Wouldn’t Change a Thing (23 page)

W
e travel in separate vehicles to the annual Christmas Eve service at St. John's. The church grounds are filled to capacity. I am with Willa and her family; Mama is behind us with May and Ray. Whiplash is on punishment for swallowing a sock and a thong. She threw up the thong and passed the sock, thanks to the vet. We get out and are greeted by several members of the church. Mrs. Creasy Taylor saunters over to Willa and me.

“I was hoping you girls would stop by and see me sometimes.”

“I'm here for the rest of the holiday season, so we'll try to get by and see you.”

“Do that, okay.”

We walk toward the church and Cousin Edwina waves to us. Mama catches up with me and flashes her day-of-the-week pill container. “I've been taking my medication, Gumdrop. I don't want to let you down anymore.”

“I'm proud of you. I'm with you every step of the way. Willa is, too.”

“I know.”

Mama's eyes veer to the churchyard graves. Our family is buried here, and for years we placed flowers on our loved ones' tombs. She taps my shoulder. “I'm going to look at Mama's grave before I come inside.”

“I'll save a seat for you. I think Aunt Mavis put flowers on Grandma Rose's grave two weeks ago.” She follows the trail to her mother.

An announcement board sits to the left of the church. I spy the names of family members who served for years in different capacities at St. John's. Lamonte and I attended a megachurch in Atlanta. I enjoyed the magnificent building and the large crowd, but nothing beats the warmth of a small church where everyone knew each other. “St. John's A.M.E.” stands out in large block letters. If Clay could perch on my shoulder like a bird, he'd whisper in my ear, “Honey, they know A.M.E. doesn't stand for African Methodist Episcopal. It means Always Meddling in Everything.” I shake off his old saying and head into the church with my family.

Pastor and Sister Wilcox and other church members greet us in the vestibule. They have aged well. He is as distinguished now as he was when I was a child. A squat man with a penchant for fire-and-brimstone sermons, he brought the house down Sunday after Sunday. He'd snatch the microphone from the stand and glide from one end of the stage to the other, swerving in his robe, and stomping his spit-shined 'gators until someone caught the spirit. Ushers rushed to the aide of the slain-in-the-spirit with smelling salts and hand fans. Before I moved, he'd switched his delivery style from whooping to teaching. He told Uncle Raymond running around the church and swinging from the chandeliers didn't count if your walk didn't reflect God's word. Membership shrank, but the faithful embraced his teaching style.

“Seeing you again is like a breath of fresh air, Sister Toni,” he says.

“It's good to be home.”

He speaks to us individually, praising us for being together again. Sister Wilcox points to the first two pews on the right aisle. “Those are your pews.”

We head to the front of the church, and two signs are taped to the pews on either side.

RESERVED: WILLIAMSON.

We shuffle into the seats, one by one. Mama sits on the front pew and asks me to sit with her. Willa and McKenna sit with us as everyone else sits on the second row. The church is decorated for the season with a beautiful white Christmas tree in the corner. The podium is draped in a red velvet cloth and a green-and-gold wreath. Poinsettias line the altar. Pastor Wilcox joins the other men and one woman in the pulpit as the choir livens the church with “Carol of the Bells.”

Mama is transfixed and sways in time with the music. Three songs and a prayer later, she moves closer to me. Aunt Mavis confirmed she's taken her meds, but something about her face is distant. The pianist's key tickling fades, and Pastor Wilcox walks to the pulpit.

“I'm passing the baton tonight to Pastor Jared Smith. I've preached the Christmas Eve sermon for years, but tonight, I believe Pastor Smith is gonna take us higher. Amen.”

We applaud and the younger man takes the stage. He hoists his Bible on the podium and leans toward us. “Oh, magnify the Lord with me,” he says, as the pianist keys up praise break music. Pastor Smith dances side to side and twirls once. He removes a handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes his sweatless forehead.

“Saints, it's good to be with you again.”

“Amen,” we respond in unison.

“I know your Christmas dinner is simmering for tomorrow's get-together, so I'm going to unpack this message and send you all home.” A few laughs rise from the crowd. “Christmas messages always focus on Jesus, the wise men, and livestock. But tonight, I'm going in a different direction. I want the saints to be set free.”

“Amen.”

“Turn with me to Mark five: one through thirteen and stand for the reading of God's word.”

We stand and read with him. As he reads, I'm drawn back to a time when Pastor and Sister Wilcox came to our house. The image of a sick man cutting himself near the tombs plays in my head. There were demons inside him, and they were named Legion. The scripture, the image, the condemnation of the man's illness comes into play for me.

Mama's attention is rapt and discomfort rises in me. Her eyes are as sparkly as two copper pennies as the pastor speaks.

“You may be seated. Today, I want to preach from the subject, Dismissing the Legion in Your Life.”

For the next forty-minutes, he browbeats us with a sermon about mental illness. Surely, Pastor Wilcox would not have set us up this way. My stomach sours as Pastor Smith steps out of the pulpit with his cordless microphone and stands center stage.

“How many people do you know rely on medication instead of the Lord?”

Incredulous, Willa and I look at each other. I tear the program bulletin in half and scribble on the white lines,
What the hell? You have to be kidding me!

“Pharmaceutical companies are cleaning up off the ignorance of the world. Prozac for this. Lexapro for that. When was the last time you fell down on your knees and asked Jesus to cure you?”

