I sucked on my peppermint hoping it could get this weird, metal taste out of my mouth. My mom always said that a weird taste in your mouth was a sign of bad breath. Stinky breath also feels a certain way. It’s like there is a film or layer of fur stuck to your teeth. It’s thick and no matter how much you run your tongue over it, it stays put, growing thicker by the minute. The peppermint was making it worse, but it was my only choice.
I wanted to arrive on time because my mom hated being late to church.
My Aunt Emma was a stickler for being on-time as well. I miss her. She wasn’t much of a talker but would sometimes throw me a wink or stick her tongue out when she thought only I could see it. It’s like we shared a special bond.
During our monthly family dinners at my grandma’s house, I would often take her cookies or save her a piece of sweet potato pie because she loved my momma’s baking. She rarely ate dinner with the family because she preferred to spend the nights by herself. I think my father was secretly relieved because he couldn’t stand to watch her eat. She would stuff as much food as possible in her right cheek before taking a big gulp of water to wash it all down.
She had a bad limp and didn’t like to go up and down the stairs. Her favorite seat was in a rocking chair in her room. I would often sit at her feet while she ate and ramble on and on about anything that came to mind. She never responded with words but I liked to think she was enjoying my company as much as I enjoyed hers.
None of us ever knew what was actually going on in Aunt Emma’s head. She would sit in front of the television for hours at a time. Her eyes would look as if they were about to bulge out of her head as she stared back at the screen. It was almost as if she was mesmerized by the TV or under a trance.
Each month, my extended family would spend a Saturday afternoon at my grandma’s house. As the sun went down, my cousins and I would creep up to Aunt Emma’s bedroom. And as always, she would sit in the dark, a few feet in front of the television rocking back and forth in her chair that made a repeated creaking sound as it moved forward and backward. She would turn up the volume to drown out the sound which also meant she didn’t hear us crawling up the stairs and whispering about who would take the dare.
We had a weekly dare where we would see who could run across the front of the television to make Aunt Emma blink. As we crept through the doorway to our respective spots in the room, we would get in the position to sprint across the front of the TV in the small space between her and the light that shone from the screen.
You always needed at least three people to participate: one was the lookout in case another aunt or uncle came upstairs; one to confirm Aunt Emma did indeed blink; one would be the brave soul to attempt the run. Everyone took turns at each role to be fair, except me. I never wanted to run across the screen and interrupt her TV time.
One particular night, the youngest of my cousins, Samuel, wanted to be the brave soul. We told him he wasn’t fast enough, but he insisted he was ready. Instead of fighting him, we got in our positions. Samuel took off on the quick run with a big grin across his face.
He was mid-stride when Aunt Emma shoved her cane out in front of her chair and he toppled over it, falling face-first. He wailed loud enough for all the grown-ups to rush upstairs to see what happened. He had a bloody nose but due to our no-snitch policy, we all pushed around invisible dirt with our toes and mumbled about how he fell into the dresser while we horse-played.
We were scolded for horse-playing in the house and Samuel was carried down the stairs with a towel held to his face to catch the blood that still gushed from his nose. I looked back to see if Aunt Emma ever stopped rocking or watching her television show during all the commotion. She had a slight smirk on her face as she stared back at the illuminated screen.
I saw her sitting in the back pew as soon as I entered the church. She no longer had the bug-eyed look from when she sat in front of the tv. Instead, she looked peaceful and serene.
We had been members of this church as long as I could remember. My father started coming after he graduated college and met my mom soon after. The stain glass windows, albeit old and outdated (my Dad’s words, not mine), always gave me a sense of home. However, today, there was a dreadful feeling of sadness, not the joy or hope I thought you were supposed to feel in the house of the Lord.
The pews were all dark mahogany with a deep plum cushioned seating. They sat at an angle on each side of the pulpit so no matter where you were positioned in the church, you had a view of the cross with the wilted man hanging from it. I never liked to think of Jesus that way. Since He had risen, I didn’t believe you should still have Him hanging on a cross, especially in a church. When I asked about this in my Sunday school class, I was told to be quiet and stay in a child’s place. I brought the concern up to my mother once service was over and she bent down and hugged me hard as she murmured, “out of the mouth of babes.” I decided not to tell her how I had also mouthed off to the Sunday school class instructor and given her the finger because she dismissed my question. I immediately asked for God to forgive me after I did it, so I no longer felt bad about it.
The ceilings in the sanctuary were really high and all the beams were exposed. My brother always whistled the tune from Kill Bill when we walked into the church because he said the inside reminded him of the chapel where they tried to kill the bride and her wedding party. I told him it was blasphemy to think of murder in the house of the Lord. That’s why I normally thought about Beyonce.
