The smell of bergamot grease and hot iron always brings it back—the sticky, humid pulse of an Alabama Sunday morning.
At five years old, my world was a haze of golden-brown skin polished with coconut butter until I shone like a new copper penny. In the kitchen of our Chambers County home, Aunt Mae reigned over the stove. The scent of bacon drifted through the house, thick and salty, colliding with the rich, bitter perfume of “grown-up” coffee. To me, that scent was the smell of opinions and secrets. I longed for a sip of that dark chocolate gold—adults and their hushed conversations seemed to revolve around it—but I was always told I was too little. “Little girls don’t drink coffee,” Aunt Mae would say, her voice as firm as the starch in her aprons.
I stood before the big, oval wooden mirror, a towering, ancient thing that seemed to hold the reflections of all the women who came before me. Outside the open windows, the scent of fresh-cut grass teased me, whispering of mud pies, barefoot sprints, and butterfly wings. But Sunday didn’t belong to the dirt. My clothes were already laid out neatly at the foot of my queen-sized bed: my green paisley dress, my white cotton panties with the lace trim, and a full slip so soft I hesitated to touch it. I loved the feeling of that slip against my skin; it made me feel fragile and precious, like a porcelain doll kept on a high shelf.
Then there were my socks. White with little lace ruffles at the top. On Sundays, I wore my best. And when I looked in the mirror, I thought I looked like the prettiest little girl in all of Alabama. My hair had been straightened the night before, parted into three big, fluffy ponytails. Each was tied with white knockers and topped with a big green yarn ribbon. I was the poster child for Sunday’s Best.
Aunt Mae and Aunt Emma did not play about walking in late. Aunt Mae always said, “Lateness is a sin, just like they say cleanliness is next to Godliness. Well, lateness is next to the devil. And the devil is not going to get our family.”
We piled into the “Monster,” the big black 1975 Chevrolet Caprice Aunt Emma drove. She drove slow as molasses in January, which meant we had to leave early. But we always made it right on time.
* * *
Inside the sanctuary, the air was a thick, stagnant soup of Southern heat and religious fervor. The overhead fans churned the humidity but never quite broke it, merely moving the scent of mothballs, floral perfumes, and old hymnal paper around the room. The sunlight fought its way through the stained-glass windows, casting jagged diamonds of ruby and sapphire across the backs of the wooden pews.
Every few minutes, the collective flutter of cardboard fans—the ones with the funeral home advertisements on the back—created a rhythmic, paper-thin heartbeat that competed with the low hum of the organ.
As I sat there next to Aunt Mae, my feet swung back and forth, the glossy black patent leather of my Mary Jane shoes catching those dappled lights. I glanced up at her—she was transfixed, her gaze locked on the pulpit. Aunt Mae’s red and black dress hugged her curves with the confidence of a race car hugging a track. Her skin, luminous and light, whispered of her Cherokee grandmother’s legacy. She moved with a regal grace, as if she carried the weight of our family’s name on her shoulders.
Thinking back, I realize how much of her strength seeped into me, shaping the woman I would become. I used to eavesdrop on the grown folks’ conversations, catching whispers about Aunt Mae’s many admirers. Yet she chose solitude, wearing her independence like a badge. Now, after my own tangle of marriages and heartbreaks, I understand her choice. But that Sunday morning, no one—not even Aunt Mae—could have guessed what a little five-year-old girl was plotting.
Church was about to begin, and my new friend was ready to make her entrance.
* * *
Tilita knew more about pain and the weight of being “special” than any child should. She was born from my suffering, a guardian who shielded my mind from agony but could never erase the memories. She wasn’t just a name I whispered to the shadows; she was a jagged piece of glass forged in the fire of things no five-year-old should understand. While I was the girl of soft lace and, “Yes, ma’am,” Tilita was the one with the iron spine. Over the years, she had worn many names—sometimes she was Blackwidow, a silent observer; other times she was Miamiwicked, a whirlwind of defiance. But that Sunday, she was simply the protector.
She lived in the static between the radio stations, in the cold space beneath the bed, and in the sudden, sharp silence that took over my mind when the world became too loud to bear. I could feel her now, pushing against the back of my eyes like a rising tide. The choir’s voices soared, harmonizing on “I Know It Was the Blood That Saved Me.” Ours was a Methodist church—no Holy Ghost theatrics, no falling out or speaking in tongues—just the slow, sticky creep of sweat clinging to my skin. I hated the way it made my paisley dress stick to my back, making me feel exposed and restless.
The preacher’s voice began to warp, slowing down until his words sounded like they were being dragged through thick mud. The vibrant reds and blues of the stained glass started to bleed together, swirling into a singular, dizzying purple.
Step back, she whispered, her voice cooler than the peppermint in Aunt Mae’s purse. Let me take the walk.
I felt the familiar, terrifying sensation of receding. It was like falling backward into a deep, dark well while still being able to see the circle of light at the top. From that distance, I watched my own hands smooth the green paisley dress. I watched my own fingers, encased in those white kid gloves, tighten around the crumpled dollar bill. I was a passenger in my own skin, peering out through the windows of my eyes as Tilita took the wheel. She didn’t feel the scratchy lace of the socks or the stifling heat of the sanctuary. She felt nothing but the mission.
* * *
As the preacher closed his Bible and the choir hummed the offering hymn, the deacons rolled out a long table draped in white. Three gleaming silver and gold trays sat atop it, waiting for the congregation’s sacrifices. My heart thudded in my chest, a wild, frantic drumbeat, but through the noise, I heard her: Allow it. Let your heartbeat guide you.
Aunt Mae pressed another dollar into my hand as we stood. The back rows filed forward first, the organist playing a jaunty tune.
We—Tilita and I—stood up.
The wooden pew creaked, a sharp crack like a starting pistol. As we stepped into the aisle, the world felt tilted. I saw the back of Aunt Mae’s head, her crown of inky curls so dignified and steady, and for a second, I wanted to reach out and grab her red and black dress and tell her that the little girl in the paisley wasn’t really there anymore. But Tilita’s grip was absolute. She marched us toward that white-draped table with a terrifying confidence, her heartbeat a steady thump-thump that drowned out the organ’s tune. Every step on the floorboards felt like a strike on a drum.
We weren’t just walking to give an offering; we were walking toward a reckoning. Tilita knew that if we fell here, in the holiest of places, the secret would finally be too big to hide. The “Devil in the Paisley Dress” wasn’t a sin to be purged—she was a scream for help that had finally found its voice. Watching her move—my body, her will—was like seeing myself in a funhouse mirror: familiar, yet not quite me. To the congregation, I was just a pretty girl in paisley walking toward God. But inside, Tilita was screaming for the truth to be seen. When she reached the offering table, the world went black as my body crumpled and hit the floor.
Those Sunday mornings taught me about pride and family, but they also taught me about the masks we wear. Months later, the doctors would tell Aunt Mae and Aunt Emma that I’d suffered a mental break, my psyche splintering under the weight of trauma. My “imaginary friend” had become something more—an alter, a protector. But back then, on that fourth wooden pew, all I knew was survival dressed in white lace ruffles.
Even now, when the world feels heavy or unkind, I close my eyes and go back to that wooden pew; Aunt Mae’s hand in mine, the scent of bergamot and bacon in the air, and that quiet voice in my ear reminding me: Little girl, you better behave.
If she only knew.
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