Leaving Darkness

By Greg Schaffer

Long-haul truck driver Lowell Ferguson is on the brink of suicide. He is haunted by the guilt of a horrible secret from his senior year of high school. Therapy and antidepressants aren’t able to lift him out of depression. At twenty-eight years old, he believes his life has dissolved into a meaningless annoyance. Only the strong bond with his lone friend—a Chihuahua named Rufus—keeps him from choosing death. But when Lowell learns Rufus may have cancer, he fears there will be no reason left to live if his beloved dog dies.

While awaiting the diagnosis, he comes across a flier for a Christian support group promising hope and freedom. A skeptic and an apatheist, he nonetheless reluctantly decides to join the group. Through this joining, he finds what he has been yearning for—a path toward leaving the darkness of depression. This first step provides Lowell the courage to do what he must to escape his guilt and finally confront his past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Oct 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781973644101

Greg Schaffer

Greg Schaffer participated in a small Christian-based group ministry in 2011 and became a facilitator with the ministry to help others find their direction toward a purposeful life. His firsthand experiences of lives transformed through such healing groups led him to write Leaving Darkness, hoping the tale of transformation through God’s grace may encourage those lost in their own darkness to reach out for help. The author of two previous novels, Greg lives in Franklin, Tennessee, with his wife and three rescue dogs.

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 Greg Schaffer.

Author Headshot Photograph – John Gentry,

John Gentry Photography – johngentryphoto.com

Cover Photograph – Greg Schaffer – secondchancebook.org

Editing – John Fox, Bookfox – thejohnfox.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-9736-4411-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-4412-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-4410-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018912999

WestBow Press rev. date: 10/30/2018

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 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Dedication:

To all who give their time, resources, and talents to Restore Small Groups – past, present, and future.

CHAPTER 1

29765.png

October 3, 2009

Lowell Ferguson stood tall in the cool drizzle, the water smoothing his straight, black, shoulder-length hair. He loved the rain, he loved watching football in the rain, and he especially loved playing football in the rain. Football was his calling, and even the dreariness of an early fall shower did not dim the light of anything football related. As the short rain shower ended, he stretched his arms wide, arched his neck, and opened his mouth to catch the fleeting drops of happiness. Today might very well end up being the most important day of his life, and he was ready to move forward.

Alan Rutherford, his best friend since middle school, picked his afro, an action Lowell associated with agitation. Come on, we have to go, Alan said.

Okay, I’m coming.

Lowell turned to say goodbye to his father raking the heavy, wet, fallen leaves. We’re going to the game, Dad.

Russ Ferguson remained focused on the job at hand and did not say anything, just weakly waved without looking.

Lowell sighed at his father’s lack of interest in the importance of this day and limped from the small ranch house with the olive-green shutters he’d helped paint when he was in middle school to the passenger side of the boat of a car. Alan’s ride, once someone’s external testimonial of their status in society, was now—186,000 or so miles later—a shell of its former pretentious self and put out to pasture in the service of a high school senior.

Lowell carefully brought his right leg over the threshold, maneuvering the booted ankle under the dashboard, wincing at the slight pain the ankle’s position produced. He moved the foot to find a less uncomfortable resting angle before closing the creaking passenger door of the 1992 brown Cadillac Seville.

Alan pointed at the black plastic therapy boot Lowell wore on his right foot. How long are you going to be in that thing?

Doctor says probably four weeks. Hopefully by December I can start working out again.

Alan smiled as he started the car’s engine. I sometimes don’t get you. I mean, you’re my best friend, but I don’t understand taking the risk.

I love it, man. I know you never played, but it’s been my dream to play for Iowa since Dad and I first tossed the ball in the park. This is the day everything changes. This is the day that makes everything worthwhile.

Alan smirked and put the Cadillac in gear. So, you think that hanging out with Coach on the sidelines and laying out that famous ‘Lowell Smile’ will charm him into deciding to give you a scholarship?

That’s the idea. I think that holding the state receiving record will have something to do with it as well.

