Though Charles Broder sat for endless hours staring out the window, he was not exactly catatonic; he could change his clothes and eat but had to be led about, and talking with him was impossible. It had been that way for the five days he had been on the ward. He was preoccupied; his mind was elsewhere and the staff at Bay Heights Mental Hospital called him schizophrenic. He sat. And he stared. The world went on around him, but he reacted as though he did not see it.
But he did see. And he saw very well. He looked inside himself and watched. And listened.
It was dark inside Charles. So very, very dark. “I am alone,” he whispered to himself. “Am I the only one here? Just me? Is there no one else? Please! Please—anyone? Is there anyone to hear me?”
Finally one day, Charles thought he heard something. “Charles? Charles? Can you hear me?”
Charles listened, suddenly intent. Had he heard something that was not there? For it sounded like the wind blowing over grass or water. Charles listened. He peered into the blackness and he listened. He heard nothing. Bitter, he fell back into himself and stared glumly at the darkness.
Charles’ parents came up to visit him. Mechanically, Charles looked at them. Mr. Broder slapped his son on the shoulders. “How’s my boy doin’?” Charles did not respond. Mr. Broder frowned. He was a husky, thick man with large hands and wearing a ring with a large red stone on one finger of his right hand. On the thick wrist of his left hand he wore a watch; the band was silver and the sunlight coming in the day room window shone on the band, forming a miniature sunburst. Charles looked at the brilliance and slowly blinked. Uneasily, Mr. Broder took off his coat. “Everyone has been askin’ about you. The coach is more than willing to let you try out for the team again—but hey...” and he leaned close to Charles, “ya gotta cut down on the book work a little. I know you can do it, Tiger.”
Mrs. Broder gave a warning look at her husband. Then, as if preoccupied, she patted the fur piece that draped around her neck and shoulders. Her grey eyes showed concern and worry. She suddenly smiled. “Oh,” she said and she leaned over as though sharing some gossip, “I talked to your teachers. They understand. You’re still in the honors program. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Charles turned away and looked out the window again. It was late afternoon and the sun, low in the sky, turned Charles’ eyes green and deep, like pools of translucent jade.
Mr. and Mrs. Broder exchanged angry looks; the covert messages flashed back and forth: Why did you have to mention football? Why did you mention school? It’s your fault; he’ll never get better. Damn you.
Mrs. Broder bit her lip. “We’ll be back tomorrow. Take care.” Mrs. Broder leaned and kissed Charles on the cheek. Mr. Broder ruffled Charles’ hair. They left the room. Charles did not turn to see them go. The attendant came in a few minutes later, helped Charles to his feet, and took him to dinner.
That night, Charles lay in bed, eyes open, staring into the darkness, staring into himself. “Charles...?”
Charles stiffened.
“Charles...?”
Charles swallowed. “Yes,” he said, “yes—I hear you. Who are you?”
“I am one like you. Look around in yourself. Do you see me?”
Charles looked. At first he saw nothing. The darkness in himself was as indistinguishable as the darkness outside himself. It suddenly occurred to him that he was without boundaries. There was no separateness from the darkness within and the darkness without.
“Do you see me, Charles?”
Charles looked inside himself. Hard. Hard. He blinked his inner eyes. There was something. Something very, very faint—a wisp of a lighter darkness, a strand of darker fog. “Yes,” said Charles, “yes, yes. What is it?”
“That’s me, Charles.”
“But what are you?”
“A protostar.”
“Protostar? Protostar? What is a protostar?”
“A stellar fetus, Charles. The mating of atoms, the accumulation of matter, the gathering of darkness into light. What are you, Charles?”
Charles shook his head. “I don’t know. Oh, God, I don’t know!”
The protostar then spoke with a profound gentleness. “Have faith, Charles, have faith. For I can see you. You appear to me as I appear to you, a small, ill-formed island of dark grey. But you have a voice, Charles, you have a voice. All you need is faith in that voice.”
The protostar became quiet. Charles blinked his inner eyes again, wondering if, by doing so, the protostar would vanish. It did not.