I had already arrived later than planned, so I made my way to the front of the church where my parents and brother were seated. I tried to get the attention of three of my closest friends who were off to my left holding hands and sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. I was surprised to see that Karisma was not trying to take a selfie or that Sarah wasn’t on her phone texting Jack. Maybe they broke up again. I made a mental note to see what that was all about after the service.
I saw my track coach, Coach Smith and my math teacher, Miss Jones sitting next to each other. There was a rumor that they were dating. I couldn’t wait to talk about this at school on Monday.
Maybe Joshua would be here too. I have been crushing on him for like two weeks now. He liked four of my pictures last week and even left a fire emoji on my selfie.
It felt like a mini-family reunion in the sanctuary. My cousin Edward and his mom, Aunt Bettina, who live in what seemed like the other side of the world (but was actually just Washington) were present. Each Christmas, they would come back in town and stay with my older cousin, Resa. Resa always told mommy that she dreaded their visits because all Aunt Bettina did was complain about her no-good husband while chain-smoking cigarettes. Resa preferred for Aunt Bettina to smoke outside but allowed her to do it indoors when she wasn’t home because an eye always had to be kept on Edward. He had what the school counselor called “behavioral issues” (my mom would always put her first two fingers up on each hand and scrunch them together when she said this), but Resa swore he just needed a good whoopin’ so he would stop trying to set things on fire. Must have been a special occasion for them to be in town.
There was so much commotion at the front of the church. I walked up to see my father holding my mom as she sobbed loudly into a black handkerchief. She only cried when she was especially moved during a sermon, so I was surprised to see her so emotional when the choir wasn’t even done singing yet. My father had on his darkest sunglasses that he normally wore when he went on his morning runs. He liked that no matter how hard he shook his head, they never came off. My brother sat staring straight ahead with tears running down the front of his face.
I must have really missed some good singing. I tried to take a seat beside my family, but no one moved to let me sit. They just kept looking straight ahead as if they didn’t see me. I was about to punch my brother in the arm and tell him to scoot over when my mother let out a wail that made me jump.
She had shot up out of her seat but crumbled in my father’s arms as if her legs had turned to jelly and what she thought she was about to do, her body decided not to cooperate.
I turned around to see what was causing so much distress and saw the coffin. I walked over and wanted to peek inside. My father was always telling me to be more careful and don’t let my curiosity get the best of me, but I just had to see what all the commotion was about. I looked inside and gasped.
The young lady lying there looked so much like me. She had thick, wooly hair that was laid out like a lion’s mane around her face. It was exactly how I loved to wear my hair but after a good night’s sleep, the curls never looked as defined or as bouncy as the first or second day. They weren’t as shiny as mine normally are. She had on my favorite purple sweater but the pants she was wearing looked odd. They had this weird crease down the middle and the legs had a shrunken look to them.
The complexion was not as rich and creamy as mine. The cheeks had a gray undertone and her lips were ashy under the pink lipstick she wore. Someone had done a horrible job of choosing the lipstick for her. My mom has always told me that finding the right shade of lipstick for a dark skin woman was just as important as keeping Vaseline on your legs.
“Are you moisturized and picture ready?” she would ask before we left the house. I touched my own lips and realized I needed a touch of Vaseline now. My peppermint was gone too. The furry feeling and metal taste began to intensify.
My mother continued to cry and repeat, “my baby, my baby, my baby.” My Dad’s shoulders started to tremble. I wasn’t sure who was holding up who as they sat back down on the pew.
I stood there looking at the young girl, wondering why I wasn’t crying the same way my family was. I looked back into the other pews and saw the tears streaming down the faces of my friends as well.
The only one who wasn’t crying was Aunt Emma. She was walking up the aisle towards me. I saw that she didn’t walk with a limp and her cane was gone. She came and stood beside me.
“Who is this girl?” I asked. And why did she look so much like me?
That’s when I remembered the accident and the pain. The red. The black. A hand lifting me out. The lightness of my body. I saw myself lying in the hospital bed but I got up. I got! Didn’t I?
Aunt Emma looked at me and said, “It’s time to go, Kaley.”
“I got up, Aunt Emma. Why am I still lying there? I got up!” My heart started to beat faster and faster. The metal taste felt like it was flooding my mouth. I looked down and saw that my legs were starting to shrivel. I tried to walk but couldn’t move. From the knee down, they were covered in bruises and blood. I looked up at Aunt Emma in horror and she smiled at me sweetly.
She held out her hand. I took it and felt her warmth. A special tingling feeling, almost like a spark, filled my hand. The bruises on my legs disappeared. She began leading me down the church aisle.
As we were about to walk back through the church doors, I heard my mom yell, “Kaley!” Before I could look back, Aunt Emma placed my hand into another bigger, warmer set of hands and the tingling feeling spread all over my body. I looked up to see who was holding me and was engulfed in the light.
