Up Through the Darkness

By Wayne Aronsen

Anders is exiled with his Danish mother from post-war Europe to a small coastal town in Central California. His isolated mother, grieving the loss of her homeland and her German officer lover, retreats into a solitary life, unable to face the daunting task of raising a child she never planned on. Ander lives his youth adjusting to a life wi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wayne Aronsen
• Release date: Oct 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088279403

Wayne Aronsen

Raised in New Jersey, Wayne's parents moved to California under suspicious circumstances. His Scandinavian family history gives him a close familiarity with the Nordic culture and their obsession with secrecy. He graduated from California State University Fullerton with a degree in English, but other than a brief stint as a columnist at a local newspaper, he never pursued a career in his major. Teaching proved fruitless; he lasted two days as a substitute teacher in a public high school. After a six month European trip, he returned to California and bounced from one service job to another. He now entertains his young grandchildren with stories of how he was fired five times--that he can recall. To support his young family, he did the next best thing: he started his own business, which served him well until he retired. But he never lost his passion for writing. His filing cabinet is filled with poems, short stories, plays, essays, and novels he'd written over the years. He joined a group of fellow artists (writers, a photographer, sculptors, and a musician) who met regularly to show their work and keep each other on task. Wayne has self-published three books. He pursues outlets for his fictional work in the genres of literary mystery, poetry, and historical fantasy in short story and novel formats. He is an avid golfer and appreciates fine wines. He and his wife often tour wineries when they travel. He enjoys giving public readings of his own work, and that of others.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Atonement

A Central California Coastal Town—The Present

Three pelicans glided above the shore, a V formation of synchronized flight. Their wide wings waved in tandem to maintain an altitude just above the rocky coast. Anders watched them until they disappeared, one by one, below the bluffs headed to their colonies in an estuary north of his house.

Seated on a stone wall bordering the back of his patio, he braced himself against the late afternoon wind and turned to face the ocean. A narrow band of blue stretched across the western horizon, the delineation between sea and sky where the setting sun would eventually escape the gray cloud bank and make its brief final appearance. A ceremony he had celebrated many times over the years, when the fiery light spread like dye across the water’s surface, a reflection of celestial brilliance, extinguished just as quickly with the sun’s descent into the darkening sea. He recalled lines from a poem:

—dim beaches deep in sand—stretching indistinguishably—all the way to where my reasons end—

Slumping further and further into indifference, he turned to watch dark storm clouds approach from the north along the mountainous coastline, burial clouds in a spreading black mass. Late afternoons on his patio with a bottle of wine and a small meal were once times of serenity and disengagement from the day’s turmoil. Not anymore.

It was the day before Anders’ eviction from the house where he had lived alone for more than forty years. By this time he was beyond brooding and bitterness. With an empty wine glass beside him, his face showed a grand resentment toward the evening’s increasing inclemency.

As though the sorrowful clamor of the relentless surf below, in continuous charges and retreats, spread the news of his crime, he watched the shattered waters break into clouds of mist. The wine failed to silence the commotion. Weary of attempts to justify his recent action, he renounced any hope of absolution.

He longed for peace —one final night with dreams of the sleepy tide untangling vines that streamed like banners from the black rocks jutting above the surf—a final embarkation.

As he listened to the rousing waters, he thought:

—it’s not just perceiving something I never did before—it’s as if I’m being perceived—

The sky continued to darken and the air thickened with the threat of rain.

—I can’t even pray—that would require movement—hope—I don’t deserve rescue or redemption—only judgment —

Beads of water collected on his face and hair. Below him, on a shallow bluff, two rotted wooden posts embedded in a sandstone ledge, tilted precariously toward the ocean, remnants of a stairway that once—long before Anders lived there—led to the rocky beach below. To reach the water now, he had to climb down a crease in the bluff—something he realized wouldn’t happen again—relieved of any obligation to rebuild that stairway—the project now consigned to someone with hope and purpose.

—I wouldn’t ask for joy—I wouldn’t recognize it anyway—or meaning—and certainly not an explanation—I would be shamed into continuing—

He felt as though he was sitting in an empty theater under a gray vaulted ceiling—alone onstage—his performance finished.