* * *
The next day, the social worker, Andrea, a short, blonde, and usually bright and sparkling woman, came into the nursing office and, with frustration and exhaustion, collapsed into a chair. The medical student, Mark, a rather lean fellow with glasses and a taste for red ties, glanced up from reading a chart. “What’s going on with you?” he asked. “Micro-psychotic break?” He grinned.
Andrea sneered. “Shove it.” She closed her eyes. “That does it,” she finally said, “That does it.” She opened her eyes. “I hate to do it, but Mr. and Mrs. Broder are going to have to be restricted from the ward. You have any idea what kind of trips they’re laying on Charles? Do you have any idea?”
Mark took off his glasses and waited.
“Father wanted Charles to be on the high school football team. Mother doesn’t want Charles to play football. She wants him taking all honors courses. So, to please father, Charles tried to make the football team but because he was trying to please mother, he had to study—and to study he had to miss some football practice, which meant he did not get on the team—and because he tried out for football, he couldn’t study as much, which meant that he got failing grades in his courses—which means that Charles probably feels he’s an utter failure.”
Mark sighed. “Would seem to me that Charles is a victim of stereo rejection.”
“Oh, yes,” said Andrea, sticking the end of a pencil between her teeth. “It’s that; it’s also confusion between a feeling and one’s personality: Charles feels like a failure, therefore believes himself to be a failure therefore acts like one. It makes as much sense as saying, ‘I have an upset stomach, therefore my entire personality is an upset stomach.’ But with Charles, there’s that but also something a little different going on.”
Mark cleaned his glasses with his tie and put them back on.
Andrea spoke again. “Mommy and daddy are rejecting each other and doing it through Charles.”
Mark just shook his head. “Ouch.”
* * *
Night again.
“Charles?”
Charles looked about. There. There it was. The protostar. A little brighter. “Hello,” said Charles. “It’s easier to see you tonight.” He paused. “What’s it like being a protostar?”
The protostar was stronger, its sigh was audible across the great distance. “Difficult, Charles, difficult. Forming in darkness. Forming out of darkness. It’s so hard, so very, very difficult and it takes so long. And just when I think it seems so impossible, I look around and I see where I am now. And I look to the future and see how far there is to go. But I’m growing, Charles, I’m growing, slowly, slowly.” The protostar paused. “I see you more clearly, Charles, you, too, are gathering your form from darkness.”
“I am?”
“Yes, yes, I even hear it in your voice. You’re stronger.”
And Charles thought for a minute and suddenly realized his thinking was clearer. “I do feel better,” Charles replied. But then there was sadness in his voice, “but what if...”
“Faith,” replied the protostar, “faith in the act of creating yourself.”
But the sadness was still in Charles’ voice. “I can’t. I can’t! I feel like such a failure. My life is a failure! I can do nothing! Nothing! Nothing!”
Suddenly the voice of the protostar was very far away. “Charles.... Charles... you’re fading... fading... darkness...”
“My parents hate me...”
“... darkness, Charles, darkness, darkness.”
Suddenly Charles caught himself. “Protostar, protostar—don’t go away—please don’t go away...”
“I must, Charles, I must. You’re turning into a darkness darker than space; you’re becoming a massive black star radiating unbelievable coldness and darkness and I’ll not let you destroy me. I have faith in the light and the warmth; you have faith in the dark and the cold. No, Charles, no, no, no...”
Inside himself, Charles watched the protostar fade until he could no longer see it. Again he was alone. But not the same. The staff noticed it. Andrea commented to Mark, “Something is going on with him. He no longer stares out the window but he looks down—like he’s looking at himself.”
“Does that mean he’s improved?”
Andrea shook her head. “I wish I knew.”
And Charles sat, looking down and in his mind he whispered over and over again, “Protostar? Protostar? Where are you?”
Finally, an answer. “...Charles...?”
“I’m sorry, Protostar...”
“Don’t be sorry for what you do to me. Be sorry for what you do to yourself.” There was a long, long pause. “You’re better.”
