The Window - Special Edition

-BOOK I-

THE

WINDOW

SANTITA D’ANJOU

Copyright 2023 © Santita D’Anjou

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be altered, reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including, but not limited to, scanning, duplicating, uploading, hosting, distributing, or reselling, without the express prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of reasonable quotations in features such as reviews, interviews, and certain other non-commercial uses currently permitted by copyright law.

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction. All characters, locations, and businesses are purely products of the author’s imagination and are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, places, or events is completely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

BOOK II

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Acknowledgements

For my Aunt Christine. It brings me peace and joy knowing you are in Heaven cheering us on. We miss you.

Chapter 1

As I leap back into consciousness, the room spins. Sweat trickles down my brow. My heart beats on the outside of my chest. When I gain full capacity of my sight and awareness, there is a lingering fear that it wasn’t just a dream. The lucid dream has made it all seem so real. A few moments pass, my heart stops racing and my breathing becomes normal again. Right across my room, on my cherry-oak amour, lie my red leather bound journal. I stare at it for a while, contemplating if I should leave the safety and comfort of my bed. There is still a fear of danger, even though I am awake and what I just saw isn’t real. I muster up the courage to retrieve my journal and run quickly over to get it. I dive back into bed and catch a glimpse of the time, it is 3:15am and nearly time to wake up for school. I decide to go ahead and make my entry now, while the dream is still fresh in my memory. I was once told writing your dreams down as soon as you wake up will ensure you don’t miss any important pieces. This journal is filled with every dream I’ve had since I was ten years old. I remember the day my aunt Destine bought it for me, it was seven years ago.

My aunt Destine was my favorite person. My best friend. She was four-feet ten inches, but wisdom as tall as the eye could see. She had wide hips, so she rarely ever wore pants. She said they made her look fat, or as big as a house, she would sometimes say. One thing everyone knew about my aunt Destine is she loved food, family, and the Lord. As a child, I remember going over to aunt Destine’s house every Saturday to pick her up. She loved my mom’s cooking, so she made it a point to visit every weekend just to get a taste of her famous tuna casserole and homemade sweet tea. She enjoyed spending time with us, and we loved having her company. She was my mom’s older sister. After their mother passed away she had to assume the role of raising her siblings. There were only three of them: Aunt Destine, who was eighteen at the time, my uncle Ale, and my mom, who was only five when their mom passed. My mom never knew her dad, which was a huge part of why Uncle Ale turned out the way he did. Uncle Ale was the middle child and as the stereotype goes, a little unusual. He was very troubled Aunt Destine used to say. He stayed in trouble. Uncle Ale never got over his mom passing and eventually became an alcoholic. I don’t think I can remember him ever being sober. The night he died was horrible for all of us. I remember one cold November night Aunt Destine, my mom, and I going into town to look for him. Aunt Destine had gotten a call from a close family friend, telling us that he was standing on the corner, harassing passersby for money, so we went out looking for him. We spotted him sitting on the corner of H.L. Greens, which was our neighborhood shopping center. On the sidewalk, he swayed back and forth mouthing obscenities to everyone passing.

There’s that fool, Momma said.

Aunt Destine didn’t say a word. Her silence always revealed how disappointed she was in him. She couldn’t bring herself to say one negative word about him, but I knew she despised how he had turned out just as much as Momma did. As we sat at the red traffic light waiting to rescue Uncle Ale, I watched him intently. I watched as his head swirled in a circle, as if he had just been spun around. Then, all of the sudden, he collapsed, hitting his head on the curb in the process. When the light finally turned green, Aunt Destined sped to the sidewalk. In panic she yelled, Ale!

My mom was hysterical. All she could do was walk back and forth praying to God he would at least open his eyes. Aunt Destine demanded, Call 911!

I sat on the cold hard concrete watching Uncle Ale twitch with what little life he had left in him, until finally the ambulance came. He was in a coma for three days and on the fourth day, since he wasn't making any improvement, they decided to take him off life support. After Uncle Ale’s death, Aunt Destine and mom were inseparable, they were all each other had left. They both proved to be strong women because they didn’t let Uncle Ale’s tragic death tear them down.