—something should happen—a sign—the sea halt in glassy silence—the clouds part to reveal emerging stars—something should announce the occasion—

In his hour of surrender, Anders was haunted by visions of lifelong acquaintances—not friends—silent faces that swirled inside his mind. People who stopped believing in his powers of recovery—not a single one he would miss. As Celeste once told him in one of her theatrical moments, Melancholy is a strident and jealous lover. She alone speaks your language and your attempts to break away from her embrace will be futile. She will not be denied.

—the bread of adversity—the water of affliction—

His many previous setbacks were manageable. Yet now, inert on a damp stone wall, he was unable to resurrect the slightest reason to continue. The countless hours ruminating over his misfortunes and bad decisions were an endless attempt to corral all his melancholy into a single theorem he had hoped to solve. Instead, at sixty years old, he was vanquished.

—still that eighteen-year-old boy who didn’t know how to grieve for his mother—at her graveside with Edith and her pastor—her empty life cast into an empty grave—the text of a God who permitted one of his own to live and die with such debilitating sadness—

He filled his glass, the remains of a second bottle, a burgundy that added formality to the evening as though he were celebrating the signing of a new covenant with wine and music. Wagner’s Overture to Lohengrin streamed from the open back door—his new requiem.

—Patrick would have played "Flight of the Valkyries"—but then, he wouldn’t do this—

Anders became more and more oblivious to the sea’s turmoil. The cold, salty updrafts failed to stimulate his shallow breathing. He felt immensely insignificant. His eyes were now flat and unfocused as though he was losing his sight. In the clutches of his decision, he drifted closer and closer to non-existence—a retreat toward the knowledge that his own life was in full flight toward a horizon without consolation.

His cell phone rang. He was shocked and angry at the disturbance and his own negligence at leaving it turned on within reach on the glass table next to him. No longer able to distinguish between the intentional and unintentional, he picked it up, saw Patrick’s name, and with a single motion pitched it over the wall onto the rocks below. He wrapped his arms tightly across his chest. The increasing drizzle ran down his face but he made no attempt to wipe his eyes.

—tears loaned to me—

His last measure of self-pity washed away, he filled his glass from a third bottle, spilling some of it—a Pomerol, Chateau Petrus, a gift from Patrick sent to him during Patrick’s military days. One of the many wildly expensive wines sent to him every July 14, Bastille Day—either a Côte-d’Or Burgundy or a Grand Cru Bordeaux. Patrick sent the gifts to inform Anders that he was still alive performing his clandestine military business, proof of life. A tradition that continued even when Patrick’s days in the military were long behind him and he was home again.

Finding the proper occasion to drink those gifts had been a dilemma for Anders, deserving an occasion worthy of the wine’s message of perseverance, survival, and triumph. Qualities embodied in Patrick and missing in him. But Anders was writing a new text for the wine—one of expiation and sacrifice.

—there must be some allowance for what I do—or just take this cup from my lips—

But he doubted there was either allowance or forgiveness. Despair, genetic or circumstantial—What difference does it make where it originated? Childhood? Chemistry? he once said to his therapist, Is it only acceptable if driven by creative madness?

Patrick wanted him to move in with Günter. They both tried to win him over to the idea but Anders told Patrick he was the prodigal son without the repentance, so he refused. He didn’t want his melancholy interrupted by supervision. And being around Günter was out of the question.

Anders stood up, stiff from the cold and with great effort, as though the earth’s gravity had suddenly increased, and stumbled into the house already cleared of his possessions, except for a suitcase of clothes, bathroom items, a CD player and some boxes. In the dark, he moved about from memory. He might have drank himself unconscious, but the cell phone spurred him to action.

—the irony—it begins with a rescue call—

He found the utility knife and duct tape on top of an empty packing box, more accidental than planned. Fearful he had waited too long—for it was now difficult to focus with his wine impaired vision—he still managed to shuffle outside and sit on the wall. He pulled up his sleeves, peeled back the tape, and wrapped it over the palm of one hand and around the back of his elbow, unraveling the tape again and again so that his hand was bent back in an attitude of praise.

