text: I would be in a deep sleep. Then my mom would wake me. Time to go to church. I’d close my eyes. I’d start dreaming. Then my mom would wake me again. I’d ask to stay home that day. She’d say no. Then I’d protest more, but it was no use because I always ended up walking out the door in my khakis. My mom and I sat in the same pew for every sermon, and that had been our spot my whole life. Our Southern Baptist services had lots of structure. First we would pray. Then we’d sing a hymn. Then the deacons would pass around the offering plate. Then we would sing another hymn. After that was fellowship, where people would walk around and shake hands. When that was over, there’d be the pre-sermon prayer. Then the preacher would preach. Then he’d finish the message. And then we’d pray one more time. Finally, we would leave. That was the structure every Sunday. But there was always one extra step for me. And that was because of this woman named Dotty Hayes. Dotty sat in the pew right in front of me. She was a widow and had been for a long time. She’d never become a mother, and I’d heard people mention how she’d had a hard life. I didn’t know how old she was, but I’d always just figured she was 75. What stuck out about Dotty was her smile. It was odd, but I always felt like she meant it. She’d smile and show her large upper teeth, which were not dentures, and on each side of her mouth, a sharp point would form. At the same time, her eyes would squint to the point where they were almost shut. Nobody else smiled like that. Dotty Hayes, the extra step in my Sunday morning. Every service, directly after the pre-sermon prayer, right before the preacher went into the message of the day, Dotty would turn around and hand me a piece of old-fashioned red candy--the kind where the wrapper was made to look like a strawberry. What Dotty didn’t know was that I am allergic to a food coloring called Red 40: the very Red 40 that gave those old-fashioned strawberry candies their color. Red 40 is found in many delicious drinks and snacks. Growing up, I had to stay away from all kinds of treats. Fruity Pebbles, Skittles, Hawaiian Punch. My allergy also meant that I could never eat those little red candies that Dotty gave me every Sunday. When I ingest Red 40, I break out into hives, and I itch, and I'm consumed. Then the hives become a rash that can last for weeks. It isn’t life threatening, but it’s a pretty bad sight. Sometimes, with certain things, I’d risk the reaction. One summer, I broke down and ate some Twizzlers and then had to wear long sleeves for the next two weeks so nobody would see the streaks and patches all over my arms. Dotty’s red candy was how I discovered my allergy in the first place. It happened like this: I was five and it was Sunday morning and I was sitting with my mom and I was looking at my Batman action figures and Dotty turned around and she smiled and she handed me that candy and I ate it and then I got hives on my arms and I itched and I was confused and I was sad and we left early that day and went to the doctor and found out that I was allergic. We never told Dotty what happened. We didn’t tell anybody in the church because we knew they’d go straight and tell her. My mom didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She instructed me not to tell Dotty about my hives and to just accept any future candy and put it in my pocket and act like I was happy to get it. It turned out that every Sunday after that emergency room visit, I would get a piece of old-fashioned red candy. And every Sunday, I would smile and thank Dotty and put it in my pocket and act like I was glad to get it. I liked my Sunday morning acting exercises. My performances were good, and Dotty always believed them. I knew because she’d smile that weird smile with those eyes nearly closed and those knife points on either side of her mouth. I did something weird, though. Weirder than Dotty’s smile. I’ve never been officially diagnosed, but I’m a hoarder. I’m not as bad as those people on TV, but I can’t stand to throw things away. Starting around middle school, when I’d get home from church, I’d go to my bedroom and put my new piece of red candy in the top drawer of my nightstand. I did that every Sunday all the way to when I graduated high school. I ended up with a huge collection. My nightstand’s top drawer was big, and it was filled with years of Dotty Hayes’ red candy. My friends noticed this and thought it was funny. One time a girl came over and she judged me for it. That didn’t bother me, though. My collection of red candy wasn’t hurting anybody--so long as I didn’t eat it. Two days after my high school graduation, Dotty died. Her neighbor found her slumped over in her rocking chair. I was sad when I heard the news, and in dramatic fashion, I walked into my bedroom and opened the top drawer of my nightstand and stood there and looked at all that candy she’d given me. The funeral was later that week, and I went with my mom. It wasn’t too different from a normal Sunday at the church house. The congregation made up most of the funeral attendees, and Dotty’s family had even gotten our preacher to do the service. We sang songs, prayed, listened the the message, and prayed again. Then we filed out of the funeral home and went and had lunch. Then came the first Sunday service after Dotty died. After the opening prayer, the preacher took a few minutes to talk about her. Then he looked at her empty seat in the pew in front of me and recited a verse and some people in the church started crying. Then we went back into the usual routine. We sang the first hymn. Next was the offering. After that was another hymn. Then the fellowship where I had to shake hands with people. Then the pre-sermon prayer. And then it came time for me to get my candy, but Dotty wasn’t around to hand it to me. I had expected to be sad, and I was, in fact, very sad. I didn’t make a scene, though. Poor old kind Dotty. When I got home, I went to my bedroom, to my nightstand. I opened the top drawer and stood there staring like I’d done a few days before. There were so many red candies that I could smell them from where I was standing. Poor good-hearted Dotty. Poor odd-smiling Dotty. Then I got an idea: *Maybe I ought to pay some kind of tribute.* I reached into the drawer and grabbed a candy. I unwrapped it and held it in my hand. Red and hive-inducing, it almost glowed in its glory. I knew it would mess me up, but I ate it. Then I ate another one. After that, I ate another. Then I went ahead and ate more. Those candies had a loud crunch to them. They were tasty. I went on for a good while, until I couldn’t chew anymore. By this point, I’d consumed at least half the collection. I had even gotten into some of the old ones with faded wrappers. My teeth hurt, and my arms were itching. I went into the bathroom and found a packet of oatmeal remedy. I drew my bathwater while pouring in the oat fix. When I took off my shirt, I knew that this was going to be the worst spell I’d ever had. I looked at myself in the mirror over my sink. The hives were all over my torso and my arms and my neck and my face. And then I saw it, and I don’t care what anybody says. On my chest. Right over my heart. The hives formed an image. A face. It was Dotty Hayes. Smiling that odd smile.