SUNDAY BEST PART II

Sunday Best Part II

By: T.D Carter

As I sat there next to Aunt Mae, my feet swung back and forth in ankle lace ruffle white socks, the glossy black patent leather of my Mary Jane shoes catching the dappled sunlight that filtered through the stained-glass windows. I glanced up at her—she was transfixed, her gaze locked on the pulpit as the choir filed in, their robes a river of color and movement. Aunt Mae’s red and black dress hugged her curves with the confidence of a racecar hugging every twist and turn on a well-worn track. Her skin, luminous and light, whispered of her Cherokee grandmother’s legacy, and her hair—inky black, coiled in generous curls—framed her face like a crown. She moved with a regal grace, her every gesture dignified, as if she carried the weight of our family’s name on her shoulders. When Aunt Mae entered a room, conversations paused, heads turned, and admiration lingered in the air like perfume.

Thinking back, I realize how much of her strength seeped into me, shaping the woman I would become. I used to eavesdrop—though I knew better—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. Years later, when the story was retold in hushed tones, I heard words like “diabolical,” “manipulative,” “devious,” and “unbelievable.” But I’m getting ahead of myself. Church was about to begin, and my new friend was ready to make her entrance.

Tilita Carter—a five-year-old girl with green yarn ribbons woven through her hair—knew more about pain, betrayal, 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. We had our plan, our little act, and that Sunday would forever split the Carter/Woods family’s history into “before” and “after.” The choir’s voices soared, harmonizing on “I Know It Was the Blood That Saved Me,” while the deacons spoke of salvation and protection. I wondered, with a child’s cynicism, if the Lord had missed that day’s sermon. Ours was a Methodist church—no Holy Ghost theatrics, no falling out or speaking in tongues—just the slow, sticky creep of southern humidity clinging to my skin. I hated the sweat, the way it made my dress stick to my back, the way it made me feel exposed and restless. Was it nerves or second thoughts? It didn’t matter. I was committed. That day, I would make sure someone finally noticed me.

As the service droned on, my mind wandered. My legs stilled, anticipation coiling in my stomach. Soon, it would be time for the collection, a ritual I knew by heart—my aunts pressing coins and crumpled bills into my palm, trusting me to carry our offering to the plate. The preacher’s words about walking with God and slamming the door on the devil faded into a distant hum. Instead, I felt a familiar warmth bloom beneath my skin, a tingling that raised goosebumps on my arms. She was here. I heard her whisper, “It’s okay, I am here.” Her presence was as real as my own heartbeat—steady, comforting, and terrifying all at once. She knew every secret, every ache. She was born out of the necessity of a shattered mind, a voice that spoke up when I was too small or too scared. Over the years, she’d worn many names, but even now, as I write this, I know she is still with me—the “Friend Within.”

Months later, after countless sessions with therapists and psychiatrists, Aunt Mae and Aunt Emma were told 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 from the front, all I knew was fear and Tilita’s unwavering confidence. She—sometimes Blackwidow, sometimes Miamiwicked, sometimes ThatdamnCarter—assured me our plan was flawless. Soon, I’d be back with my mother in Miami, and this time, she would want me.

As the preacher closed his Bible and the choir hummed the offering hymn, the deacons and ushers rolled out a long table draped in white, three gleaming silver and gold trays atop it. The congregation was urged to prepare their gifts for the Lord. My legs swung faster, so fast I thought if someone set me down, I’d rocket off like Sha’Carri Richardson at the starting gun. My heart thudded in my chest, a wild, frantic drumbeat, but through the noise, I heard her: “Allow it. Let your heartbeat guide you.” I inhaled, exhaled, and let the rhythm steady me. Aunt Mae pressed money into my hand as we stood. The back rows filed forward first, the organist playing a jaunty “give your hard-earned money to God” tune. I felt myself slipping, just as I had on so many nights before. The music faded, the world narrowed. I closed my eyes as our row’s turn came, feeling as if I were peering out from behind a window—her window. If you looked closely, you might have seen my little face reflected in her dark eyes. I was no longer in control—Tilita was.

This was not new. On those nights when I would be asleep, and certain people would slip into my room, or pick me up and set me on their laps, their hands wandering beneath my dress, Tilita would step in. I would retreat into the darkness, and she would bear the pain. I didn’t know then that every hurt made her stronger. Watching her move—my body, her will—was like seeing myself in a funhouse mirror: familiar, yet not quite me. When she reached the offering table, the world went black as my body crumpled and hit the floor.