He sliced the exposed wrist, surprised at how little it hurt and disappointed at the weak flow of blood. But it was still enough to make a mess of his attempts at taping the other hand, which he finally did, and holding the razor awkwardly in the taped hand, he cut the other wrist as well.

The blood ran onto his soggy sweatshirt. To keep it off his body, he placed his palms on top of the seat wall so the blood would run down onto the wet stone.

In the gloom, he imagined it channeling between the crevices, black and diffused, combining with the rainwater on the patio. As though in a dream, he pictured the next day with the wine-colored stains on the stone in the bright sunlight. He wondered if the act would appear merely self-indulgent and unremarkable to whoever discovered him. He was sorry he couldn’t finish the wine.

He didn’t lose consciousness though he expected to sooner or later and only felt sluggish, not much different than how he’d felt the past three hours. Unable to gauge his own loss of life, he offered no resistance knowing objecting to pain is itself painful. As he leaned back, slumping to the top of the wall, something jabbed his shoulder. Propping himself up on one elbow, he swiped the annoying object off the wall—an empty can of mussels. For an instant, the image of a black oystercatcher sprung to mind—the bulky black bird with fierce orange eyes and a sharp beak. Anders placed the cans on the wall to feed them.

Flat on his back, he allowed his arms to droop down like withered branches. Irritated by the cold drizzle on his face, he turned his head sideways to lessen the impact. Blinking away the precipitation, he saw the lighthouse beacon far across the bay sputter into view at regular intervals. A star seen through a wet window—maybe his last earthly image. He closed his eyes against the increasing shower. His new motive for dying became eminently trivial—to be released from the miserable weather. Life and pain drained away—his mind no longer imprisoned in flesh. A prophetic vision appeared of a giant eagle. Its dark wings spread wide, it swept down to grasp him in soft talons and bear him aloft, pressing him under its feathery chin and transported him up to the warm sunlight.

Bursts of rain cascaded across the deck so that Anders didn’t hear Patrick’s shouting at first. When he did, he simply mistrusted his own senses. Patrick’s dark form appeared and then faded to the periphery. But the shouts persisted, coming in broken phrases—

Anders, hold your hands up—have to get some towels—hold them up!

But Anders was too weak to lift his arms. Everything suddenly descended into complete chaos, and he was angry at the intrusion and the obligation to distinguish between what was real from what was imagined.

Patrick returned, hoisted Anders up to a sitting position and sat side by side against him. He jerked one arm out straight, nearly pulling Anders off the wall, and locked it under his own. He tore off the tape from Anders’ arm and spun it around a towel he wrapped around the wounded forearm. He did the same to the other wrist.

Don’t lie down—get you in the house—feet up. But Anders wilted forward toward the patio floor, about to fall face down when Patrick grabbed the back of his sweatshirt, lifted him up, and slid his arms under Anders’ legs and shoulders. He carried him into the house like an injured child and laid him on the floor. He pulled out more towels from a packing box, tore off Anders’ soaking sweatshirt, and rubbed him down as though he was just removed from a bath. Patrick dumped out boxes with blankets which he piled on top of him.

Don’t go to sleep—look at me—eyes open—look at me—be back.

Patrick turned off the music and switched on as many lights as he could find, allowing Anders to confirm that it actually was Patrick. For the first time he tried to speak, but unable to, he realized why. He was shaking so violently his quivering mouth couldn’t form words, only grunts. He was desperately cold.

Patrick shouted into his cell phone.—your ass here—five minutes—drive him myself—Andy is that you?—yes—Anders’ house—Anders keep your eyes open.

This wasn’t difficult since his upper torso was shivering so violently that he felt as though his entire body was acting apart from his own will, attending to the crisis. But this inflicted new pain and discomfort, which Anders hated, and suggested the dreaded prospect that his body was waging its own involuntary battle to survive. His despair became outright rage. He tried to shout at Patrick, but words only came out as garbled sounds.

—what are you doing here?—

The towels on Anders’ wrists began to glow red, even as thick as they were. During the wait, Patrick kept drying Anders’ hair and face as he laid there shaking. Finally, when the ambulance arrived, Andy, a paramedic and friend of them both, worked with calm efficiency to bandage Ander’s arms and hook up an IV.

