The Healing Party by Micheline Lee Page A

job. The mirror on the dressing table and the one inside the wardrobe door were used for long, careful scrutiny. The hallway mirror was for last-chance checks before stepping out the door, and compact mirrors that popped out of her handbag, car mirrors and reflecting shop windows were also frequently consulted.
    One day, when I was about fifteen years old, she held me by the shoulders and forced me to face the full-length wardrobe mirror. ‘Just look at yourself and enjoy it,’ she ordered. My reflection scowled back as I pulled away from her. Mum remained in front of the mirror. ‘When I was your age,’ she said, ‘I always peek at myself and say, “Hey, who is that pretty girl in the mirror? Is it really me?”’ With one hand on her hip, she spun from side to side, swishing her skirt around her legs.
    A woman from the agency came on the line. After some discussion, she agreed to cancel services and we ended the call. I walked towards the sombre woman staring out of the window. Taking her wheelchair handles and turning her to face the dressing table, I said, ‘Look at yourself, Mum – you still look so young!’ I was searching for something comforting to say, too embarrassed to say what I was thinking – that she really was beautiful, even more beautiful, in a way, than she had been as a young woman. Her cheekbones were high and thin, like a bird’s wings, and her eyes were dark and dramatic in her face.
    â€˜I am sixty-two years old, my dear. I am a grandmother!’ she said. ‘Who cares how I look! Don’t think of me, think of yourself!’ Her face brightened. ‘We must always try to look our best, but so what? Only God matters.’ She raised an open hand to the ceiling and flashed a smile. ‘Alleluia. Jesus is Lord!’
    Standing behind her I saw my own face look back from the mirror – serious, round and taut, unsubtle in its even proportions.
    *
    I took my dishwashing gloves off and opened the front door. Patsy’s stick of a body was bowed over to one side, dragged down by her guitar in its angular hardcase. I pulled the guitar off her as she came in the doorway and scolded her, as Mum would have done, for carrying something so heavy. She had come straight from the conservatorium where she studied music, and wore a blue corduroy pinafore over leggings.
    â€˜You look like a schoolgirl,’ I said. She raised her eyebrows and walked away to see Mum in the kitchen.
    Doing housework always put me in an irritable state. For the past two hours I had stomped from room to room with my bucket of sponges, scrubbing brushes and detergents. Who could have left that piece of biscuit to be crushed into the carpet? Are they blind to the mould growing on the kitchen bin lid? How many weeks of scum have been allowed to build up under the taps? It’s disgusting that anyone could leave their shit stains on the toilet for others to clean! I recognised this irritation at housework as a trait of Mum’s. I had an image of her squatting on the floor, flushed and scowling, muttering about the filth as she scrubbed at the carpet. But that was when Mum worked on her feet from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. every weekday at the Arnott’s biscuit factory, and I had no excuse for not helping.
    My final task was to wipe down the tables in the lounge room. Mum’s medicines, cups and cloths had piled up, leaving rings and stains on the coffee table by the couch where she lay during the day. I cleared and cleaned the table so that it looked barely used. Then I removed Mum’s pillow and blanket from the couch and straightened the cushions. All was looking fresh and gleaming, ready for the ladies’ cell group.
    For a few years after becoming Charismatic, Mum and Dad had led the St Joseph’s Catholic Charismatic prayer meeting. Perhaps Mum was too reserved and Dad too unorthodox, or perhaps some felt uncomfortable that the majority of the group were