Mama shoots up. “Hallelujah!”

“He is a balm in Gilead, the Great I am, Master, Ruler, Healer. What better way is there than the Truth? The Light?” His back dips after he says “The Light.”

I turn around as Aunt Mavis excuses herself from the service. Uncle Raymond trails her. Mama's feet are planted to the floor. With each declaration Pastor Smith spews, her eyes grow wider and her arms give him permission to continue. “Preach, Reverend, Preach!” she yells.

“Imagine the demon-possessed man at the tombs cutting himself, crying out for help and all those voices inside him competing for his attention.”

“Yes, Lord!”

I hold my stomach and lurch forward.
Be strong for Mama.
I sit back, praying he wraps this sermon up before I sneak into the choir stand and unplug the audio equipment. Pastor Wilcox averts his eyes. I search the church for Sister Wilcox. She is equally complicit as she quickly looks away when our eyes meet.

The congregation eggs him on. He comes out into the center aisle and paces up and down with the microphone.

“Come out, Legion!”

Members stand. Some are slain in the spirit; others speak in tongues. Pastor Smith takes backward steps and stands in the center of the floor behind the altar.

“Quickly, quickly, if you know a Legion is holding you down, don't walk; run to the altar right now! I want to pray for you.”

Several people dash toward the altar and fall to their knees. Some lay prostrate, crying, screaming, begging to be rid of their demons. Pastor Smith has his arms around Mama and his hands on her forehead. He speaks words over her as Willa and I rise to rescue our mother. Two men block our path as Pastor Smith gives her head a shove. She falls back into the men's arms. They carry her back to her seat as two ushers fan her on either side. Pastor Smith lays hands on bowed heads around the altar and continues to yell, “Legion, come out! Legion, come out!”

Sister Wilcox mouths a command to a woman in the choir stand, who stands amid the chaos. The pianist slides on the organ bench and cues up a Mahalia Jackson tune. Willa and I give each other a cryptic look again when the first verse of “Move On Up a Little Higher” starts.

Mama plops down. “I knew Jesus and 'Halia would give me an answer.”

She takes a seat near the choir stand, where the soloist manipulates the lyrics with her rich voice. She holds the phrase “soon one morning” as if she's in a vocal contest. She sings “coming over hills and mountains” and coaxes Mama to come into the choir stand to sing. Someone gives her a microphone, and she sings the best she can, her fractured voice limping along with the soloist's pristine sound. Pleased with themselves, Sister Wilcox joins her husband in the pulpit and they both pat Pastor Smith's back. Mama is back in her far-off land as she sings, “Howdy howdy, and never goodbye.”

N
othingness awakens me. No grits, eggs, or the smell of Mama's seasoned fish. Dinner is at May and Ray's today. Bringing Mama from church last night was like trying to con a resting angel off a cloud, darn near impossible. She repeated the phrase, “I've got the answer,” over and over. Aunt Mavis injected Haldol to calm her nerves, but the high from church lingered for hours. I put her in bed with me and made sure she was comfortable. Her side of the bed is empty now. It's early, but I'll get up and make breakfast. She has cooked three mornings, and I will attempt something for us today. Her Christmas gift is still in the trunk of my car. I could stay in bed all day and skip Christmas after last night.

“Mama.”

Her Christmas dinner outfit hangs on the closet door. The matching jewelry set sparkles in the sunlight. I promised Mama I'd do big curls for her today since the rinse took well.

“Mama!”

I put on my robe and slippers. “Mama. Let's get ready before I crawl back in bed for the rest of the holiday season.”

I head toward the living room. When we were younger, she'd sneak peeks at the gifts Daddy bought her. My heart drops. The front door is wide open and I feel cold December air.

“Mama!”

She isn't in the living room. I run to the porch. It is empty. I search the yard with no luck. I am yelling at the top of my lungs for her. I unzip my rob pocket for my phone and dial my aunt.

“Is Mama there?”

“No.”

Panic fills my voice. “Aunt Mavis, she's gone! I've checked all the rooms, outside, she's not here.”

“How long has she been missing?”

“She was in bed when I used the bathroom this morning at three.”

“We're heading there now.”

If something happens to her, I'll never forgive myself. Her shoes are next to the bed. I search her chest of drawers to see if she wore something different than her gown. Her clothes are neatly folded and stacked, and nothing new has been touched. I sift through each drawer and come up with clothing. The bottom drawer contains random items I haven't seen in years—an old answering machine, lesson plans from her teaching years, and a dusty Polaroid camera.

A Tampa Nugget cigar box captures my attention. Photos, postcards, and maps fill the box. A folded sheet of paper has hearts and circles drawn on it. I open the paper to Mama's writing. Each sentence is printed in her fancy cursive writing.
They love me. They hate me. They want me to die. I want to die. Paul. Willa. Toni.
The sentences are written in three rows and fill the sheet. I fold the paper again and put it back in the box.

I shower as fast as I can and get dressed. I barely tie my shoestrings when I hear a horn blowing in the front yard. I race out and jump inside Don's vehicle. There is lots of space, but tension fills the vehicle.

Uncle Ray's anger spills over from last night. “I can't believe Wilcox was so cruel.”

Aunt Mavis nods. “I'd rather they didn't invite us at all instead of humiliating her.”