‘The smile that broke a thousand hearts at Iowa City High’—that should be your yearbook quote.

Lowell let loose a hearty laugh. Look who’s talking. I didn’t think you’d ever settle for one.

Trish is a hottie.

Lowell nodded in agreement, wondering again if he should mention his own make-out session with Trish two weeks ago prior to Alan asking her out, then decided against it. That was a one-time mistake. He would not threaten a lifelong friendship over a five-minute error in judgement.

Alan slowed the Cadillac until it came to a complete stop behind a white Ford van and craned his neck out the driver-side window to attempt to see around it. Red taillights lined the road as far as he could see.

It’s backed up at least to the bridge. He turned to Lowell. There must be an accident on Melrose, or game day traffic.

Lowell spied a red car flag. It’s Arkansas State fans. They travel well for a Sun Belt team. Definitely game traffic. I knew we should have left earlier. Lowell stared ahead at the halted traffic. We’ll never get there before kickoff. That means—

I know what that means, Alan said as he abruptly turned the wheel to the left and accelerated, driving the wrong direction on the shoulder of the opposite side of the divided highway that led directly to Kinnick Stadium.

What are you doing? Lowell grabbed the door rest for stability as the car lurched from Alan’s sudden diversion to the left and onto a smaller service road, a two-lane with no shoulders.

I’m cutting through the golf course. Don’t worry, I’ll get you there before kickoff. We’ll park at the arena lot and hike it from there. Alan navigated the curves, accelerating significantly beyond the speed limit.

Lowell braced himself in his seat, wedging the plastic and Velcro boot between the lower dashboard and the floor. You’re going too fast. We’ll get a ticket.

Relax.

Lowell had reached down to adjust a Velcro strap on the boot when a thud resembling the sound of a baseball bat striking the side of a fifty-five-gallon plastic garbage can caused him to lurch up. He caught a faint brown blur out of the corner of his right eye. What was that?

I think I might have hit a deer. Did you see anything? Alan strained to locate movement through the rearview mirror as he continued to direct the boat of a car around a curve. I was concentrating on the side mirror looking for cops.

Did I see anything? Yeah, the fries you tossed down here. That’s it. Lowell unbuckled and turned around in the front passenger seat to scan the road behind, momentarily catching the boot on the lower dashboard edge. Don’t see a thing.

Great. Tons of deer always out at this time. Probably have a dent in the grill now.

Lowell turned back in his seat and rubbed his head. Yeah. I almost clocked one on this same stretch a couple of weeks ago. Heh, now that I think of it, that was the Friday that this happened. He pointed at the boot.

Alan pulled into the parking lot. You sure you can walk from here? I can get you closer.

Lowell smiled as he opened the creaking door. I’m fine.

Okay. Alan slammed the door and walked to the front of the car. Yup. It was a deer. He held up a clump of fur. Doesn’t look bad. What’s the matter?

Lowell looked down. I feel bad for the deer.

Alan put his arm around Lowell’s shoulder. That’s life, man. The strong survive. Don’t let it bother you. You made it through, we’re here. Don’t ruin your time over a stupid deer. Come on. Today is the first day of your storied college football career.

29854.png

The next day, Lowell handed the Sunday newspaper’s local section to Alan and pointed to the front page article. Look. A guy was hit on Finkerbine last night. We have to say something.

Alan scanned the print and then slapped the paper on the deck’s rail. About what?

Lowell looked out over the railing of the deck of his house at nothing in particular. I think it could have been us.

Alan stirred the stain in the can, splashing a few drops of red stain on his hands. They don’t know anything. The article said no one saw who hit the guy. He doesn’t know, or he would have said something.

It sounds bad. What if we did hit him?

You don’t know. You can’t know. But what I do know is you never admit fault in an accident. That’s one of the first things my dad taught me when I was learning to drive. Because, you know what, there are always many factors to an accident. He wiped his hands on his pants. Besides, we hit a deer.

You don’t know that.

