The Healing Party by Micheline Lee

a print still wet on the table. Leaning over, she gasped, ‘Oh’ and ‘Wow.’
    They looked the part, I had to admit: old male artist wearing a black beret and paint-streaked shirt with nubile woman, poring over artworks on a worktable strewn with brushes, photochemical trays and rollers in a high-ceilinged studio decked with large dramatic works. The scene brought to mind other young women I had seen in the studio being regaled with stories by my father. They were models, my sisters’ friends, my friends, the eager-eyed girls from the Charismatic groups, and, of course, Bonnie.
    â€˜Oh, Natasha!’ he called out when he saw me. ‘Meet Caroline! Caroline, this is my daughter, just down from Darwin where she is a crusader for the disadvantaged and the sick. And Caroline is a most wonderful artist.’ His face and voice were animated and warm.
    â€˜No, I’m not, Paul,’ she protested, laughing.
    â€˜But you are,’ he insisted. ‘It is self-evident from the inspired comments you have made about my artworks. I must say you have an eye and an aesthetic that I find truly —’
    â€˜My mother was calling you,’ I said, glaring at her.
    Caroline stopped smiling. ‘I didn’t think she’d need me while she was having a shower. I’ve only been up here a few minutes!’
    â€˜Never mind, Caroline,’ Dad said. ‘Time spent on art is never wasted. I’m sure Irene doesn’t mind —’
    I continued, louder. ‘Next time, wash the dishes while she’s in the shower. From the kitchen you can hear her call. Now you need to come downstairs and help her out of the shower.’
    â€˜Uh-huh,’ she said.
    Suddenly embarrassed by my bad temper and the baggy tracksuit I had slept in, I led her back downstairs in silence.
    The bathroom mist had cleared and the shower curtain had been pulled back. Wrapped in a towel, Mum perched on the shower seat. Her jaw was tight and the skin on her arms and legs was tinged grey and pimply with cold.
    â€˜Where were you?’ she said to Caroline.
    â€˜Sorry, Mrs Chan,’ Caroline said, ‘I didn’t realise you needed me. Your husband was showing me his art.’
    Dad had followed us down and stood outside the bathroom, peering in. ‘Everything okay, Irene?’
    â€˜ Cho meeyah? ’ Mum asked him.
    â€˜I came to help,’ he answered.
    â€˜We’re fine,’ I said, shutting the door on him.
    â€˜I’ll lift you on the count of three,’ Caroline said. ‘One, two, three!’ She curved her long, supple back, flexed her shapely arms and legs, and in a fluid motion, hoisted Mum off her feet. Mum flopped against her like a dead weight.
    After she left, I heard Mum and Dad arguing in the bedroom.
    â€˜Why talk to her? She is here to work, not look at your art!’ Mum said.
    â€˜We are Christians, Irene! We have to be generous with everyone.’
    â€˜Then how come you never show your photos to Rosa? How come only this girl?’ she cried in a shrill voice.
    â€˜Why do you have to be so suspicious, Irene? She was nervous because it was her first time here. We must show her some Christian kindness. Reject such bad thoughts, Irene, so Jesus can heal you.’ He walked out of the bedroom with an injured look on his face.
    I went in to Mum and wheeled her in front of the dressing table so that she could do her hair and face. ‘We don’t need a replacement for Rosa. I can do the mornings,’ I said. ‘Shall I ring the agency to cancel her?’ She nodded. Waiting on the phone, I watched her stare at herself in the mirror. Her troubled eyes scanned up and down, and from side to side. With jerky hands she pulled at her hair, then took the brakes off the wheelchair and turned herself to the window.
    As a girl, I had often watched Mum checking her appearance. She did this with scrupulousness and regularity, as though it were her