The Healing Party (24 page)

‘Leave the light off!' His voice came out strangled and animal-like.

I felt my way across the room to him. He was crouched on the ground. I knelt down near him. ‘Dad, are you okay? What are you doing on the floor?'

‘Leave me,' he growled. His breath was loud and ragged, his shoulders rose and fell heavily. An intense tang came from him, the smell of heat and shame. I felt we were back in Rowling Road.

My eyes, grown more accustomed to the dark, could now make out parts of his face – the gleam of tooth and eyeball, and his mouth gaping and panting.

‘Dad? We know how hard you try. We all love you.' I took a deep breath and started to shiver uncontrollably. ‘I love you.'

He was silent. Then he cleared his throat. ‘Thank you. You're a good girl. Don't be angry.'

‘I'm sorry, Dad, for hurting you with what I said before.'

‘I forgive you,' he said. ‘You didn't know what you were saying.' His voice was a hoarse whisper.

‘I knew what I was saying.'

‘You were angry with God for taking your mother. I understand.'

I shook my head. He probably couldn't see me in the dark. ‘No, Dad.'

‘Your mother loved all her children very much. I know I have been defective. Sometimes I feel like a monster. I will be in purgatory for a very long time.' He gasped sharply, then he was sobbing and heaving.

Tears started to fall down my face, too. I tried not to make a sound. I took his hand and he gripped mine back with a warmth that flooded through me. I was on the verge of telling him I had failed Mum and that I wished I had stayed. The memory that I couldn't trust him stopped me from doing so.

‘At first I felt, oh no, now that Irene is dead, she will know all my thoughts and all my deeds past and present and all the sins I have hidden from her.' He shook his head from side to side. ‘But God put on my heart that Jesus wipes the slate clean. He not only forgives, but forgets. So she will not see anything.'

He believed in God's mercy. I was struck by his innocence – the innocence that in spite of everything, in spite of his need to dominate and control, had stayed alive.

‘You must look at the big picture. Within the big picture, your mother was a saint,' he said. We were silent again. ‘Yes, your mother was a saint. Now go and get some sleep.'

He would not get up or let me turn on the light, despite my entreaties. I left him there on the floor, my insides twisted with love, pity and guilt.

An hour later he was still up there. Maria and I tried to take him some food and drink.

‘Leave me alone,' he growled when he heard us on the staircase.

It took me a long while to get to sleep that night. I lay in bed listening for his footsteps. I thought of Dad alone and tormented in the blackness of his studio, and of Mum locked up in the cold church annex with its teetering chairs stacked to the ceiling. Pushing away thoughts of her coffined body, I fixed an image of Mum's essence as something diaphanous and softly sparkling, and wondered where it might be.

*

The family, Ed, the drama group and two funeral directors arrived at the church early to set up for the service. The church was not yet unlocked, so for some minutes we milled around, tensely exchanging commiserations on the concrete steps. Dad leant against the wall like an old man.

Dad had slept in his studio. When he came down in the morning, he walked stooped over, with slow shaky steps. At breakfast, he was quiet and aloof, passively chewing the noodles that we served to him and mumbling flat responses to the questions we asked. Before we left for the funeral, Maria tried to get him to pray with her but he waved her aside. She looked at me in consternation. I was sickened to think what my outburst yesterday had done to him. I wondered that Maria did not condemn me.

Now Anita, taking Dad's arm, guided him to the piece of lawn at the front of the church where there was a bench under a willow tree. Patsy followed a few steps behind, looking lost. Anita brushed the leaves off the bench and waited for Dad to sit down. Then she went up to Maria, who was on the stairs, talking to Ed. Anita had not looked at me once all morning.

‘Tell everyone to gather round,' Anita told Maria.

‘Can everyone come down here for a prayer before we go in?' Maria called out.

We clustered around Dad where he sat on the bench. I wore dark glasses to hide a purple bruise that had come up under my left eye from Anita's blow. Even through my glasses, everything was too bright. The tree swayed in slow motion, each blade of grass was too precise, the wind and voices too loud and artificial.

The group, even the funeral directors, formed a circle around Dad. His hands were trembling, his mouth panting. He appeared to be barely in control. The night before, in the darkness of the studio, when my eyes made out his shadowy form in the corner, I had had the impression of a crouching, injured animal. Images had come to me of Dad's caged brother, and of the chaotic narrow house on Rowling Road. I remembered the out-of-control fear I would feel back then that something terrible and disastrous was about to happen. Unable to breathe, my head prickling, I felt the same fear now as we stood in a circle waiting for Dad to start.

