The Healing Party (20 page)

‘Shoulders back, bust out,' Mum said, and Maria uncurled herself and stuck her chin up. Suddenly she looked erect and elegant. Even with the T-shirt underneath, the cut and the shimmery material brought to life every curve and hollow and made Maria glow. Mum gazed at Maria for a long time, stunned at first, and then wistful.

‘I'll do the sexy walk Mum taught me,' Maria said. She lurched forward, swinging her hips in a ridiculous fashion. We began to giggle. ‘Make room! Open the door!' she said, heading towards the backyard. Patsy opened the door for her and cold air blew in. Maria stepped out, heels sinking into the grass. Careening all over the place, she walked towards the ramp that Dad had built. She stepped onto the ramp like it was her catwalk. She gyrated her hips, she sashayed and boogied. By now we were all crying with laughter. Twirling around at the top of the ramp, she shouted, ‘I'm healed, on behalf of Mum, I'm healed!'

Mum was no longer laughing. She seemed to be unbuttoning her shirt.

‘What are you doing, Mum?' I said.

She had a big smile on her face. I could see her teeth. She never usually showed her teeth when she smiled. ‘Time to change,' she said. ‘I need to shower.'

‘But you've had a shower,' I said.

‘Are you all right, Mum?' Patsy said.

‘Where's my lipstick?' Mum said. ‘I need to shower!' She pulled her shirt off and started tugging at her bra.

‘Are you all right?' Patsy repeated.

I held Mum's shoulders and made her look at me. ‘What year is it, Mum?' I asked.

Mum opened her mouth as though about to answer, then nodded and smiled again. ‘Where's my lipstick?' she said loudly.

‘Shit, something's wrong. She's delirious,' Anita said. ‘I'm calling the hospital.' She rushed to the phone on the bedside table.

Mum pushed at the waist on her skirt, trying to lower it over her hips. I knelt in front of her and took her hands in mine. Mum pulled her hands away and pushed back on her armrests, trying to stand up. She fell back. Maria came running in. She took one of Mum's arms while I took the other. We sat her upright and tried to stop her lunging off the wheelchair. While this was happening, Patsy stood there, watching, eyes big with shock, praying in tongues.

‘Go and get Dad,' I told her.

Soon Patsy came back with Dad. ‘Irene, Irene,' he said, and we moved aside. He saw her sitting there in her bra with the big simple smile on her face, laid his trembling hands on her head and prayed, ‘Jesus, Jesus.' Love and fear were in his eyes.

Anita got off the phone. ‘The doctor says we need to take her to the hospital straightaway.'

‘Get to the car!' Dad shouted. ‘Where are the keys?'

Anita found the keys. She ran through the house, telling the vigil group and the drama group to leave. Maria and I got Mum's shirt back on her and put her in the car. She didn't resist our handling. All the time she kept smiling.

I opened the back door to get in the car. Anita wouldn't move up for me.

‘You stay back to lock up after the drama group leaves,' she said.

I refused. ‘Wait for me, I'll fix it up,' I said. ‘Don't go without me!'

I ran inside, found Troy from the drama group, threw him my keys and barked out instructions. Before he had time to answer, I ran out the door and towards the car. Dad had reversed out of the driveway onto the road and was starting to move forward. Desperate, I banged the car window with my open palm. The car stopped.

‘What are you bashing so hard for?' Anita scolded. They let me in.

All the way to the hospital, we sang hymns in loud, brave voices. Dad drove fast. Mum asked for her lipstick. Anita gave it to her. Mum asked for her lipstick again.

‘It's in your hand, Mum,' Anita said.

‘Oh!' Mum said. She would pause a while, then ask for her lipstick again, and Anita would remind her where it was.

At one point Mum twisted her head around to look at us in the back seat. ‘Oh, you are all here, my daughters,' she said. She looked at us as though we were the most beautiful things in the world. As though we were the sunrise. My sisters felt it too, I could tell, because while she was looking, we sat still, shoulder to shoulder, barely breathing, smiling back.

When we arrived, everything moved so quickly. They pushed her in through the double doors to the emergency department. Only Dad was allowed to accompany her.