“How can you tell?”
“You’re brighter.”
“You’re brighter also.”
“I know. I’m revolving now, faster, faster, gathering myself about. I grow in strength and as I become assured of that growth, I seem to be able to gather even more atoms, more and more and I keep growing, the temperature within me rises, I become warmer, denser, my gravity increases, I spin faster and attract even more material and the process keeps on until my birth.”
Charles thought for a minute. “Your birth? You’re already born, aren’t you?”
“I know what I am to be. Physically, I’m still a stellar fetus. When I turn into a sun, I will truly be born; the physical and the potential will merge and become real. And Charles, that’s what you’re going to have to do. You have to be born, too.”
“I don’t understand,” Charles said, “I don’t understand at all. I’ve been born.”
“Physically, but not psychologically. Do you see the difference? Physically you exist, but who are you? What are you to be? I know what I am to be—a sun. I am going to be born! I believe in the process that is occurring within me. I am patient for I know the process takes time. I know the change will occur—my potential will become actual—and when it does, I shall be a star. I’ll be born.”
“What has that to do with me?”
“Everything! Believe in yourself, Charles. Love yourself. Trust yourself. Believe in your potential! Your worth! That’s what I mean by being born! Believe in you!”
Charles felt incalculable despair. “How?” He shook his head. “How? How? How?”
“The same way I have done it. I have looked at myself and doing so, defined myself. I am a protostar. I shall be a sun. What are you, Charles? What are you?”
* * *
When Andrea and Mark walked out of the day room, they exchanged puzzled glances. They stopped in the hallway, beyond the doorway so that they could not be heard nor seen by Charles.
Andrea leaned against the wall and sighed. “This work can be so hard. I wish he could talk!”
Mark frowned. “It’s so obvious that something is happening. I can’t help but feel that he’s perplexed...”
“Yeah,” Andrea nodded quickly, “yeah, like he’s really puzzled about something...”
Mark shrugged, took off his glasses and cleaned them. “At least he’s showing some emotion—as far as I’m concerned, it’s the best he’s looked since he’s been here.” He put his glasses back on.
Andrea again nodded. “Oh, yeah, I agree. But what is changing? What the hell is he going through? What’s happening? That’s what’s so frustrating. We don’t know.”
Mark smiled. “I thought psychiatry had all this stuff figured out.”
“How I wish,” she laughed, “how I wish.” She pushed herself away from the wall and they both walked down the hallway to the office.
* * *
That night, Charles lay in bed.
“You’re looking much brighter, Charles.”
“Been thinking.” For the first time in a long, long time, Charles laughed. “Gathering light from the darkness. How are you doing?”
“My time draws near. Very, very near. A little more time, a little more substance. It is difficult to wait; I am eager to be born. I want to be a sun. And you, Charles. And you. You, too, can be a sun. Believe in yourself, Charles, believe, believe, believe in yourself.”
Charles did not answer, but felt reassured. And as he lay in bed, he became suddenly aware of the pressure of the covers; slowly he rubbed his hand on them and felt the texture. He placed his hand on the wall and felt the smooth coolness of it.
The next day he was moving about the ward. He looked about himself in the dayroom; to the blue-green carpet, the pictures on the wall, the wall shelf cluttered with books, games, music and puzzles and he constantly touched things: chairs, tables. He stopped and listened. Someone was playing Bob Dylan’s Ballad of a Thin Man. He smiled. He liked the music. The meaning of the words escaped him but he liked the song.
Often he would stop and simply look about with an expression of surprise. It was as though the world about him was a sudden occurrence; that it had just happened and he was only now aware of it.
Finally he went to the window. With fascination, he looked out over Seattle; he watched the water of Puget Sound sparkle, he stared at the Olympic Mountains and studied their snowy ruggedness. He looked to the partly-clouded sky and was as amazed to see the sky blue as he was fascinated to see the seeming impossibility of such bulky and heavy-looking clouds—floating. In disbelief, he watched the clouds move and saw the intensity and pattern of sunlight change over the city, the water, the mountains. Once he glanced to the sun and, before he sneezed, found himself amazed that it was so white and bright.
