Promise Fulfilled

By Theresa Jones Bryant

Shantell Woods is haunted by her nightmares but is still devoted to counseling women every day at a local clinic. When she is asked to facilitate a grief support group, Shantell reluctantly accepts; she has a dark secret buried deeper within herself.

Sara Proctor joins the support group knowing she has been successful in every aspect of her life except one. Once married to the man of her dreams, she longs to have a child. But she has just uncovered her late husbands infidelity, sending her down a heartbreaking path that challenges her faith and everything she has ever known. Meanwhile, Autumn Green, who is battling breast cancer and grief over recently losing her parents in a car crash, is pregnant. With no room in her life for a baby and desperate for solace, Autumn offers Sara a precious gift she never expected. As Shantell slowly helps the two women work through their issues, no one realizes that she is not who she says she is.

Promise Fulfilled is the poignant story of three women dealing with love, loss, and betrayal who must learn to find hope in their faith and each other as they each embark on a journey of self-discovery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475990539

Theresa Jones Bryant

Theresa Jones Bryant is a graduate of Howard University and the UCONN School of Social Work. She is currently employed as an elementary school counselor and court investigator. Committed to the Lord and to public service, Theresa lives in Massachusetts with her son, Corey. This is her debut novel.

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Copyright © 2013 Theresa Jones-Bryant.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-9051-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9052-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9053-9(e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013908549

iUniverse rev. date: 5/16/2013

Contents

Acknowledgments

Shantell

Autumn

Sara

Autumn

Sara

Autumn

Sara

Shantell

Sara

Autumn

Sara

Shantell

Sara

Autumn

Shantell

Autumn

Shantell

Sara

Shantell

Shantell

Everything Must Change

A promise delayed is not a promise denied.

—Rev. Dr. Jeremiah A. Wright, Jr.

This book is dedicated to my beloved son, Corey. You are the reason I write. Reach for the stars. Your possibilities are endless. Mommy loves you!

Acknowledgments

This journey has been a long time coming. Thank God for fulfilling his promise, for he is worthy of all the glory and praise. I want to thank all of you for your patience. I have to first begin by thanking Minister Gina Hyde because if it were not for you, I wouldn’t have realized I had a novel in me. Thanks for Sisterly Sharing and the playbill, Our Season Has Come. To the ladies who were with me at Jewish Family and Children Services, especially Therese Wilson and Donia Butler, thanks for helping me keep my commitment to write each night. You made the characters come alive for me with your daily inquiries and willingness to listen. We didn’t make it to Oprah, but I’m still expecting something big. I can never forget Audrey, Frannie, Carrie Weiss, and Diane Graham from JFCS, who shared their experiences with me. It really helped me put my characters’ thoughts and feelings in perspective. To Lamar Crawford, I hope you are still writing. I truly believe that everyone is put in your life for a reason; although our season was short, I still remember your encouraging words. Ms. Martha (Martha Dubard), I can’t thank you enough for your example. You have truly been a blessing to me.

Denise Jordan, thanks for being the first to read this project and being honest about my ending. I took everything you said to heart. I hope you like it now. To my sista girls, who took the time to read my project: Sherry Smith, Niecy McCall, Sharon Smith, Maricsa Acuna, LaVerne Cash, Lori Williams, Crystal Jones, and Crystal Senter Brown—thanks for your feedback. I really did appreciate it. Tracy L. Randle, thanks for giving a listening ear; I appreciate all you do. Get ready to count my money, Tray! Brenda Harvey, thank you for never being too busy when I wanted to read a paragraph or chapter to someone. Regina Tillery Jenkins, thanks for being you, always ready to listen over a glass of wine. I’m sure I forgot someone; charge it to my mind not my heart—I love you all. To my L. S. Sabrina Darby-Hayes, thanks so much for reading my book. I appreciate your support and encouragement. Hey, Vanessa Chambers, Tina Rogers, Marcie Lee, Dr. Patricia Lee, and Rhonda Jacobs, thanks for the support.