M
UM WAS ADMITTED TO
E
MERGENCY
immediately, as was a man who arrived with raw burns to his hands and face. The six or so other patients, who had to wait, sat alone or accompanied on the rows of plastic bucket seats in the windowless waiting room, looking ill and lost in their own predicaments. My sisters and I took the seats that converged in the corner. In a quiet voice, Maria led us in the rosary, while Anita, Patsy and I whispered the responses.

We raised our eyes every time the automatic double door to the emergency clinic swung open. Flashes of activity could be glimpsed – a trolley rolling past, medical staff calling out, someone running, a curtain pulled back to reveal a patient on a drip. Then the doors would close again.

Our group grew. First Charles and Will arrived, then John to take Maria out for dinner. Though Maria wanted to cancel, Anita had insisted she go ahead with the date. Charles handed around takeaway containers of noodles. Maria played matchbox cars with Will and mostly ignored John, who was seated next to her. Anita tried to fill the gap, asking John about his work as a finance officer at the transport department.

At last the doors swung open and Dad walked through. ‘Praise the Lord,' he said, with twinkling eyes and his arms raised like a celebrity host. ‘All is well.'

Anita bent down and hugged Will to herself. ‘Thank you, Jesus,' I heard Maria and Patsy say. I breathed out.

‘Now I must eat something,' Dad said, sitting down. Charles handed him a noodle box. Through mouthfuls he told us that Mum was asleep, she would stay the night in hospital, and he would explain everything when he had finished eating.

Anita started organising. ‘Right, one of us needs to stay with Mum. Maria is going out with John, I have to go home for Will, and Dad needs to rest.'

Patsy and I both offered to stay. I knew, as I spoke, that Anita wouldn't pick me.

‘Patsy will stay,' Anita said. ‘She can pray with Mum when she wakes up.'

Dad was ready to talk. Noticing John for the first time, Dad greeted him. He then stood up so that he could see everyone.

‘Thank Jesus for His great love for Irene and for all of us,' he said. ‘We saw it, didn't we – that beatific smile on her face? I felt very palpably His love for each of us, shining through Irene.' As he talked, he made eye contact with each of us in turn, working his way slowly from right to left and also connecting with the people on the other benches in the waiting room.

‘But why the medical emergency, Dad?' asked Anita.

‘Of course the doctors put it down to chemotherapy drugs, which upset the blood chemistry and cause a delusional state. This is the one-dimensional view, man's truth. And then there is God's truth.' Dad's voice was rich and melodious. ‘We know it is His way of showing us that the important thing is to be open like the gentle flowers around us to the sunshine of God's love, trusting that good will come out from everything. You know what the wonderful thing is —'

‘What's happening? Is she going to get better? What did they do to her?' I blurted out.

‘You know what the wonderful thing is?' Dad continued. ‘It is Jesus's way of saying she needs a rest, that we all need a rest. Let them care for her. She must stay in hospital for at least two weeks. I told the doctor that, and he listened.' Dad paused. We were quiet, waiting for his next words.

‘They inserted a tube, a drip – poor Irene, she suffers from those needles.' Dad shook his head sorrowfully. ‘They gave her a blood transfusion and sedatives. Suddenly the smile fell from her face, her eyes closed, her mouth sagged open, her hand in mine became lifeless. A man once died in my arms, you know. But the Lord reminded me she was resting in His love. And then – and this is the Lord's miracle to us – I smelt the oranges. The perfume suffused my senses just like the time Jesus first told us she would be healed …' He gasped for air, his voice cracked. ‘Thank you, Jesus, for reminding me to hold on to the miracle, to not lose faith, to never lose faith. Let's sing one song right here in the waiting room before we go our separate ways tonight.'

Together we sang all four verses of ‘I Believe'. After the first verse, he encouraged the other patients in the waiting room to sing with us. A few of them joined in. Tears rolled down his cheeks. My heart felt full. I was moved despite myself.

That was the first of many songs we would sing in hospital over the remaining six days I had in Melbourne. Later that first night, Mum was moved from Emergency into a room in the oncology clinic. She shared the room with another patient, a bony middle-aged woman with a bandaged head who we learnt had brain cancer.