I would often sit with Aunt Destine just to listen to her talk. She had a peculiar voice, which some might think strange, but her voice was far from strange. Her voice was precious. There was something about when she spoke; when she opened her mouth to speak, everyone listened. She had a meek and low tone that flowed with nothing but love. It was easy to be around her and listen to her. She always had some words of wisdom to light your path or encouragement to get you through the toughest of times.

The day she purchased my journal was a day like no other. On this day I would share something with Aunt Destine that would change my life. I had woken up from a familiar dream. A dream that never seems to end. A dream that always seems to torment me no matter how many times I have dreamt it.

There’s a girl trapped in an old rickety house, but she makes no attempt to leave. It’s as if she knows her efforts would be a waste of time. The girl seems to be me, but I can never get a glimpse of her face. It’s as if I’m hovering over her, watching her, which is the case most of the time. She’s in a house with nothing but windows encompassing it. The worst thing about these windows is there are no curtains. This frightens the girl all the more because there’s nowhere to hide. The view from the house is a large expanse of trees and bushes. The sounds of nature coming from every direction brings on another level of fear for the girl. Sporadic lightning flashes across the ominous gray sky. As the girl studies the landscape, she is startled by an old man circling the house. He wears a long black trench coat and a black bowler hat. His long silvery hair hangs to his shoulders, so thin you can see right through it. The old man walks slowly around the house, never making eye contact with the girl. She watches his every move, for hours it seems, but he never says a word or looks in her direction. Eventually, he climbs the steps to the house, slowly. The girl begins to scream and as soon as she does I shake myself awake.

Naomi! My mom yelled. Breakfast is ready."

I glanced at the clock and it was 8am. It was Saturday, so I knew we were headed over to pick up Aunt Destine for the weekend. She would spend the whole weekend with us, which was fine by me, and since my dad had just walked out on us, it was fine with my mom too. She needed her company.

Aunt Destine didn’t have any children so she spent most of her time with us, shopping at H.L. Greens, listening to music, going to church, and my favorite—drinking coffee. Boy could my mom and Aunt Destine drink some coffee, whether it was winter or summer. Aunt Destine loved sharing her coffee with me. Her coffee was always the best. My momma liked hers black and bitter, but Aunt Destine made hers with three creams and several packets of sugar (too many to count). These ingredients made Aunt Destine’s coffee rich and creamy. At first, she would scold my mom for giving me coffee. She would say, Johanna! You shouldn’t give that girl that stuff. It can stunt her growth! Eventually, I talked her into letting me try hers and eventually we became secret coffee buddies. Just a little, Nai, with some ice won’t hurt you, she always said just before giving me a tiny bit to taste.

Our weekends were filled with laughter and good conversations. Mostly, I told her about my dreams. I dreamt almost every night and they were always so vivid and what frightened me the most, the significant dreams would come true. When I told her my dad was going to leave, she asked how I knew. When I told her I dreamt it and then it actually happened, she never thought twice about believing my dreams. Aunt Destine told me I reminded her of Joseph. She said he was a boy in the Bible who dreamt a lot—like me. She would say… dreams are windows to our spirit, and if you look out that window long enough—there is always an answer, a warning, or a piece to life’s puzzle.

That day, I decided to share my ever present dream with Aunt Destine. Of course I shared every dream with her, but this one I had never told her before. I was too afraid to tell her, or maybe too ashamed. I was ashamed of how simple and non-threatening it was when I was awake versus when I was asleep. I mean it was just an old man coming into the house, I would think to myself. What is there to be afraid of? I needed to tell her, I needed guidance, and an understanding of why this dream just wouldn’t go stop coming.

The courage to tell her had finally come. I waited until my mom had started dinner that Saturday evening and decided to tell her outside on our back porch. It was our favorite place to sit when the sun was setting. There under the patio hung a rickety, bright green, iron swing my mom inherited from her mom. It was so old the paint had begun to crack and peel, revealing bright-orange rain rusted iron. Even though it creaked as you swung, it was a sound Aunt Destine and I had developed an immunity. We would sit to have our chats and sometimes swing until we were both rocked to sleep. The humidity in Georgia whether spring, summer, or fall was always frightful, twenty minutes outside and your clothes were sticking to you. A cool breeze was very rare in the early fall, but on this particular day, the breeze was cool and the open sky gave off a beautiful coral and gold hue. We could sit on the porch bare foot, drinking ice cold sweet tea for hours until my mom called us for dinner. I looked over at her and finally said what I knew she was waiting for, Auntie, I had a dream.