I can’t go without thanking my Philadelphia family—Janelle Bryant, Khadijah Bunion, Uncle Bruce Bryant, Clifford and Barbara Bryant, and Angie and Paula Scott. I appreciate your enthusiasm and encouragement at the beginning of this journey. No, I didn’t forget you, Wayne and Kim out in Minnesota—thanks for being the voice of reason through my trials and tribulations. I love you all. A big shout-out to Kathy Foy, Cheryl Cooper, Dot Madden, Charlene Henry, and Denise Crosby—my Philadelphia crew—thanks for your encouragement.

Tracy Whitley and D. J., I can’t thank you enough for exposing me to NABFEME; it was so encouraging to see so many black women doing their thang in the world of entertainment. That’s when I knew I had to finish my screenplay, which later turned into this manuscript. To Ray Aldo Bennett, thanks for being you. I can’t wait to see your name up in lights, A Sweet Tee and Sun Ray Production. Stay the course, RayRay. To my biggest fan, Alfonso Bud Ford, thanks for your encouragement and being a great philosopher. I am listening. Thanks, Vernon Caddell, for never giving up and continuing to check the New York Times best-sellers list; I’m not there yet, but surely on my way.

Big ups to Tameka Bennett, Marques Jenkins, and Aaron Wilkins. Thanks for saying yes without any hesitation. Thanks to my cuz, Tony Bass; you always said yes even during my Lincoln University days.

I would like to acknowledge Rev. Dr. Howard John Wesley for taking the time to consult with me regarding my fictitious character, Sara Proctor. What a word! What a word! Hey, sista Debbie.

My sister, friend, and role model, Laquetta Guess, thanks so much for your words of wisdom, spirit of survival, and encouragement. I would have never completed this project without you. To my mother and father, Louis and Sarah Jones, thanks for the Sunday dinners and taking care of my child. To all my siblings, Debbie Jones, Sharon Higgins, Lynette Franklin, Louis Jr., and Clarence Jones, thanks for all you do for me and Corey. Big ups to my brother-in-law with the mad computer skills, Larry Guess. I’d be remiss if I didn’t shout out Aunt Dora and Candace Jones; thanks for the push. Candi, we didn’t get to Oprah, but she now has OWN, and I’m keeping my fingers crossed. To my cousin, Terry Hampton Walker, thanks for believing in me. I miss you. Hey, Angie and Jazz, save my room in Cali.

Keith Tamont Junior, my gifted nephew, God has truly blessed you. Acknowledge your gifts; you are about to take the literary world by storm, whether it be through your literature, lyrics, or artistic abilities. You just have to step out on faith. I’d like to shout out my nieces and nephews: Monique, Michael, Stephanie, Tiffany, Brenton, Bumi, Xavier, Brooklyn, Candice, Gregory, Tyler, Taylor, Deshaun, Jasmine, Alayisa, Sydney, Zvahn, KaRon, DeReese, Ayana, Jamar, Jade, and Jasyme. Yes, your auntie wrote a book!

To my other baby daddies from another mother—my son’s stepfather and his foster father, Ed Whitley and Darrin Hayes—thanks for treating my son like he was one of yours. Good looking out, but in no way can you claim him on your taxes.

Ms. Laureen Jones, what can I say? Thanks for holding it down. You are truly a blessing. Thanks for all your hard work. I really couldn’t have made all those corrections without you. Don’t worry; when I blow up, I’m taking you with me. This is not a binding contract. Smile; I love you. To my Yah Yah sisters—Janet Disco, Betty Watkins, Alesia Mert Spears, Hollis Gasque, Debbie Collins, and Cheakquita Barnes—thanks for the conversations and gatherings.

Special thanks to Tedi Eaton; if it had not been for you, I don’t know where this project would be sitting. Thanks for introducing me to Shannon Langone. Shannon, thanks for your generosity. I realize caring for a new baby and a new author at the same time came with its challenges. Thanks to my prayer partners, Rosa Burgos and Rhonda Hall. God is good!

Thanks to all my social work supervisors: Janet Jackson, Marion King, Margie Gilberti, Nancy Jaslow, Arthur Teal, and Rufus Battle. I am grateful for all of the knowledge you have bestowed upon me. You have all touched my life in a very special way. Don’t worry; this book is fictitious and came strictly from my imagination.

