The Healing Party (23 page)

The room was small and dim. Chairs stacked high up against one wall tilted forward. It struck me how the casket gleamed. The wood of the box and the steel handles were so polished that they looked wet.

Maria and I lifted the lid. It was surprisingly light. We stepped back. Mum's body lay stiff and straight, dressed in the same gown she'd worn at the healing party. Her hands were clasped below her breast. A white sheet covered her lower half. The skin was hers, so were the brows, the hair and lips, the hands, the shape – but it was all wrong. I wanted to close my eyes so that this false image would not infiltrate my memories of her. At the same time, I could not look away. The funeral worker had somehow wrested away signs of her sickness and pain. Her twisted neck and torso had been smoothed out, the bloat in her stomach flattened and her legs stretched out, straight and firm. Loud, awful sobs erupted from me.

Calm and dry-eyed, Maria hugged me and I held onto her. ‘Now I remember,' Maria said. ‘“What beautiful children I have!” That's what Mum said before she died.'

She poked through her handbag, pulled out a tube of Mum's pale-pink lipstick and told me to put it on her lips. First I touched Mum's cold cheek with my hand, then I drew the lipstick over lips that were as hard as cured clay. I apologised to Maria for being unable to stop crying.

*

Sitting next to Maria as she drove us home in her car, a realisation grew in me. I turned to Maria. ‘Mum didn't really say what you said before she died, did she? I mean, she didn't say, “What beautiful children I have,” did she?'

She kept her eyes on the road as if she had not heard.

‘I know you mean well. But there was no need to say that.'

Maria put her window down all the way and then back halfway up. She started to cough and wipe her face. I had forgotten how much hayfever affected her.

‘I'm not saying that she didn't think we were beautiful,' I continued. ‘It's just that it's not the kind of thing Mum would say.'

‘She did. Something like it,' Maria mumbled. She wouldn't say anything more after that.

Before we turned into the driveway, I asked her another question. ‘Are you moving back into your place after the funeral?'

‘Dad wants me to stay,' Maria said.

‘You'd be mad to move in with Dad,' I said.

She didn't say anything.

*

As soon as we got home, Anita told me to mow the back lawn. Tomorrow would be a fine day, and we planned to set up tables in the backyard. I went outside. The neat, open spaces of the backyard surprised me. In my thoughts, it hadn't been cleared; it was still the backyard of my childhood, impenetrable and infested with weeds, cacti and junk. I dragged the mower out of the shed. On the open stretch of grass, it moved steadily, cutting the lawn into long, neat strips. Then I got to the back fence and had to struggle, pushing and pulling back and forth and sideways to skirt around the cacti and the ramp. The old mower was powerful in my hands, its clatter and roar loud enough to obliterate thoughts, but still they came – a towel soaked in her blood, her mouth open and gasping for air, a premonition that made her ask for Dad to stay.

The wind was dusty and irritating. I lunged too close to the cacti and fantasised about slamming into their evil thorns. Instead I rammed into the ramp. The impact cut the engine, dislodged a plank and threw me backwards. I ran to the shed and grabbed the first tool I saw, a pick. I liked the feel of the long wooden handle in my hands and the weight of the metal head at the end.

I returned to the ramp and raised the pick above my head.
Chop, chop, chop
, it hacked into the ramp. One plank started to cave in. Anita was out of the back door in a flash. She strode towards me.

‘What do you think you are doing?' she shouted.

‘It's hard to mow around the ramp,' I said.

‘You can't just destroy it. It's Dad's ramp.'

‘It was supposed to be Mum's salvation ramp, actually.'

Anita's eyes narrowed. ‘Just shut up and put that pick down.'

Patsy came out and stood next to Anita. I dropped the pick. ‘I don't know why Mum died,' I said. ‘Why did Mum die?'

‘Are you crazy?' Anita said. ‘She had cancer.'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘But no one was expecting her to die. You all said she was getting better. I need to know how this happened.'

‘Mum had a tumour as big as a fist above her stomach. The doctor said it was like a ticking time bomb, that it could burst any minute,' Anita said.

I gasped. ‘I didn't know that. Why didn't anyone tell me? Who else knew this? Did you know, Patsy?'