Once I finished telling Aunt Destine the dream, she just stared at the sky, which is something she always did when I shared a dream with her. She would sit and think before saying anything. Once I asked her why she always did that, she simply said, It’s better to be quick to hear and slow to speak.

I learned to wait patiently until she spoke. It seemed an hour had gone by and still there was no response; I didn’t know what to think. Was she just as confused as I was? Finally she rose to her feet. She looked down at me.

You want to take a little drive?

Sure, I said, standing to my feet.

Then, looking up at the sky with her big hazel eyes, she said, Well, go and get your jacket. The temperature is gonna drop soon. We need to make a stop at H.L. Greens.

I waited in the car while she went in the store. When she returned, I wasn’t sure what to expect. She pulled out a brown box, about the size of a greeting card, but it was too deep to be a card.

What is it? I asked.

It’s something to help you begin figuring out these dreams on your own. I won’t be around forever, ya know.

Then she pulled off the lid and there it was: a shiny ruby-red, leather bound book. At least that’s what I thought. She told me it was a journal. She said to use it to write every detail down as soon as I wake from a dream. This will help you interpret the meaning, she said.

Grateful to have guidance on how to figure out my ever present dream, I hugged the journal close to my heart.

She was right, from that day forward, interpreting the dreams were a piece of cake, but it did take time. Writing the dreams down wasn’t all I needed for interpreting them, but it was a very important step. Aunt Destine would sometimes take days to get back to me about a dream. She taught me that quiet time alone, and meditation about the dream was just as important as writing it down. Even though I admired Aunt Destine and usually did exactly as she instructed, I never had written down the dream about the old man, the girl and the house with nothing but windows. I was too afraid to even write the words down on paper—afraid it might make the vision more real.

Thinking back on how I had come to possess this journal of dreams sends several emotions through me; my late Aunt Destine, Uncle Ale, and the absence of my father. It’s now 4:32am and only twenty-eight minutes before my alarm goes off for school. I decide to take the time to finally make the entry that is seven years overdue.

Chapter 2

Once I finish my entry, I trudge across the hall to my bathroom. I examine my face shuddering at what I see—rubbing my fingers over a few discolorations left from break-outs. I look just like my dad, unfortunately. My hair thicker and my complexion darker, but by and large, I’m just a girl version of him. Born and raised in the Dominican Republic, my dad was practically famous in our small town. When I was younger I considered this a good thing. Now that I’m older, I realize it wasn’t. His dark and chiseled features made him irresistible to all. Although I was his world, so he said, other women and alcohol became his safe haven after getting fired from his job. Never ending nights and living it up with his buddies wasn’t enough for my mom to leave. She loved him, so she remained faithful, until one phone call. A phone call that would change her life—forever.

Johanna Peterson Funtez. My beautiful mother. Her mom was white and her dad black. Her dad was as ‘dark as the nights’ sky,’ she would say with so much adoration. His genes out did my mother’s and gave me this beautiful melanated skin.

So here I am. A mix of three cultures and races. My hair is a solid metaphor of me. Some days I can be straight forward and clear headed, some I am all tangled up and don’t know who I am, and others I can be wavy and cool. I am three different girls stuck in one body, desperately trying to be tethered to one identity.

I towel dry my face and move on to my untamed coils of hair. I decide on putting it in my usual style—a high ponytail with a few stray coils hanging down in the front and in the back. When I walk out of the bathroom to get dressed, I hear my mom stirring in her bedroom, so I tiptoe around my room stumbling here and there, trying very hard not to wake her. I make it out the door with my plan in tact.

In fifth period, the exhaustion from the night before creeps up on me like an armed robber. My head sags back then snaps forward, when Mrs. Rayburn shouts my name from across the Chemistry lab.

Naomi!

Chemistry is one of those subjects I could have definitely done without, but in order to graduate I need to take Mrs. Rayburn seriously. This alone is daunting, seeing as though she dresses like a circus performer. She’s a walking rainbow with no idea of how ridiculous she looks. In some strange, very unorthodox way, Mrs. Rayburn seems to enjoy the laughs coming up the hallway when she passes. She holds her head high and glancing in the direction of the whispers and laughs, then within seconds the laughter is silenced.

