Revival Season

by Monica West

  “In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ you are healed.” My hand flew from Micah’s forehead and shot to my lips as the forbidden healing words reserved for Papa and men like him—only men—slipped from my tongue. My chin immediately shot to my chest in penance; just then, the door pushed open, and my prayer ended mid-sentence. Micah’s eyes were open in my lap, and her pupils were fixed on me.

  “What happened?” Mrs. Nesbitt rushed to my side. She peeled Micah’s torso from my lap and rested her on the carpet. Someone must have called Ma; she was standing under the glowing red letters of the exit sign, making the room suddenly claustrophobic. Somehow Hannah had gotten to her, and she was wrapped in the folds of Ma’s skirt, staring at me with a focus I had never seen before in her eyes. A chill shot through me, then a wave of heat.

  “She passed out a few minutes ago, but she just woke up.”

  “I’m okay,” Micah said. Her voice was strained as though each word had to push through a sandpapery throat to get to her lips. She tried to sit up, but Mrs. Nesbitt pinned her shoulders to the ground.

  “Don’t get up. The ambulance is coming. Your mom is coming from the sanctuary too.”

  “You didn’t have to do that, Mrs. Nesbitt. I’m feeling better. I think Miriam—” Micah tilted her head to look over at me.

  “What happened with Miriam?”

  “Nothing,” I chirped. Micah was the worst at keeping secrets. “I just sang to her. That’s all. Hannah likes it, so I thought she would too.”

  The blare of sirens in the distance grew louder until it sounded like they were right on top of us. Micah’s mother entered the room in a cloud of perfume and crouched next to her. Seconds later, the paramedics burst in and strapped Micah onto a stretcher. She mumbled something that I couldn’t hear as they placed a clear dome over her nose and mouth and took her away, her mother clinging to the edge of the stretcher like a barnacle.

  A blue uniform walked closer to me. His lips were moving but words didn’t seem to be coming out. The face came closer, inches from mine, and the lips moved again. “You were with her when she passed out. We need to ask you some questions.”

  Some questions. He pulled out a clipboard even as my legs wavered beneath me. My eyes bounced around the room’s familiar walls before landing in the corner where Ma and Papa stood. When had Papa gotten here? I tried to wave him away, to tell him that we had sorted it all out, but my arms—too heavy for my body—hung by my sides. I couldn’t answer the paramedic’s questions in front of them, but it would be more suspicious if I asked to speak somewhere else.

  “What did you see?”

  “I didn’t see anything. But I heard her fall.”

  “Did she hit her head?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And about how long was she unconscious?”

  They were asking the questions so quickly that I had a hard time keeping up. “Don’t you need to take her to the hospital? Do you need to keep asking me questions?”

  “Answer him, Miriam.” Ma’s voice was stern.

  “I don’t know. A couple of minutes.”

  “We’ll follow up if we need more information.” The paramedic wrote down my name and phone number before tucking the clipboard under his arm and walking through the open doors to the waiting ambulance. Papa jogged away from us and leaped into the back of the ambulance—we all watched as he laid his hand over Micah’s head and spoke words of healing. Words that I had just uttered a few minutes earlier. He stayed inside until the paramedic gently motioned for him to go. There was no siren as the ambulance pulled away—the engine gunned and the tires screeched over the parking lot. Then silence.

  There had been so much activity and noise, and now my ears rang in the echoing cavern that the ambulance had left behind. Everyone stayed in the position they had been in when the paramedics left: Ma was by the door with her hands pressed against her cheeks while Mrs. Nesbitt was crouched on the ground, kneading the carpet as though Micah’s body was still in front of her.

  Soon Mrs. Nesbitt rose and opened the annex door—I followed her, Hannah, and Ma into the late-summer breeze that stirred the trees, feeling each tendril of wind curl under my skin as though it had been ripped off in one sheet, leaving the fleshy pink parts underneath exposed. As we walked across the lot to the entrance of the multipurpose room, I peeked at my arm in the sunlight. The skin still looked intact—there was no rash or other outward sign of the fire raging beneath.

