Revival Season - Monica West (recommended ebook reader TXT) 📗

hoops. Papa kept praying, pressing his hand on the boy’s head. What he was saying was between him, God, and the boy.

When Papa finally stood up, he backed away from the boy. “Drop your crutches and walk, son.”

My fingernails had bent back against the metal chair by the time Ma’s warm grip landed on my hand. I reached out my other hand and grabbed Hannah’s as the boy shifted his thick shoes ever so slightly. Even though Papa wasn’t touching him anymore, the boy was still shaking. Then a crutch fell, and he dropped to his knees. His mother ran up to the stage in her dingy cotton dress.

“Wait,” Papa said, extending his arm to still her. “Have faith. God is still working.” The woman took a step back, but she was clearly torn between Papa’s belief in his own power and her son, who was on his knees at the altar.

“Get up,” I whispered as the boy rocked on his knees, no closer to standing even as my words chided him. I prayed that the boy’s slowness wouldn’t spark the same anger that had inhabited Papa last summer. Papa took one step closer to the boy, and Ma’s hand became a vise on mine, squeezing out all the feeling until it was numb.

“C’mon, son,” Papa said with a sweet voice that would have made anyone get up. “Rise up and walk.”

Sweat rained from Papa’s forehead to the turf. The hundreds of pairs of eyes in the tent were fixed on him, their expressions ranging from hope to frustration to blankness.

“Rise up and walk.” Papa extended his arms again, but this time he raised them like a puppeteer whose invisible marionette strings connected to the boy’s legs. In slow motion, the boy put his hands on the ground and straightened his legs. His knees knocked together in the plastic braces.

“Rise up and walk,” Papa said again, his words salve to loosen the boy’s stiff joints. The boy stayed on all fours as his legs inched closer to his hands. He moved ever so slightly. Then he was on his feet, shaking, but on his feet. And I was on mine too, shouting amen. A sharp tug yanked the hem of my skirt, sending me right back to the seat. But I started something, because then everyone was cheering as the boy took one wobbly step and then another.

Papa flopped on the altar, seemingly exhausted even though he wasn’t the one who’d just walked. The boy’s mother rushed onto the stage, and her son collapsed into her embrace. Papa raised his arms to lead the congregation in a benediction. We all rose under the spell of his puppeteer hands as the lights from above cast an iridescent glimmer on his sweat.

Only when revival was officially over did Ma let my hand go, yet I still felt the warmth and pressure of her fingers as I flexed mine. As Ma exhaled her relief, the boy’s mother shouted above the booming applause, her voice reaching all parts of the tent from the mic pinned to Papa’s suit jacket.

“Glory to God and to His shepherd on earth. Thank you, Reverend Horton. Thank you.”

I nudged Ma with my elbow to catch her eye, but she wouldn’t look at me. Her smooth forehead had already erased the doubt of just a few minutes before as she applauded for him. I joined in, even as crowds with ravenous eyes surged the stage and swarmed Papa, their hands eager for a touch of his garment. I wanted to join them but knew that it wouldn’t be proper. So my hands clapped themselves raw from the fourth row until the residue of last summer’s memories was wiped clean.

Later that night, in the darkness of the bedroom, a loud groan came from Hannah’s bed—a strained sound like someone was pressing on her chest and forcing air out of her lungs. Then the mattress squeaked, and I rushed to the side of her bed. Her limbs stiffened, her back arched, and her body bucked on the mattress. The blanket that had once been wrapped around her so tightly was now loose.

“Ma! Papa!” As I yelled into the darkness of the unfamiliar room, I peered at the fluorescent-green numbers on the wall clock—11:51. The thump of my heart ricocheted in my chest and ears as I knelt next to her writhing body. I willed myself to keep my eyes open rather than closing them to mutter the first words of a prayer. Praying during seizures had become a ritual of sorts since Hannah was a baby, even though my prayers had morphed from asking God to heal her to asking Him to lessen her pain instead.

Froth bubbled around her lips and the back of her throat emitted a gurgling sound. When the gurgle receded, she opened her mouth wide and gasped like she was drowning. Her eyes fluttered open and the pupils fixated on one spot of the ceiling. Her arms flopped against the cartoon character sheets. Still 11:51.

The lights flooded on, and Ma was next to me; her body made a barrier to keep Hannah from falling off the bed. Papa rushed to Hannah’s headboard, his arms and chest exposed in a scoop-neck tank top that I probably wasn’t supposed to see. The gold herringbone chain, a birthday gift from Ma a few years ago, was tangled in a thicket of chest hair. I averted my eyes as he cinched his robe.

“There there, Hannah,” Ma’s voice soothed as Hannah bucked in the sheets. I stood silent vigil, afraid even to disturb the air. No one would say it out loud, but we were superstitious when it came to Hannah’s seizures. During a seizure, Ma kneaded her hands as though to shorten the duration of each violent movement while I held my breath until my lungs burned. Papa stood by the head of her bed and extended his hands above her—a different healing motion than he had used during that night’s