Mark and Andrea watched all this—utterly mystified. “Well,” Andrea said, “what can you say?” She watched a while longer, then turning to Mark said, “Hey, look. Will you call up Charles’ parents? They’re going on a two week vacation the day after tomorrow and before they go, we need to get ourselves, Charles and his parents together to decide what Charles is going to do when he leaves the hospital.”
Mark made a note in a little memo book which he kept in his breast pocket. “Will do,” he said.
* * *
Again, that night Charles listened and watched. The protostar was now very bright and it spoke with eagerness. “My time comes, Charles. I feel it. I feel it.”
Charles was excited. “Your birth? You are going to be born?”
“Yes, yes—it’s coming—deep within—the conversion is taking place—the nuclear fires are transforming—yes, yes, the heat, it’s coming—yes—yes—almost—ah! Now! Now! Ah! Ah! AHHHHEEEEIIIIII—” Then an explosion of light—bright, intense, white, white, burning, burning white. And slowly it faded, faded, and there, there, still surrounded by the whiteness and heat of birth—a new star, a new sun and a voice: “I am! I am a sun! My photons race from me carrying the message of my new being to the entire universe! From the darkness I have come! I have gathered the darkness and turned it into heat and light! Oh, galaxies! The power! The beauty! Oh, galaxies, galaxies, galaxies! My birth! My being!”
Charles watched the white fires of the sun dance and he felt the heat and the joy and his own tears at seeing the stunning beauty and elegance of being. “Oh, galaxies!” he heard the sun sing, “There’s never been one just like me before; I am unique in my own awareness! My own fire burns between the night of what was before me and the night that shall come after me! And for now—this moment! This heat! To truly be what I have waited and worked and wanted to be! I have arrived!” And then, softly, softly, gently as wind on a kitten’s fur, “And now, Charles, now, now you!”
Charles could say nothing. But within him he felt resolve and a sudden power. “Yes,” he whispered, “yes, yes. Oh, yes!”
* * *
The family conference was at eleven o’clock the next day. Mr. and Mrs. Broder were ushered into the conference room by Mark and Andrea.
Mr. Broder walked over to Charles and presented him with a stack of sports and football magazines. “Here, son; your mother and I had quite a tussle over whether or not I should bring them, but I felt that while you were up here, you might want to read up on plays and positions—it will help you when you try for the team when you get out.”
Charles held the magazines. He looked at them as though they were utterly alien. And as he looked at them, something within him moved—the conversion—the melting—the heat!
His mother then gave him his school books, stacking them neatly on top of the sports magazines. “I don’t know if you’re going to have time to play much football, dear,” she said, “I signed you up for all honors classes next quarter and brought your books so that you might begin studying.”
Charles looked at the books—what were they? And something within him—something boomed and thudded and shrieked and atoms were stripped and the sudden heat was intense. Charles shook his head. He handed the magazines back to his father. “I...” It came out a squeak. He had not used his vocal cords for several weeks and his voice seemed strange to him. He took a deep breath and began again. “I hate football.”
The melting! The fusion! The intense, frightening, burning light and the heat! The heat! The heat!
“And I hate school!” He handed the books back to his mother. Suddenly, within him—a blinding light, brilliant and searing! He closed his eyes and, looking into himself, saw no darkness and it was done. Within himself he heard a voice, “Ah, Charles, Charles! You burn with the light of a billion stars! You are a sun! You are born! We are brothers in being, sisters in light! Ah, Charles, Charles, Charles, such shining, brilliant beauty!”
“Oh, God,” Charles replied, “the heat, the heat, the beautiful, beautiful heat. And all around me, all within me, light, light, light!”
Charles stood in the conference room and smiled. Mark and Andrea looked at each other with profound surprise and awe. Charles’ parents looked utterly devastated. And they all stared at Charles and no one, no one could understand that strange and beautiful light, burning, burning, in his eyes.