Patsy shook her head. ‘No,' she said. ‘I didn't.' Her face was pale and tense.

‘Did Mum know?' I asked.

‘Look, what's the point in bringing all this up?' said Anita.

‘Did Mum know?' I asked, louder.

‘Yes, Mum knew!' Anita yelled. ‘Listen! If it wasn't the tumour above her stomach, then it was the one in her spine that killed her. It doesn't matter. She had cancer!'

I heard my voice breaking. ‘What about the miracle, the healing?'

Anita looked at me with a combination of pity and disgust. ‘The miracle you never believed in?'

‘You all said she was going to be healed,' I said, holding back tears.

Maria came out. ‘Shhh. We can hear you from inside. You'll upset Dad.'

We looked up at his studio window. He was watching us, partially concealed by a curtain.

I turned to Maria. ‘Did you know? About the tumour the doctor said was a ticking time bomb?'

Maria scratched her face with both hands. ‘Yes.'

‘Why didn't you tell Patsy and me?'

‘I don't know. I didn't really think of it … Sorry. She was going to be healed.'

‘Look, the main thing is to stay positive.' Anita was being placatory now. ‘And as Dad said,' she continued, ‘it wasn't the miracle we expected, but there were other miracles. God works in mysterious ways. Now we need to move forward.'

I hated her work voice. Her ‘let's be nice and reasonable' voice. ‘I don't know how you do that,' I said. ‘When the miracle doesn't happen, you just change tack. You must be a lot more sophisticated than me. I can't do that doublethink. Or is it all just pretence for you?'

Anita's eyes hardened, and a mirthless smile creased her face. ‘So selfish.' She shook her head slowly. ‘So selfish.'

‘You think we're all better off pretending, don't you? You think it's harmless,' I said.

Anita threw her hands up in the air. ‘Just let her stew and feel sorry for herself,' she said to the others, walking back into the house.

Patsy stepped closer to me. ‘The miracle has manifested!' She was breathless. ‘Look at how many people Mum inspired to come to the Lord. And I'm not anorexic anymore. Haven't you seen? I've started eating.' She gave me a desperate smile.

‘That's good you're eating, Patsy,' I said.

‘It's okay to feel disappointed, Natasha. I was disappointed with Jesus too,' said Maria, her eyes compassionate and sickly sweet. ‘But then I forgave Him. I know He is teaching us something.'

I looked up at the window again. Dad was still there. ‘I need to ask Dad if I can take the ramp down. So I can mow the yard,' I said, and went inside.

*

I climbed the stairs two steps at a time before I lost courage. The door was ajar and I entered without knocking.

‘Dad, I want to take down the ramp,' I said.

He was studying a large photomontage on an easel. His face, in profile, had a deep and intellectual cast. I wanted to apologise for interrupting him before I had even started. Without turning his attention from the piece, he addressed me.

‘That's fine. Take the ramp down. It has served its purpose. You feel your mother wasn't healed and you are angry with Jesus. I saw you talking with your sisters. Do not hurt the memory of your mother, please, by quarrelling with them. I pray one day you will have the same spiritual maturity and wisdom that they do.'

Images covered the studio walls. He stood up, the man at the centre of his creative output, and turned to me. ‘I believe with all my heart that the miracle did occur. The
outward
deliverance is not granted, but the
inward
deliverance is
glorious
. One day you will see it. She found peace. She found forgiveness.'

A million inexpressible thoughts and feelings screamed inside me. His voice continued, authoritative but lilting. ‘Did you see how happy she was? She prayed every day that you would reject your New Age self-gods and find Jesus. I know that she is in heaven now, interceding for us. Your mother was a saint.'

‘No, she wasn't!' I heard myself say, and it was like in dreams, when I was falling and falling and unable to scream, until finally I found my voice. ‘Don't say she's a saint!' I sounded shrill and ugly, but couldn't stop. ‘You make her meaningless when you do that. She suffered. You tried to silence her. We couldn't even talk to her when she was dying. You make us all pretend. You make us deny things that happen right in front of us.'