Has he taken drugs? Andy asked?"

No, just wine. A lot of wine.

Patrick saw Anders’ head slump sideways and he became livid.

Anders, open your eyes!

He’s passing out, Patrick. Take it easy. He’s still shivering. It’s the body producing heat. The cold may have saved him since all his functions slowed down and the drinking sped up the hypothermia. I think he’ll make it. It takes a while to bleed out from the underside of the wrists.

Patrick, reassured by Andy’s nimble and competent treatment, said, Good because when he recovers, I’m going to beat his ass, his eyes fierce with tears.

One thing Patrick, why does he smell like motor oil?

I don’t know. It was on his sweatshirt. Let’s get him out of here.

They lifted him onto the transport, covered him with more blankets, and rolled him outside where Anders’ body, as though filled with electric current, recoiled from the harsh, wet chill.

CHAPTER 2

Penance

After two days in the hospital, Anders was transferred to the County Mental Health Ward, classified as an attempted suicide. Transported again by Andy, the EMT, Anders was led to the admittance clerk, seated at a desk protected by a Plexiglas shield. She pointed to a chair in front of the window and spoke through a grated opening. Andy slid a paper through a tray at the bottom and waited for her to read it.

You have to get a staff doctor to sign it, she said to Andy, her voice and demeanor impregnable.

It’s only to confirm the transport, ma’am. That’s the way I usually do it.

It’s not the way I do it. I’ll call someone. Please wait in the lobby.

Anders sensed Andy’s irritation—but accustomed to the condescending treatment of EMTs by the hospital staff, Andy remained composed. But before his retreat, he placed his hand on Anders’ shoulder and said, Take care buddy. And keep your stay short. Call me if you need a ride home.

Anders found the check-in process tedious but tolerable since it distracted him from his initial shame in being there in the first place. The room was a small alcove. Folders were stacked vertically on the clerk’s desk in a white, metal file holder beside a computer monitor. Anders noticed the absence of any personal items—a family photo, a nameplate, a house plant, or anything to identify her as a person apart from her occupation. In one corner of the ceiling was a white plastic globe with a dark lens.

—a precaution—protect her from the damaged and the possessed—it starts here—the watching—

As the interview progressed, Anders warmed up to her efficient and practiced tone, spared the cloying high-pitched whine of exaggerated sympathy that Anders had grown to despise—women talking to men in that kindergarten-teacher demeanor as though all men were essentially children and women were bound to a duty of lifelong motherhood.

She asked him about his medications, doctors, health history, diet and exercise habits. She remarked that he appeared to be in good physical condition for his age. Her response pleased him. She offered Anders the option to see a chaplain. He refused. Did he have an emergency contact? A relative or friend? There were no candidates except Patrick but Anders’ sense of betrayal to his only remaining friend compelled him to face his ordeal alone.

—my penance—my sentence—

Anders was assigned a social worker, a psychiatrist—and much to his relief—a room. The interview completed, he was led to the second floor—for nonviolent residents—by a man in blue. He would learn that staff positions were identified by the color of their scrubs.

—the upper floors? —crazier yet?—

He was given a hospital gown and allowed to keep his jeans except for his belt and his athletic shoes with the laces removed. He went straight to bed and lapsed into an attitude of utter indifference. He would serve his time, condemned to survive his humiliation, no longer pledged to any moral code except obedience to his new guardians.

—sixty years comes to this—

Alcohol, his steadfast companion, was of course no longer available, and at first he feared a sentence of continual consciousness. But that would not be the case. An aide appeared with medication—he guessed it correctly as lithium—which only increased his lethargy. It was late afternoon of the first day. From then on, he stopped counting.

The following day he was served breakfast in a small cafeteria. After his meal he was required to sit in the community room with other patients—all the worse since groups put Anders on edge even in the best of times. Anticipating his first meeting with a psychiatrist, he existed in a constant state of drowsy apathy, remotely conscious of the reason for his incarceration, but careful to avoid reliving the events of that infamous day.

The men in the community room either sat listlessly or wandered aimlessly in various states of sedation, a confederacy of misfits, except for one young man, agitated and rebellious, who tried to provoke the other residents by his rants. Under normal conditions, Anders detested such behavior. Still, the young man, his spiked hair showing the remnants of red hair dye, displayed admirable courage in resisting the effects of the sedatives forced upon him. Anders respected the boy’s rebellion.

