creak and clang of the fan spinning above me hurt my head. The light from the half-moon outside was too much.
Now Jason and your friends know what you're like, too. They are good, balanced people, and they know that you're not.

*

I woke with the sun blazing into my room, head hammering and my body slicked in sweat. Panicking, I grabbed my watch. Thank God there was still time to call.

After a shower and Panadol, I rang Mum's ward number. It would be 9 a.m. over there and the best time to speak to her before the visitors arrived. The smell of the miso Shelley was cooking for breakfast wafted through the house, making me feel sick.

‘Hi, Mum,' I said.

‘Natasha,' Mum said. ‘No need to ring again, la. You already rang last night.'

‘That was just to let you know I arrived. Remember I told you I would ring you every morning after breakfast?'

‘Are you sure? You are busy.'

‘I'm not too busy to give you a call.'

‘Don't worry. The Lord is looking after me.'

‘I just want to say hello every day.' I hoped she didn't hear the catch in my voice.

‘Okay,' she said. I heard other voices in the background. Mum spoke to someone.

A sharp pain drilled into my head. ‘Do you see Doctor Richards today?' I said.

‘Supposed to,' she said.

‘He'll let you know when you can go home?'

‘Yes, supposed to.' She sounded distracted.

‘I'm going to work today.'

‘Tell your boss to give you back the same job,' she said.

‘I can't do that. I left that position.'

Mum was speaking to someone on the other side. Her voice came on again. ‘What did you say?'

‘I have to take whatever is available because I quit my old job.'

‘Okay, I will pray for you. Bye-bye.'

‘Bye, Mum. I'll ring again tomorrow morning.'

I went into the kitchen. Shelley was rushing around in her work clothes. ‘There's coffee in the pot. I have to leave in two minutes,' she said, smiling at me. ‘How are you feeling?'

‘Pathetic. Did you put the bottle of water and the bucket next to my bed?'

‘Pip and I did.'

‘Thank you. I'm sorry I was so gross last night.'

She waved a hand across her face. ‘Don't even think about it. We've all been there,' she said.

No, they haven't
, I thought. They became even more suave and charming when they drank or smoked too much. I had never seen them be repulsive.

*

The receptionist at the Disability Advocacy Service was new. I told her I had an appointment with Katrina. She didn't seem to recognise my name even though I had worked there for two years and only been gone for three months.

‘Take a seat,' she said. ‘The director shouldn't be too long.' I sat down, feeling like an outsider. I looked at the posters on the wall: ‘Domestic violence, break the silence', and another one, ‘Kava, not Aboriginal way'. Two clients walked in, fidgeting and tense in their sweaty T-shirts.