  “What happened back there?” Ma asked when we reached the hallway outside the multipurpose room.

  “I think—” My mouth formed around the confusion that had resided in my body for the past half hour. Papa’s voice came through his closed office door down the hall.

  “What were you saying, honey?” She leaned closer. Her nods coaxed words out of me, but Papa’s voice echoed as though he was speaking into a megaphone.

  “Nothing. I wasn’t saying anything.” I shook my head to dislodge the thoughts of Micah’s body in front of me, the words that had come out of my mouth.

  “Maybe we can just go home.”

  * * *

  Later, the house was claustrophobic with the laughter and suited bodies of a dozen deacons and elders. They always came over for dinner after the first post-revival Sunday service. It was my duty to help Ma in the kitchen. I stood, waiting for her marching orders, until she handed me the foil pan of lasagna and directed me to bring it to the table.

  As I carried the steaming tray in, I overheard Deacon Farrow saying they’d had the biggest crowd in years. A few elders estimated that a thousand people had attended service—a new Sunday record. Their cackles swelled as I placed the foil pan in the middle of the table and let my fingers linger on its crimped edges. This world of revivals and faith healing was a small one, so I waited for the conversation to shift to Bethel and what they’d heard from the deacons who’d been in attendance there, but no one said anything. The briefest glance at some of their laughing faces was proof that they hadn’t heard the news. Or that Papa had spun a narrative to explain whatever they might have heard. I knew not to listen in for too long: Children should be seen and not heard. And as Papa paused in the middle of accepting his accolades to look at me, it was clear that he didn’t want me around.

  I started cutting and serving the lasagna when Papa was still staring in my direction. Ma worked next to me with a pitcher at her side, filling each glass to the rim with lemonade. On my way to the perimeter of the dining room, I threaded through elbows as Papa’s voice, light and unburdened, cut through the laughter like a bell.

  “Gentlemen, let’s begin dinner with a prayer for the healing of Micah Johnson.”

  At the mention of Micah’s name, the heat from the annex surged through me once again. Heel toe, heel toe. I inched closer to the wall where Ma and Hannah were already standing for the prayer with dipped chins, but they seemed to get farther away as I got closer. When I finally arrived, I pressed my back against the wall, leaning into it to keep me upright as Papa’s prayer voice covered us like a blanket.

  “Amen.” The men sat as one with their ties loosened, hands straddling their plates. Caleb sat toward the end of the table, next to Papa, too shy to speak among the men’s baritone voices. We said amen and ducked into the kitchen to eat the crispy corners of lasagna that we deemed not good enough for the men.

  “Are you okay, Miriam?” Ma whispered, careful that her voice didn’t cross the wall that separated us from them. My eyes wandered to the dot of cheese on her top lip, knowing that if I looked directly in her eyes, I would have to tell her what had happened in the annex. I said healing words, and Micah’s eyes opened.

  “Joanne. More lemonade, please!” Papa barked. Ma jumped up with the pitcher. I watched as she cupped a protective arm around her stomach before bending to fill the glasses of men who acted as though she didn’t exist. And the secret that had been so close to the surface receded.

  SEVEN

  The thin latex skins of red, blue, and yello
w balloons shielded me from the hospital hallways and provided a millimeter of remove from the medicinal smell. I stayed a few feet behind Ma and Papa as we approached the glass doors to Micah’s unit—4B—that wheezed open and swallowed us inside.

  Micah sat upright in bed with a faux wooden table positioned over her legs. She scooped runny eggs from a deep crater in her plastic tray.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Horton and Reverend Horton. Hey, Miriam.” Her voice was quiet, formal, over the constant pinging of heart monitors in nearby rooms. Next to her bedside, a skeletal IV pole was empty when it should have been laden with swollen, opaque bags. I’d expected to see tubes everywhere and the erratic green lines of a heart monitor, but she was just sitting up in bed like nothing had ever been wrong. The only difference was that she looked smaller amid the pillows. I kept a wide berth as I walked around her bed and placed the balloon bouquet on the windowsill next to a vase of tulips whose heads were already drooping.