—Rage, rage against the dying light—

After lunch, Anders was allowed to return to his room where a staff member checked on him and recorded it on a clipboard. Before dinner, he was given his meds. The rowdy young patient referred to this time as happy hour. A nurse changed the bandages on his wrists, a humiliating procedure and a reminder of his transgression. The white bands—his prison stripes—were emblems of desertion and cowardice.

—all by all and deep by deep—and more by more they dream their sleep—

Anders was desperate to be released from all vestiges of self-awareness, gravely disappointed at how badly he was finishing.

His first session with a psychiatrist was on the third day—his altar call. He was impressed with her appearance: slender, dark short hair brushed straight back, a tweed blazer—no white coat—a high necked sweater, slacks, heels, no jewelry, and a modest amount of makeup. He guessed her age as less than his, but not by much.

—a spokesperson for a TV ad promoting antidepressants—a beaming mother assembling a puzzle with her young daughter delighted with her mother’s miraculous return to good cheer—a bowl of popcorn and a baking pan of fresh brownies between them—the psychiatrist standing to one side—invisible to the resurrected mom and daughter—she speaks to the camera—‘Call your doctor now—take control of your life—in only a few short weeks you will feel the difference—you don’t need to suffer any longer’—breaks to a shot of the mother in bed with a look of despair—her face turned away from her forlorn daughter standing in the doorway—the doctor appears at her bedside—still invisible to her—‘Side effects: nausea, dizziness, memory loss, insomnia, thoughts of suicide—but don’t I look like a psychiatrist you can trust?’ "—

Her business-casual attire reminded Anders of the wealthy women he once dealt with in his previous life as a property developer. To him, women were intuitive, engaging, beguiling, and eager to include Anders in their own personal stories that made their transactions the most gratifying. There was certainly sexual tension that arose between two attractive, successful people—but for him, that was the background music.

Men who approached him with offers on his listings were obvious, insincere and tedious in their pursuits of better deals. When couples negotiated together, the male partner usually devolved into the supporting cast.

Gay couples were equally as engrossing—and contrary to popular belief—less likely to become emotional and combative with each other—although the sexual tension was there as well. Anders missed those encounters more than the money.

The doctor was seated behind her desk reading from a folder. Anders was led by a blue-scrub staff member to a chair bolted to the floor with a padded seat and armrests, upright enough to discourage slouching—a chair built to enforce attention. He sat with his legs together, his feet squarely planted and his hands gripping his thighs.

The room was the color of a lawn gone dormant. Anders was relieved there was no wall art. He hated those serene nature scenes in the offices of therapists—a glassy lake at dawn below snow-capped mountains—pathetic displays of how beautiful and fulfilling life can be and a reminder of how incapable he was to enjoy it. Nature prints and landscapes of unavailable tranquility only tormented the beleaguered patients. Anders examined the doctor’s eyes when she finally spoke. In this place, eye contact occurred only when absolutely necessary, usually in the face of a threat.

I just received your medical records. Your former therapist is a colleague of mine, she said.

Then why don’t I just see him?

He’s not available, and we agreed it wasn’t a good idea to continue with someone you’ve already seen. She read while Anders sat like a student in the principal’s office. Finally, she put down the file. How are you doing today?

—is that a rhetorical question?—do I say something clever?—

I’m alive—not that I’m too pleased about it.

How are you feeling right now?

That’s a long road to go down.

We’re not going down any long roads. Just tell me as best as you can.

It’s like I got caught cheating.

And you’re angry you got caught, that it’s all not over and you have to continue living in a dark, hopeless future where there is nothing on the horizon to give you anything to look forward to, no pleasures, no people—especially no people—or even the simplest joy, like having a home to go to, or a job, or even a walk on the beach. Does that describe you now? said the doctor.

She looked directly at Anders as she placed one elbow on her desk, no longer a female or even a person but a prosecutor exposing his guilt by repeating all the evidence against him. He was surprised by her sudden exhortation. No doctor or therapist had ever opened like this.