Ms. Jenkins, my partner in crime, honestly my character was not based on you; we hadn’t met yet. To Kathy Griffith, you truly are a blessing. Continue to trust God. I know you don’t quite understand, but it was placed in my spirit to dedicate my book to you. The Prophecy was my first piece of fiction, but in no way was my gift a gift of prophecy. Smile, I love you my sista. You’ve done good! Thanks to Andrew S. Ford for the beautiful pictures.

To my ladies at Solid Gold Beauty Palace—Lucielle Kennedy, Mary Tillery, and Jessie Mayfield—thanks for your support and keeping my hair tight. To my Sorors, the illustrious ladies of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc., Springfield Alumnae Chapter, thanks so much for your support and encouragement.

Last but definitely not least, to my joy, my reason for writing, my son, Corey Glen Bryant, thanks for putting up with me. You can truly be anything you want. Reach for the stars. I know, I know I didn’t thank your dad. To Glen Bryant, thanks for believing in me and being a great dad. I really do appreciate all you do.

Shantell

SHANTELL SCUTTLES DOWN THE picturesque cobblestone streets of Society Hill in search of refuge. She darts down a back alley, looking over her shoulder, stumbling and regaining herself. The shadowy figure with a revolver gets closer. Her breathing becomes stifled as tears trickle down her cheeks. Shantell squeezes her eyes shut and begins to pray. She’s panic-stricken when she hears the frantic steps of the stranger approaching. He comes closer and discovers her crouching behind a Dumpster. The tall, dark man straddles his body over hers and puts the barrel of a nine millimeter so far down her throat she begins to gag.

Shantell’s mind is racing a step ahead of the blood pulsating through her veins as she battles to move each limb of her lifeless body. She’s paralyzed with the rhythm of her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Her constricted airway causes her to gasp for air. The drumming of her heart grows louder when she hears someone calling out to her in the distance. She’s trapped somewhere in the parallel world between the conscious and the subconscious, struggling to open her eyelids. Her screams for help are muffled, lost in the cloudiness of her thoughts. Shantell breaks free from the bondage of her subconscious, letting out an excruciating shriek.

Shantell is screaming at the top of her lungs when she awakens in a pool of sweat. She’s disoriented and panting; she can still taste the metal of the gun in her mouth. She tries to regain her composure as her eyes search the room for something recognizable. The pounding of her heart is so loud that it vibrates the walls. She soon realizes that the banging isn’t coming from inside her chest but from someone knocking at the door. Shantell gets up, goes to the door, and looks through the peephole. Her neighbor Nicole is standing there with a frying pan. She takes a deep breath and slowly exhales as she opens the door.

Girl, where’s he? Nicole asks. I heard you screaming.

Shantell sighs audibly. You mean the ghost that’s been chasing me in my dreams? Girl, he’s gone.

Nicole shakes her head in disbelief. Oh, child, you need to get some help with that. Can’t somebody at that clinic you work at help?

Thanks for your concern, Nicole, but I’ve got to get ready for work. I’m sorry if I woke you, says Shantell as she guides Nicole out the door. She hurries to the shower, reciting the Lord’s Prayer aloud. Shantell dresses and rushes out the door to work.

The clinic is a madhouse. Shantell’s first client of the day is Carla, a thirty-seven-year-old whose husband has left her for another woman. Carla is so entrenched in getting even with her estranged husband that everything else has fallen by the wayside.

You know he had the audacity to ask my children to call her ‘Aunt Debbie’! Carla exclaims. Aunt Debbie? She’s young enough to be their playmate. I’ve forbidden them to speak to her. If he wants to see the kids, then he should see them alone. I mean, it’s his time with the children. Why should she be there? Do you agree, Shantell? Shantell? Are you even listening to me? Carla asks.