  “Thank you. That was nice.”

  My whole body tensed as I turned around with empty hands and no barrier between us. Our parents had ventured into the hallway, and Micah patted a spot on the bed next to her swaddled legs. I stood motionless in front of the same Micah who saved the maraschino cherries on her banana splits for last. The same Micah who had the embarrassing habit of laughing when she heard sad news, causing her to be the recipient of countless pinches during church services. As I climbed in beside her, I felt knees that were too angular as Micah’s unfamiliar body pressed me against the railing.

  “What have you been up to?” It was the only thing I could think to say when she was inches away from my face. But as soon as the words came out, I realized how stupid the question was.

  “Just hanging out here.” She gave a polite laugh but then started coughing, her body jerking forward in bed. I grabbed a plastic cup from her tray and pointed the bendy straw toward her parched lips. She took a long sip of water before rolling over to face me again. My body recoiled but I forced myself to stay still.

  “What happened in the annex?” she asked. Her voice was thick and phlegmy, her breath sour. This was the question I had known—and feared—she’d ask.

  My skin was a shirt that was becoming too tight, forcing air out of me with each breath. I slid away from her, but the bed’s low metal railing pinned me close. Hoisting myself over the side of the bed, the tray that held the remnants of Micah’s breakfast clanged to the ground. A shallow pool of milk leaked from an open cardboard spout and clumps of eggs dotted the checkerboard linoleum squares.

  Ma’s head peered around the corner after the crash, followed by Papa’s and Deacon Johnson’s. “Are you girls okay?” Ma asked.

  I looked from their faces to Micah’s. Micah’s was creased with confusion, while theirs were full of concern.

  “I’m okay. It was an accident.”

  I squatted to scoop the eggs back into Micah’s tray and swiped at the milk with my hand. The floor was as clean as it was going to get, but I waited until their feet retreated into the hallway to stand up.

  “Miriam,” she whispered as I backed away from her bed. She beckoned me over with her index finger, and I inched closer until her mattress was pressing against my abdomen. My ear angled close to the line of dried blood that bisected her cracked bottom lip.

  “What did you do in the annex?” Her voice was faint.

  “I don’t— I didn’t do anything.”

  “I woke up and your hands were on me—” she began.

  “It didn’t mean anything.”

  “What did you do?”

  I looked over my shoulder at our families; they were on the opposite side of an open door just a few feet away. “I don’t know. It was all a mistake.”

  “I heard you say something. What was it?” Micah’s voice was getting louder. I took a step back, but she grabbed my wrist and pulled me closer. Papa’s voice got quiet in the hallway, and we both paused.

  “You can’t tell anyone,” I said when Papa resumed his conversation.

  “But if you didn’t do anything, what would I tell?”

  “Drop it, Micah.”

  “Drop what? That I heard you say something and then I felt something happen in my body and now you’re acting weird?”

  I let my wrist go slack in her hand. She had felt something. I had felt something too. The tingly heat from the day before was still close.

  “Just tell me what happened!” Her frustrated voice rose an octave as her grip tightened on my wrist. Suddenly the window air conditioner blasted on, making the balloons dance. A line of sweat formed on my top lip even as the rest of my body shuddered.

  “I don’t know! I didn’t do anything.”

  Just then, Deacon Johnson entered the room, followed by a doctor in pale blue scrubs.

  “Can you excuse us?” The doctor encroached on our space with a chart in his hand; on his heels, Micah’s parents wore the worried faces of people who didn’t believe in an all-powerful God. Papa was right behind them like he was a member of the family. In the commotion, Micah let me go and I took several steps back toward the door, near where Ma was standing. Two more steps and I would be out of there. Free.

  “They can hear whatever you have to say,” Deacon Johnson said.

  My shoulders must have dropped, but I yanked them back up before Ma could see. Soon, we were standing at the edge of the bed next to Papa.

  “Micah’s A1c levels are better than they’ve been in two years. I can’t say for sure right now, and we need to observe her further, but it looks like she’s in what we call partial remission.”

  “What does that mean?” Mrs. Johnson chimed in.