I know that because I pulled a fistful of deer fur out of my grill, remember?

Lowell stared at him. I know that. But didn’t you also hit one before? You’re a deer magnet in that thing.

I was the driver. I was paying attention to the road. You were fiddling with that boot on your foot. Was I texting? No. Was I drinking? No. You didn’t see it, I did. I’m not going to even put myself in a position where doubt creeps in. That’s how people lose their place. Do you know how hard it is for a black man to get the chances I have?

Dude, I’m Cherokee.

Not the same. You pass for white. That gives you a leg up. I don’t think European women clutch their purses and stare at you in elevators.

You’re being too dramatic. You’ve had the same chances I have. And I’m more of a minority than you here.

It’s a big world out there, man. I’ve worked hard to get to where I’m at. Goizueta doesn’t admit just anyone, especially on a full scholarship. I’ve just started the climb. I’m not going to mess that up.

At least you’ve got a future planned.

So do you. You’re going to look great in a Hawkeyes uniform.

Lowell paused before dipping his brush in the can of stain. I don’t know. I don’t have a good feeling about it anymore.

What happened?

That’s just it. Nothing happened. Coach didn’t seem interested in talking to me at all. Lowell began brushing the rail. I’m beginning to think they may pull the scholarship offer.

Man, I’m sorry.

I should’ve gone with North Texas. Sun Belt is better than nothing.

Alan put one hand on Lowell’s shoulder. Hey, you don’t know that’s what’s going to happen. But that’s all the more reason to not make what happened last night into something it isn’t.

Lowell looked out over the deck rail again. We fought a lot of battles here.

Alan smiled. Yup. Look, I know you’re worried, but even if this doesn’t work out, a late scholarship offer from somewhere else is likely. You’re too good to pass up. Guys change their minds, don’t qualify academically, and other stuff. You might still get an SEC offer.

Lowell nodded.

Do you want an unwarranted stain on your reputation to throw that possibility away, when you know you didn’t see us hit this guy? Alan asked.

Lowell dipped his brush in the can of stain again and resumed the side-to-side motion of staining the deck rail. You’re right. It’s just a matter of time. An offer will come.

Alan slapped his friend on the back. That’s the Lowell Ferguson I know. Come on, let’s get done so we can get to the party. Trish’s cousin is in town. I’ve seen her picture—she’s almost as hot as Trish.

Lowell stood up. Yeah? Think she’ll go for a cripple?

Play up the injury, man! Go for the sympathy.

Lowell laughed. Despite possibly missing his dream of playing for the Iowa Hawkeyes, that was just one dream. He had many more. Yeah. Life is good!

CHAPTER 2

29765.png

April 15, 2018

Ah, Lowell, good to see you again. Regular as the rain outside.

Lowell only nodded in response to the Holiday Inn Express desk clerk’s attempt at small talk.

Second floor, right? She had a name, Lowell knew, as it was displayed on her nametag, but he never bothered to memorize it, despite this weekly dance of several years.

He nodded again as he fondled the nearly full bottle of pills in his right jeans pocket. A fog of emotional darkness had enveloped him and sapped most of his remaining strength. He hated driving in the rain; in fact, he hated everything about the rain. While he usually enjoyed the long hours on the road between pickups and drop-offs, Rufus’s condition only brought more worry and anxiety.

We appreciate you being a platinum member, Mr. Ferguson. Your loyalty means a lot to us.

Her plastic cheerfulness only seemed to enhance the depressive futility of his existence.

He sniffed. Though renovated two years prior, this Holiday Inn Express featured stale air with a slight mildew scent. The Texas evening, spring rain, heavy drops born from the transformation of wet snowflakes moments before and a thousand feet above, seemed to enhance the mustiness and only added to his desolate mood. Some love a rainy day. Not him. Not anymore.

Everything is meaningless, he mumbled.

Huh? the guest clerk asked, looking up over her reading glasses.