Of course I’m listening, Carla. Isn’t that why you pay me? Shantell tries adding light to the situation, considering she’s been half listening and she’s sure she had a distant look on her face."How I feel about Sean seeing the children with Debbie isn’t important. What concerns me is that you’re spending far too much time and energy worrying about those two and not enough focusing on yourself. When is the last time you had your hair done, had a fill or a pedicure? Carla, you’re a beautiful woman, and it’s Sean’s loss. You need to start loving you. Your children need you, and, girl, the people at Tipsy Toesies Nailery need you." Carla and Shantell both laugh.

Sighing contently, Carla states, I just hate what he’s done to me and the kids, and besides, I still love him. I just wish he’d get over this madness and come back home.

Carla, I know you love him. It’s hard to walk away from twelve years, but you need to start loving yourself again; that’s the first step to healing, explains Shantell. I can only imagine how hard it is for you. She pauses as Carla looks at herself in her compact.

Damn, I didn’t realize how much new growth I had, says Carla as she pushes up her kitchen area at the back of her neck. I need a complete makeover. You know, you got a lot of nerve talking about me, says Carla, looking at her nails.

Shantell smiles and asks, Should I schedule you for next week?

Yeah, I guess so, Carla says sarcastically. You know, you’re really unconventional; the last therapist I had would’ve never said those things to me.

You mean I’m not your first? Just trying to keep it real, girl. I’ll see you next week.

Shantell closes the door behind Carla and returns to her paper-cluttered desk, sitting down wearily in her distressed upholstered chair. There’s a knock at the door.

You got a minute? the clinic’s director asks.

Sure, Brenda, replies Shantell.

A friend of mine is conducting a study on trauma, grief, and loss among African Americans. Dora was a very essential part of President Obama’s first campaign. She’d like us to run two groups, and I was wondering if you’d consider being a facilitator?

Well, Brenda, I’m pretty busy with my caseload and don’t quite know if I’ll have the time, says Shantell, nervously biting the side of her bottom lip.

Shantell, this is a chance of a lifetime; my friend’s presenting her study to the president’s cabinet. We’ll be asked to testify on Capitol Hill once it’s published. And by the way, I wasn’t really asking you. I was just letting you know I suggested that you’d be perfect to facilitate the group. I’ll talk to you more about it later, says Brenda as she turns to leave Shantell’s office.

Shantell sits at her desk almost hyperventilating. A million thoughts are racing through her mind, and she begins thinking aloud. She can’t possibly be serious. I was just beginning to like it here. I don’t think I can withstand another move. Lord, why are you doing this to me? Why have you forsaken me? I just can’t move again, let alone end up on Capitol Hill. Shantell lifts her head off the desk when the intercom startles her.

Shantell! Shantell! the receptionist calls out over the intercom on the phone.

Yes, Lisa.

Your next client is here. I’ve been buzzing your line. Are you okay?

Yes, just give me a minute. Shantell straightens out her very snug Ann Taylor skirt and steps into her shoes. She takes a deep breath, exhales, and recites the Lord’s Prayer as she walks out to meet Vicki. Vicki’s been referred by her county worker for individual counseling. She’s twenty-seven years old and has five children who are all in the custody of the state. Vicki has suffered from a severe case of postpartum depression after giving birth to her fifth child. Shantell always dreads her sessions with Vicki. Despite the fact that she has five children and is a single mother, she literally picked herself up by the bootstraps and made a life for herself. She grew up in foster care, completed high school, and went on to become a radiation tech. Her boyfriend of seven years and father of her children was killed in a motorcycle accident two weeks before the birth of her last child. There’s so much tragedy in her life; it takes every bit of Shantell’s energy to muster up some hope and inspiration in their sessions.

After the last session of the day, Shantell is drained. She wonders aloud, Is anyone happy? She sits doodling at her desk. She writes, Why was I spared? Go back and face the consequences. She immediately scratches her writing out and begins talking to herself. Who am I fooling? I can never go back. I wish I could relive that one day over. If only I’d done things differently. It didn’t have to happen.

Excuse me, Brenda says as she tries to bring Shantell’s attention back to earth. Are you talking to yourself?

Shantell almost jumps out of her seat. Oh, I’m sorry, Brenda. I didn’t hear you come in. I’m just sitting here trying to process today’s sessions. I’m sorry.