What would happen if he was stripped of his beliefs? It was terrifying to imagine. As much as I fought against the Charismatics, I had not questioned the family belief that our faith had kept the wolves at bay. It had stopped Dad from going off the rails, from leaving Mum, and the family from falling apart. We had been saved.

Dad did not look up from the ground. He started to mumble, ‘What is heaven like? Irene knows. The Lord knew it was time for her reward in heaven.' We strained to hear him. ‘Tell me, what is heaven like?' he said.

We were silent, not knowing if he was talking to himself or to us.

‘Are you asking us a question, Dad?' said Anita.

‘Describe heaven, someone, come on,' he said, his voice quavering.

‘The bible says the walls are made of jewels and the road paved with gold,' said an older member of the drama group.

‘Heaven is better than that,' Dad said louder. He looked up now. His face, usually so animated when he talked, was drawn and severe, his thick lips downturned. ‘Someone else. What is heaven like?'

‘There's manna from heaven. It's full of the love and the joy of Jesus?' said Maria.

‘It's better than that,' Dad said. ‘What is the most beautiful thing you can imagine?'

Troy stepped forward. ‘Angels singing, every day is a sunrise and every single one of our loved ones is with us.'

Dad stood up. ‘It's better than that! Whatever any of you might say, I say back –
heaven is better than that
. Our earthly minds cannot even begin to contemplate its magnificence.' His eyes were fierce. There was a desperation in them.

‘Let us hold hands and pray. We thank you, Lord, for the miracle of Irene,' he began. As he prayed, he slowly came back. His voice growing stronger with each word, he exhorted us to rise, to mingle our tears of grief with tears of happiness, for the miracle had occurred. ‘Each and every one of you,' he proclaimed, ‘your life has been changed and you will now go out and inspire others. Today will be a victory for the Lord.'

Then he cried, tears rolling down his dignified face, and Bridie and another member of the drama group comforted him.

He was in fine form. With each triumphant word he uttered, I felt myself sinking. After the dread I had felt that he would be somehow changed, I was shocked that it was not relief I felt now, but devastation. I wondered what it would have been like if he had broken down, cried words of shame and regret, if he had even renounced the prophecy and the miracle.

A dangerous, powerful thought took hold of me. What if they had not been born again? What if the day Dad and Mum gave their lives to Jesus had not been our salvation? What if it had actually stopped us from growing, from seeing things, from finding courage? The thoughts were making my head spin. I leant against the tree to stop myself from falling.

The doors to the church opened. The group on the lawn gathered up guitars, flowers, costumes and their belongings and made their way inside. Maria called me in.

‘Just a minute,' I told her. I sat on the bench under the tree. The funeral would start soon. Mum's body would lie in the coffin at the foot of the altar. Dad would give the remembrance speech next to the altar. From there, he would descend the red-carpeted steps, dragging the microphone, to sing ‘I Believe', standing by the coffin. Anita would be mistress of ceremonies, Patsy would sing and lead the music ministry, and Maria would perform a short piece accompanied by four members of the drama group. They were going to run down the three aisles, writhe and roll on the carpet, and shout ‘Jesus!' at the end, with arms held high.

I decided to sit a bit longer until the people arrived. I closed my eyes. I could see Mum's face. She was in the car, being rushed to Emergency. She was confused, asking for her lipstick over and over, but then she turned around to look at my sisters and me, sitting in the back. She looked at us with such love and heartache. I had never seen her eyes so clear.

Firstly I thank Helen Garner for spurring me on to write and be published, and for being the voice in my head as I wrote, calling for fearlessness, clarity and compassion.

Thanks also to Michael Gawenda for encouraging me to write at a time when I was at a crossroads.

It has been a privilege and pleasure working with editor Chris Feik. Chris showed me meanings in the story that I couldn't see myself and made it a better novel. And I am grateful to Jo Rosenberg for her fine skill and generosity as project manager and copy editor.

I acknowledge the warm support received from family and friends, including Joanne O'Mara, Lorena Wright and Paula Chatfield, who read the first draft.

Finally, my thanks to Stephen Gray, who gave me the space and guidance to write, and whose love enabled me every step of the way.