On waking the next morning, Mum couldn't remember what had happened to put her in hospital and was unnerved to find a catheter sticking out of a vein in her chest. Once she got her bearings, however, she claimed she was glad to be in hospital. Staying there would make it easier for everyone, she said.

In many ways, it did make it easier. At home, there had been the constant fear that we were giving her too many painkillers or too few, or the wrong food, or overtiring her, or exposing her to bugs and not taking enough precautions. Mum's reluctance to tell us how she was feeling or what she wanted made it even more difficult to guess if we were doing the right thing. It was a relief now to submit to the authority of the hospital.

Once a day Doctor Richards or the duty oncologist would do the rounds of the ward, spending five minutes with each patient. In the past, Dad would have demanded answers, challenged the doctor and preached to him, but now he stood up when the doctor entered, nodded and listened, and watched him leave without trying to detain him.

Every hour or so, with comforting regularity, a nurse entered Mum's room. How grateful we were for these efficient women. They would greet and chat, check the notes on the clipboard at the foot of her bed, shine a torch in Mum's eyes, stick a thermometer in her ear, dispense medication, and check oxygen levels and blood pressure. Each day they would also draw blood to check her chemical balance. Mum was grateful that the blood could be drawn from the catheter so she was spared the needle's daily forays into the fine veins of her arms. Through the catheter they also administered miniscule amounts of morphine, in the form of a pale-yellow liquid, several times a day.

Food was delivered at set times on clean plastic trays. Grilled or baked meat, chicken or fish, steamed or boiled vegetables, potatoes and gravy. The hospital diet seemed decadent compared with the regimen Patsy had put Mum on at home. It even included sweet milky shakes to boost her protein levels. For the first time in months, Mum seemed to take pleasure in eating, and, best of all, there was no more liver. My sisters and I stopped quarrelling about what she ate. Except for replacing the white bread the hospital supplied with wholemeal, we accepted what came.

After two nights in the shared room, Mum was moved into her own room with a tall window and just enough space between the bed and the wall for her wheelchair. At least one family member was always around. We took turns staying overnight on a brown vinyl armchair that reclined into a narrow bed.

Come morning, the nurses would hoist Mum up and wheel her into the bathroom. She would be returned to her room an hour later, toileted and showered and clothed in a freshly laundered hospital gown smelling of chlorine. At this point, Mum would take control of her attire. She instructed my sisters and me to wrap her purple silk robe over the hospital gown, arrange a pink cashmere shawl around her shoulders, and place embroidered slippers upon her feet. She made up her face – foundation and blush to hide her skin's pallor, brown pencil to outline her eyes, and pink lipstick to embolden. Finally, she put on the wig. When Dad came into the room, she would be sitting by the window waiting, a charming wooden doll.

A romance grew between Mum and Dad during those days in hospital. Living apart for the first time in decades, they seemed to see each other with fresh eyes. I discovered them sharing shy smiles and private jokes, and singing old love songs together. I imagined I saw them the way they were when they first met. He raved on about his ideas, passions and ambitions, while she listened and smiled. One afternoon, I watched Dad sitting cross-legged at the foot of her bed, his face shining across at her as he talked. ‘I will send my script to all the most prominent producers and let them fight for it,' he said, ‘and only the producer who promises to keep true to the message of salvation in my work, and to tour it around the world – not just Paris, New York and the big cities of the world, but also the small forgotten villages and hamlets – will win the contract.' She didn't answer, ‘Don't be absurd,
eeh eeh eeh
,' or ‘Stop dreaming,' or ‘If you have so much money, why don't you get the roof fixed?' as she usually did. She listened to his words and smiled and admired, and didn't criticise.

Dad's way was to give compliments in the third person. He praised Mum to whomever was in the room. ‘You know,' he would say, ‘your mother was the pearl of the Orient, the most stunning but also humble woman Hong Kong had ever seen. She was elite. At first I hung around at the edge of her pack of admirers, trying to win her attention. I even wore a shiny golden shirt … Look at her, she is still beautiful!'