Recently she dyed her hair a rusty orange color, so as she walks toward me it takes little to no effort to snap out of my sleepy daze and give her my undivided attention.

Miss. Peterson, she says in her thick Jamaican accent, would you like to address the class on how ionic bonds are different from covalent bonds?

Uh…no ma’am. I am sorry Mrs. Rayburn, I apologize right away, in hopes she will stop with the questions, I’m awake now and it won’t happen again.

I learned a long time ago, it’s always better to be polite and not talk back. Most times teachers will lay off if you admit you’re wrong and apologize which always works in my favor.

Sure, Miss. Peterson, I expect your full attention for the remainder of this period. Is that understood?

I straighten up on my stool, realizing that while I was watching my eyelids, I missed several notes. I hustle to jot as many as I can before she changes the slide.

Yes Ma’am, I understand.

And off she trots with no more strange inquiries about ink bombs and cover bombs.

When chemistry is over, my day starts to get a little better seeing Daniel, waiting by my locker. He usually takes my attention off my failing Chemistry grade, not in a good way. We met when I was fifteen at a youth ski trip. My best friend Emmy invited me. At first, I didn’t like him and thought he was kind of weird, considering how he stared at me the entire trip with a geekish grin on his face. He showered me with stuffed animals, chocolates and love letters every week before I gave him the time of day. Even after all of the gifts, I still didn’t like him. He just wasn’t my type. I had an image of what my first boyfriend would look and be like and he wasn’t it. But, eventually, he wore me down. It took a year before I actually developed feelings for him.

Daniel is only an inch taller than me, with sharp gray eyes and golden straw-like hair. He thinks he’s the strongest in the school because he lifts weights just as much as he eats—and that’s twenty-four-seven. Honestly, I can list off at least ten boys bigger and stronger than Daniel, but his ego is as deep as the Grand Canyon. He aspires to make the US Olympic wrestling team. Telling him to have a plan B is like telling a pig mud is nasty. Yeah. He doesn’t to plan. Thinking before he acts is not his forte.

Another difference we have is his minimalistic views. I mean, my mom and I don’t have much, but she always taught me to make sure I am presentable in public. Daniel clearly couldn’t care less about how he presents himself. It doesn’t matter the occasion, he looks as if he threw on clothes straight from the laundry basket—the dirty laundry basket. At first this was hard to get used to, but as I said before, he grew on me. I love him, but at times I feel as though I am not in love with him. Truthfully, I actually feel sorry for him sometimes. Sorry for not loving him they way he loves me.

Daniel loves me with all of his heart, but when he shows it by shoving his hand up my shirt and kissing me into submission of his will, I can’t deal. We broke up for two weeks the last time he did that. His wandering hands has become too much for me. Time and time again, I have told him sex isn’t something I’m ready for.

A few years before we started high school, Emmy and I made a vow to each other. We promised we wouldn’t have sex until we married the guy we fell in love with. Emmy swears I will be the first to brake the vow. We still haven’t come up with what the consequences would be if I am, but I have no intentions of losing to her. Besides, with how my mom and dad’s marriage ended up, I want a husband who is committed, God fearing—-as Aunt Destine used to say—and honest.

When we broke up, I told him I needed some time apart to sort through my feelings without any outside influences. This sent him into a rage—a rage which brought out a side of him I had never seen before. This conversation ended in him punching a hole in his bedroom wall and me running from the house scared to look back. I broke it off completely over the phone.

The way I felt during our time apart was something like relief. This could be a clean getaway; my way out of something I felt was truly a mistake to begin with. Then, when the second week began I started to miss him. It must have had something to do with him calling everyday. But, I stood my ground and never answered the phone. When passing in the hallway, I tried my best not to make eye contact with him. Intentionally he walked by me just to graze my hand with his and each time something happened in my stomach. I wondered if the feeling I felt was a warning to stay away or butterflies confirming my feelings for him.

To this day, I still don’t know, but the day I decided to take him back was the day I saw him with another girl. Up against the lockers they laughed all in each other’s faces. I hated the sight of him with with another girl, especially with the look he gave her; the look I thought only we had shared. Although the jealousy almost made me walk over to slap him, I ignored him as usual and continued talking to Emmy, acting as if I didn’t notice. Just as I walked past them he pulled me by my arm into his body. Trying to pull always he continued to