Uh, nothing. Just having a bad day. During times of gloom, more prevalent with each passing week, the overbearing cloak of despair often drove him to thoughts of permanently removing himself from the pain. Moments when he genuinely loved life were rare. Those fleeting peeks at what could be—what should be—usually arrested any impulse to harm himself.

Oh, I know. This weather really has gotten everyone down.

The fakeness of forced small talk needled him.

Where is Rufus? In the truck? she asked.

He flipped the bottle in his pocket again. No. He couldn’t make it this week.

He had never acted on the urges to harm himself, not yet, and not solely because every now and then he actually believed he could leave the darkness. Rufus kept him grounded and gave him a purpose, providing one element to argue that perhaps not everything was meaningless.

Oh, I hope he’s okay.

So do I.

Another weak nod as the bubbly hotel clerk programmed the plastic key. He removed his hand from the odd comfort massaging the pill bottle gave. Today was not the day.

He did not hate his short life, not anymore, which had evolved from total engagement to the complete apathy that defined his late twenties. He felt nothing and was an unrecognizable shadow of the boisterous, popular, and wildly talented football player he’d been in high school less than a decade earlier. Now, he felt his existence held zero significance to himself or humanity. He saw only gray darkness despite the lighting and images presented. He could disappear, and no one would care.

Well, we care that you’re with us, Mr. Ferguson. I always look forward to seeing you every week.

He managed a weak smile. Rufus would care if he forced his permanent exit out of the darkness, he corrected himself. The nine-year-old red-haired Chihuahua remained his sole lifeline to any sense of worth he may have once had. He drove for Rufus, and Rufus only, to provide for him, yet even that motivation now faded occasionally. Such thoughts scared him, as much as he could experience fear anymore. He deserved an end, not Rufus.

The happy clerk handed Lowell the envelope with the keys. You’re in 112, down the hall—Oh, you know where it is. Breakfast at six, and please call us if there is anything you need.

Her cheerfulness only increased his feelings of meaninglessness. As he opened the door, he imagined the darkness of the room mirrored him, as he knew his fate. Nothing had worked, and the last threads of hope had left. He would continue on for Rufus, but if the diagnosis held, and he feared it would, he would have no reason to stay if Rufus died.

He turned on the light, centered the pill bottle on the desk, sat down in the hotel armchair, and stared at the bottle.

29852.png

Four days later, Lowell plopped in his black leather recliner and popped the footrest. Nancy, his next-door neighbor, had not answered the knock at her door. Completing the four-day run an hour early meant his reunion with Rufus would have to wait until she returned home. Hearing Rufus’s whine on the other side of the door added to his depressed mood.

I hope it isn’t another IT emergency.

He mindlessly scrolled Facebook, though nothing on his wall interested him until he landed on a photo posted by his sister. Three years younger than he at twenty-five, Cassie Ferguson had decided to begin her nursing career in their hometown, purchasing a small condo a couple of blocks from their parents’ home. The selfie, likely from a recent weekly visit, captured her and their father on the back deck of their childhood ranch house in Iowa City, snow still covering the expansive, sloping yard behind them. She smiled in the picture; their father didn’t.

Because he knows she was sending it to me.

He understood why she had posted the picture. She did not direct the message at others, just him. Through texts, emails, Facebook messages, and an occasional phone call, she knew of his struggles, though not the reasons behind them or the extent of them. He appreciated her efforts, even if subtle actions were her annoying way of needling him to consider visiting, something he had no desire to do.

For many years, Cassie had positioned herself as a potential mediator between Lowell and their parents in case he had a warming of the heart to forgive errors blown out of proportion. Taking the picture on his childhood fortress constituted an implied reminder of the positive relationship Lowell once enjoyed with his father. The attempt worked, to an extent. Lowell fondly remembered happy childhood times, like the imaginary battles won from that fortress with Alan, but the more recent negative adult interactions blotted out most of the pleasant memories.

He had no desire to visit his parents and doubted he ever would see them again. The estrangement did not promote sadness. If anything, mild resentment remained the only feeling he identified toward his parents. They, especially his father, had pushed him away. They would need to make the first move, not he.