Her room, though no larger than a cell, was crowded with family and visitors for most of the day. Dad had cancelled the vigil at home and called on friends to pray at the hospital.

When we took Mum to hospital, I had thought I would have to cancel my ticket to Darwin. But there was no better time to go. She seemed happier than she had been for some time, and to have less need of me than ever.

A couple of days before I left, I bumped into Ed in the corridor outside Mum's clinic. He said hello and was about to keep walking, but I stopped him. I wanted to thank him for visiting Mum and for helping Dad with errands and the drama group. I glanced at his face and thought again how deep his eyes were, though now there was no warmth in them for me.

‘I'm going back to Darwin, and just wanted to thank you, and say I'm sorry for everything,' I said.

‘Patsy told me you're going,' he said, and hesitated.

‘I'm glad you're looking well and still seeing my family. They're much better than me,' I said.

‘God bless,' he said, and walked on.

*

In the evening after dinner, the family and a few extras would cram into Mum's room for prayers. Sometimes there were so many that the IV stand and medicine trolley had to be pushed into the corridor, and people would be spilling out the doorway. Maria approached patients in the clinic on the slightest pretext and invited them to join us. The woman with brain cancer and the Italian patient down the corridor hadn't missed an evening prayer session yet. Patsy would strum the guitar, and Dad would lead us in song. The sound would billow down the corridor, into the other rooms and reception area. No one told us to pipe down.

I overheard one nurse call it the Chan invasion. But some of the other nurses seemed to welcome it. They smiled fondly at us.
Oh, the singing Chan family. They are so close and inspiring.
Whether the nurses and patients were believers or not, I could see that my family brought significance, colour and warmth to the sterile confines of the hospital. Against the desperation that you could almost smell in the cancer ward, little Will, laughing or playing hide-and-seek behind the curtains, was life itself. Every moment of life or joy was heightened a thousand times over.

Everything, Dad said, was God's plan – Mum and the family had been sent to the hospital to inspire those facing their own mortality to choose Jesus, choose life! Mum had an African nurse's aide called Faith and a nurse called Joy. Jesus is faith and joy. Surely that was a sign. We looked around for a Hope.

During this time, I was relieved that Mum looked happier, but she was further away from me than ever. I no longer had time alone with her. Even if a break came in the flow of visitors, you could be sure that Patsy would be there, often just praying silently in the corner, but always there. Anita, too, commented that Patsy had become more possessive of Mum. I counted the days until I left and tried not to put a foot wrong.

*

The house felt desolate without her. My sisters no longer came over, and the pillar candles on the altar had gone out, petrified into pitted and blackened shapes. Only when the drama group came over for rehearsals did life and noise return for a few hours, but even these were more subdued than usual.

In these days before leaving Melbourne, there was little for me to do except cook Dad's lunches of fried noodles, keep the house clean and make sure there was food and drink for the drama group. Dad would work in his studio from seven in the morning, have an early lunch and leave for the hospital at about one. He returned home at about eight, except when it was his turn to stay overnight. Dad and I barely saw each other. Most of the time, it was just his sounds that let me know he was there. In the morning I listened for his 6 a.m. alarm, his footsteps in the corridor, his gargling and spitting in the bathroom, his plates clinking in the kitchen. As soon as I heard him walk up to the studio, I would go to the kitchen, cook, clean up and leave to catch a bus to the hospital. After I left for Darwin, it would be Maria's job to come to the house each day to cook and clean for Dad. I told her I felt guilty, but she said it would be okay, it was only until Mum got better.

A couple of nights before I left, Dad returned from the hospital half an hour after I did. Hearing his footsteps stop outside my room, I made no sound, hoping not to attract his attention. He knocked on my door.

‘Natasha, were you at prayers?' he said, when I opened the door. ‘Oh yes, you were, wasn't it wonderful? Did you see how many patients and nurses we are bringing to the Lord? Praise Jesus.' He paused, clearing his throat. ‘There is a tin of money in the bottom of your mother's wardrobe. It is money she has been hiding away, but she has been healed of her attachment to it. We need it to help pay the medical bills, and to support CTJ to put on its next show. Go and find the tin and bring it to me now.'