A very well-dressed woman in a two-piece Dolce & Gabbana suit with some sharp Carlos Santana stilettos extends her hand to Shantell. Talking to yourself is okay as long as you don’t answer back, says the woman.

This is the friend I’ve been telling you about. Dora McGowan, this is Shantell Woods, says Brenda.

Very pleased to meet you, Shantell. I’ve heard so much about you.

Nice to meet you too. So tell me about your study? asks Shantell, redirecting the focus off of her and the fact that she was out of order for sitting at her desk talking aloud to herself.

Dora gives her a brief synopsis of why she’s focusing on trauma, grief, and loss among African Americans. Ms. McGowan impresses Shantell with her extensive knowledge and genuine concern for the plight of her people.

Shantell stands in awe of the woman, thinking, Now this is someone back in the day I would’ve gravitated toward. But right now, I just need to stay out of the limelight. Lord knows I done had enough trauma, grief, and loss to complete my very own publication. Well, it’s really nice meeting you, and I look forward to working with you. After her meeting, Shantell rushes out the door to catch the train back home.

By the time she reaches the Hyde Park section of the city, the sun is setting. Shantell opens the door to her sparsely furnished apartment and immediately kicks her shoes off. She hasn’t been in Chicago long. Shantell rarely ventures outside the confines of her apartment except for work and groceries. She doesn’t know anyone except the people from work and her neighbor Nicole. Life in Chicago is very different from the life Shantell was accustomed to. Shantell liked to luxuriate, running up quite the retail bill back in her day. Her pay at the clinic would be negligible if she didn’t still have $450,000 left from her stash. She rarely shops anymore because she’s trying to maintain a low profile these days. So to keep herself occupied, she eats. She’s blossomed from a size 10 with bumps in all the right places to a voluptuous 14 in a matter of months. Her lackluster third-floor apartment holds all the architecture of an old warehouse. The towering brick walls are bare, and her bedroom consists of a queen-sized bed and an armoire, which holds a thirty-two-inch flat-screen and Bose wave music system. Shantell grabs the remote from the box on the coffee table. She surfs her XM until she stumbles upon the Quiet Storm. The sweet sounds and crispness of Al Green serenading her with Let’s Stay Together fills the open space. She’s in the mood for stir-fry. She takes some red onions and an assortment of peppers, shrimp, and Andouille sausage from the refrigerator and lays them on the counter. While preparing her ingredients, she polishes off a corner of wine left from the night before. She adjusts the heat as the oil in the pan begins to sizzle and opens a second bottle of Moscato. Before realizing it, she’s consumed three glasses. The beeping of the smoke detector is evidence to her that her dinner has now been reduced to a bowl of Special K. Shantell puts out the small fire, which is contained in the pan upon the stove. She eats her cereal and finishes off the rest of her wine.

It’s 6:00 a.m. when Shantell awakes to the sun peeking slightly above the buildings. She looks forward to a new day, and before placing her feet on the floor, she thanks God for granting her a night free of nightmares. She reads her Bible for twenty minutes and then rushes to get ready for work. Shantell’s client, Mrs. Jenkins, greets her with a cup of java at the door. Mrs. Jenkins keeps her grounded in an odd kind of way. She’s a woman of wisdom—a God-fearing woman. She raised her three grandchildren following the death of their mother, who died during childbirth with the youngest, who is now twenty-five and strung out on crack cocaine.

Shantell, you know what I told that heifer? How dare she smite the sacrifice of my child by throwing her life away! I told her, her mother knew she’d be jeopardizing her life if she had another baby—but she said if it’s God’s will … It sent her lupus haywire. The doctors did everything to save her, but she just couldn’t pull through. And this is how Semira repays her? She named her Semira because she said it means ‘God’s promise’ in Swahili. We call her Promise. She almost lost her twice. Linda wanted so much to give Buster a son and was willing to try one more time. And I haven’t seen that fool Buster since the funeral almost three decades ago.

Mrs. Jenkins is feeling guilty because Semira has three children who are in the care of Child and Family Services. She goes back and forth on spending her life’s savings to hire an attorney to fight for the children to be placed with her. But she knows in