For a moment he was too shocked to speak. ‘Ask for forgiveness, ask for forgiveness right now from the Lord for your abject thoughts. Your mother would be very disappointed. She and I have always been forgiving of you. Consider whether it was you who didn't want to talk with her. You wouldn't even go to church for her.'

‘I'm not listening to you. You lie all the time. You lied to her and you lie to us.'

He was livid now, his face contorted. He jabbed a finger at me. ‘You are the bad, destructive child. You hurt her, but most of all you offend Jesus.'

‘No,
you
hurt and humiliated her. You cheated on her from the start. We knew about the affairs – everyone knew. Then you became born again. You did try to be good – I'll give you that. But then you became the great holy man and you still couldn't keep your hands off the girls. And Bonnie. We all knew it deep down. But you made us think we didn't know it. I don't know how you do that.'

His eyes widened, big and terrible. ‘You are mad! The devil is using you to attack me.'

I saw the fear in his eyes, but kept going. ‘You made Mum doubt what she saw with her own eyes. You told her the demon of suspicion and jealousy was in her. You —'

Suddenly Anita was there. She raised her arm and struck me hard across the face. I stumbled. Maria, appearing at my side, put out a hand to steady me. Dad collapsed into a chair. Maria went to him. Anita dragged me by the arm out of the studio and down the stairs. At their foot, Patsy stood with her back tense against the wall. At first I thought she was softly wailing, then I realised she was singing in tongues.

Anita, sweating and panting, yanked me across the lounge room. In her rage, she was far stronger than me. I couldn't stand the pain of her nails biting into my flesh. ‘Let me go!' I cried. ‘What are you, his bodyguard? Why, you're more angry with him than I will ever be.'

‘You bitch!' she snarled. ‘How could you do this when everyone is trying so hard? I'll never forgive you. Just get away from me. We don't want to see your face.' She let go and I walked out the front door.

*

The oval was too close to home. I had no money or bag, so I just walked, turning randomly, going deeper into the labyrinth of residential streets. I walked fast at first, striking the footpath. But soon it felt as though all my energy had drained away. My limbs became heavy and slow and I longed to stop. There was nothing in these streets but rows of houses shut tight. If I stopped to rest in front of one, it would arouse suspicion. When it was almost sunset, I turned around and headed back to the oval.

My cheek was still hot and throbbing where Anita had struck me. Although it was dusk, the oval in the half-light reminded me of the early-morning walks I would take before getting Mum out of bed. How different, though, the feel of those walks. With the beginning of each day, there had been new hope – maybe this would be the day I would talk to Mum, find common ground and get to know her better.

If only I could have told her I loved her. She was in a coma when I finally did. Why didn't I say it on the last day I saw her? I winced as the image surfaced that I had been trying to suppress. She was sitting at the hospital window with its glass so thick that no sound penetrated; the light that filtered through was weak and grey. ‘I'll see you at Christmas,' I had said, and walked out. I saw her turn and stare out the window with haunted, grieving eyes. She knew it was our last time. I could have turned back then and told her I loved her.

Liar! Liar!
I punched my cheek where it was sore. I was so good at lying to myself. I could have stayed. I should have stayed. I could only think I'd been punishing her. On the night I stayed with Mum in the hospital, after everyone left, taking their rejoicing and verve with them, I had reminded her that I was leaving the next day. In the deathly quiet, in the smallest of voices, she had said, ‘Do you have to go?' I had pretended I didn't hear.

*

Maria opened the door. ‘Good, you're back.' She ushered me in, locking first the security door and then the inner door. She double-checked the locks. Anita and Patsy had left. I told her I would cook dinner. She said Anita had already bought some noodles, but Dad wouldn't eat any. She was wary and distant, though not hostile.

I climbed the stairs to his studio. There was no light coming from under his door. I knocked. No one answered. I knocked again and pushed it open. The lamp on the landing cast a triangle of light on the studio floor. Beyond that, I saw darkness, shadows and menacing shapes. I could smell the chemicals and paints, and underneath that, sweat and something bitter. Now I saw him, a black, breathing form, skulking in the back corner.

‘Dad? Dad? Are you all right?' I searched for the light switch on the wall.