That was brutally honest, said Anders.

Not only are you hopeless. You don’t think anyone cares or would miss you if you were gone. Right?

—what the hell?—

Is this supposed to be therapy?

I like to cut to the chase. Honesty is all I’m looking for in this session. I’m not going to pretend you’ll feel like going to a karaoke bar after being here. That will take more treatment than we can give. We just want you stabilized so you can get out.

And convince you I won’t try this again.

Not only me but yourself too—so you can move into outside therapy to continue healing.

—not going to happen—my ways are hidden—

You think you can accomplish that where everyone else has failed? asked Anders.

You lasted sixty years. You must have done something right. I assume you’ve heard enough therapy of compassion and endured endless excavations of your past. Some of that is useful but I like to see results in this lifetime and it’s not my job to just make you feel better or take away your pain. All I can offer is that your thinking is wrong. You are likely wrong about many things and you have to learn to think otherwise.

Cognitive therapy. I’ve tried it.

You don’t try it like Korean barbeque. It’s a process, a hard one. But worth it.

I don’t see anything worth it right now.

To alleviate the guilt will take some time, said the doctor, showing a hint of compassion.

Maybe but that’s like telling a grieving parent that time will cure the pain of losing a child.

Quick to cut off this line of argument, the doctor steered him back to her lane. Time doesn’t cure anything. It’s what you do in time. Don’t waste it with self-pity. It’s curious you bring up ‘grieving.’ Has something happened recently?

—not going there—

She marched past his lack of response. Is this the first time you attempted to harm yourself?

Yes, I suppose so.

Have you ever planned it before?

What do you mean?

Have you ever actually chosen a time and place and method? Thinking about it and doing it are completely different, said the doctor firmly.

It’s more like I have spent all my life resisting the urge to do it. If you mean laying out the tools—no. Despite his low regard for psychiatry, Anders was drawn to her no-nonsense manner.

—she’s trying to provoke me—a good stimulant—

Again, just tell me what’s going on inside you right now. What emotion?

Anger. I’ve lived with this script all my life, a pervasive sadness that never lets go. It’s debilitating and exhausting, though I’ve done pretty well on sheer willpower. It may have been one event or a series of events that brought me here but I’ve always been right on the border—a fixed point. It’s a small step, you know, to actually do it.

And you think it still may only be a small step?

It lays dormant in my mind—violent thoughts. I believe no matter how innocent we try to appear, there is a breaking point in us all. Violence against ourselves, or against another.

Have you ever experienced violence against yourself, Anders?

Physically, no. So there’s no motivation down that road. But doctor, do you believe in a spiritual life? William James—a hero in your field—said we may be more connected to the invisible than the visible. Surely, in all your many hours of therapy you’ve had to deal with that.

I don’t disallow the spiritual or interior life, as I prefer to call it. The dark thoughts—the demons as you want to call them, originate within ourselves. It’s when they take control and damage our own lives or the lives of others that we need help.

From the demons?

From our thoughts.

So life is always worth living, doctor?

—how long will she play?—

I believe it is. Think about it—it’s all we’ve got. You can consider your episode in another way—you were given a second chance. After all, you did choose an unreliable method and it appears you took most of the evening thinking about it which says you may have subconsciously wanted to be rescued.

—how could she know that?—

I believe you refer to that as parasuicide. I should have used a gun, said Anders.

And why didn’t you?

It was repossessed. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the idea.

Someone removed it from your possession?

"Yes.

The man who went to your house and called the paramedics?

—they’ve been talking?—

Anders didn’t respond. He disliked being on the defensive. Her snappy replies were like a 1940’s film noir that built a momentum he wanted to slow down.

Something’s missing. Fill me in. Your doctor mentions in your file that you’ve suffered some serious financial losses, she said.

Among other things.

She noticed him backing off. So you’re a realist—most depressed people are. You expect the worst—and there is a lot of that in life—but your view is distorted and incomplete.

My losses were far more widespread than that—my business, my house, my properties, my restaurant, all my money, everything I owned—I’m bankrupt. Those aren’t cognitive distortions so don’t you think they may qualify for attempted suicide?

"I don’t know. You seemed to be