  “We usually see this right after a patient is diagnosed, when they require less insulin and their A1c level remains low. But we don’t usually see it with patients like Micah who were diagnosed two years ago. But it is good news.”

  “Praise the Lord for His healing,” Deacon Johnson exclaimed.

  “I didn’t say that she’s been healed, Mr. Johnson. Type 1 diabetes is incurable. But for some reason, it looks like the disease is in remission for now. I’ll want to keep her here one more night for observation in case something changes, but if it stays like this, we’ll be able to release her tomorrow.”

  “Hallelujah!” Deacon Johnson shouted before the doctor was even finished. My mouth shot open, and my eyes kept slipping back in Micah’s direction even as I wanted to pull them away. Deacon and Mrs. Johnson swarmed the sides of Micah’s bed, smothering her with hugs until her face disappeared behind her father’s suit jacket. Each shriek and praise seemed to pull a little more oxygen out of the room. I tugged Ma’s arm, dragging her away from the edge of Micah’s bed.

  “Let’s get out of here. They should be alone.”

  “Did you hear that? Micah’s been healed.” Her feet were rooted by the edge of the bed as she raised her hands toward the ceiling in a mini-praise.

  “The doctor didn’t say that.” It was supposed to come out in a whisper, but it must have been louder than that because the room went silent. Micah breached her parents’ embrace and sat up in bed, her face aghast like she had just been struck.

  “Well, it’s a good thing we don’t serve doctors, isn’t it?” Deacon Johnson said after the room had been silent too long. “Our doctor is the Lord Jesus Christ, hallelujah! And He has declared Micah healed in His eyes, not necessarily in man’s.”

  “Samuel, I can’t thank you enough,” Mrs. Johnson chimed in. “You came into the ambulance and healed her. Praise God for you.”

  The doctor, still trying to emphasize a point by gesturing to Micah’s chart, finally gave up as the praises rose in volume. He stepped out of the room in the middle of their whoops and cheers.

  When Micah’s parents faced her again, Papa shot a glance at Ma. His eyelids fluttered with validation, or even confirmation, and Ma nodded as though to verify his understanding. With their wordless conversation, they seemed to agree that he was indeed back, that Bethel had been
a fluke. Ma shuffled over to him and threaded her hand in his, and by the time he squeezed back, they were on one accord. All the while, my skin prickled under Micah’s gaze, even as she was being smothered by her parents.

  “You healed me,” she mouthed at me in slow motion. With each word, her eyes widened with wonder, as though she hadn’t believed them until she had just said them and made everything real.

  * * *

  After Ma and I left Papa at the hospital to make his weekly rounds, I sat next to Ma in the passenger seat, trying to silence Micah’s words that played on a loop. When Ma turned up the radio on her favorite hymn, Micah’s words morphed into the throaty alto’s lyrics, her refrain of you healed me playing over the plaintive chorus of this woman’s love song to God.

  “You seem restless,” Ma said. She eased the car to a stop in front of the house. I followed her eyes to my fidgety right leg, and as I pressed it down with my palm, something else was rising in me. A memory from years ago came back like it was yesterday, like someone had opened the door of a long-closed vault and let the air and light in. It was an image of Papa laying hands on Hannah as an infant. It had been early in the morning, hours before I was supposed to be awake, when the door to the bedroom I shared with Hannah opened. I pretended to be asleep as Ma and Papa tiptoed over to Hannah’s crib and whispered inaudible prayers through the wooden slats.

  Papa lifted a floppy Hannah in the air and cradled her—her legs swung like a rag doll’s over his forearm and her neck lolled to the side. Ma passed him a bottle of holy oil as he readjusted Hannah to support her head. He emptied the entire bottle on her forehead and lifted her, glistening, toward the moonlight. She stirred and started to cry, but her limbs never stiffened, and she didn’t lift her head. Ma and Papa stayed there, motionless, for what seemed like hours, even as Hannah fell asleep in Papa’s arms. They placed her into the crib and left the room; Ma’s head was downcast as Papa put his arm around her shoulders.