Cassie, however, was the only other lifeline besides Rufus that kept him going. He did want to visit her again, perhaps someday.

The knock at the door broke him from his thoughts. Hi, Nancy.

Sorry I’m late. Got hung up at work.

He didn’t look at her, instead fixated on Rufus. Hey, boy, how are we feeling? He lifted the Chihuahua and cuddled him against his chest as he turned to her. Thanks. I hope he wasn’t any trouble.

She flipped several short strands of blond hair away from her face. Not at all. Thanks for letting me spend time with him. He’s so much fun.

She, like he, matched the average demographic of the Windermere apartment complex occupants—late twenties and single—but their similarities ended there. Most residents, including her, socialized frequently, often at the pool. He never joined.

I am so glad I moved here. I love this place, now that it’s finally starting to get warm. I’m definitely not a winter person.

Then I guess you don’t miss Chicago?

Well, I miss aspects of it, sure, but the weather isn’t one of them. She tilted her head down and a bit sideways, a mildly coy look. There’s a gathering at the pool. You coming?

The initial excitement and joy of seeing Rufus had worn off. Outside of the Chihuahua, nothing seemed to trigger his feelings anymore, not that he cared. No. These runs exhaust me, and the rain made the driving harder.

Her shy expression morphed into a slight pout. Oh, that’s too bad.

He knew she was flirting with him; he had seen and leveraged that look countless times in his youth, but he did not care anymore. The drive did not sap his energy, living did. He could not go. Other’s enjoyment of life only served to mock his pitiful being. Sorry. Thanks again for looking after Rufus.

Never a problem, Lowell. I’m happy to. I hope you get good news about him, soon.

Safe behind closed doors again, he tried to suppress the growing sense of anxiety. He had successfully learned to deal with the panic attacks by consciously cutting off feelings everywhere he could. Rufus, though, was different. He allowed himself to love on, care for, and worry about his best friend. Rufus and Cassie remained the only connections between the vibrant person he was before the accident and the shell he had become nine years later.

His phone vibrated, the twelve-hour reminder of his appointment with Therapist Three tomorrow, reminding him of the slim hope that the early morning session might provide the magic answer of peace he sought. Yet each previous meeting, as with the other therapists, had produced little progress. The relationship with this therapist, his third, was frayed, stretched thin, about to snap. Excessive questions about meaningless topics with no results seemed complete wastes of time to him, not that he had anything better to do.

Time was one thing he might not have had much left of with Rufus. He tried to dismiss the thought of losing Rufus as his heartrate increased, aware of the impending and sudden change. He began taking deep, controlled breaths and looked around.

Five things to see, four to touch … he began again in his head as he followed the memorized instructions for grounding to help deflect or minimize an anxiety attack.

29850.png

The heavy footsteps of the size thirteen shoes worn by the large man echoed in the hallway. Lowell instinctively fixed his gaze on the antique brass oval doorknob, dimly illuminated by the old sixty-watt incandescent bulb in the overhead fixture, waiting for the squeaky turn. He will ask questions. I will answer, or not. Same dance, different day.

The large bearded figure entered, red flannel sleeves rolled up to dig into the job at hand, a Paul Bunyan doppelgänger. Good morning, Lowell.

Lowell wallowed in the familiar, consistent cloud of numbness as the therapist closed the large oak door of the converted early 1900s, two-story, wood-framed house separating the reception area from this private space, possibly once a bedroom. The current tenants, daytime explorers through mazes of confused minds, made no attempt to hide the structure’s past existence as a family’s home, keeping several pieces of furniture. Most of the original tan (perhaps once white) lace curtains remained in place, at least in the spaces he, as the patient, was privy to. He almost could smell bacon cooking in the kitchen down the hall. The time would be about right, seven in the morning.

I had another attack.

Oh? How was it?

What a stupid question.

The attack had lasted longer than usual but had finally subsided as expected yesterday evening. He had returned to his version of normal in ten minutes,