Draw the Dark (16 page)

”My mind was still grappling with the image of German prisoners

the prisoners are staring out through the open boxcars

marching down Main Street and so it took me a second to focus.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Dr. Rainier folded her hands over her knees. “You asked me if I believed in ESP, and I said no. But then I got to thinking about what you’d said about when you drew that picture, the one that’s the same as in Mr. Witek’s room, and so I did a little research of my own.”

“On ESP?”

“Sort of. On brain injury and changes in function following such an injury. Mr. Witek’s stroke happened about a month ago. About a week before you came to the home, he had another . . . event. I don’t really know what you’d call it, but his brain showed a sustained and very intense burst of activity. If I’m not mistaken, it happened right around midnight, and I recall that when I looked at the record the next morning and went over it with the neurologist at the hospital, we both agreed: it looked like a variant of high-intensity REM activity but predominantly right-sided.”

“REM sleep. I’ve heard of that. Isn’t that when you dream?”

“That’s right. There’s so much about the brain we don’t know, and when a patient’s in terminal-stage Alzheimer’s, you’ve got widespread dysfunction. Some regions of the brain may actually be disinhibited.”

“Disinhibited . . . You mean, they wake up?”

“That’s a good way of putting it. Newborns have a whole repertoire of reflexes we adults don’t. That’s because their brains are immature. As you grow, you develop more function that covers over these primitive reflexes.”

“So, in Alzheimer’s, it’s like the brain goes into reverse.”

“Somewhat. So,
maybe
, some brain capabilities we never fully appreciate come to the fore—not just the return of primitive reflexes but perhaps other functions and abilities. . . .” She paused for a beat, as if for emphasis, then continued, “Faculties we would never see otherwise.”

Other abilities. Other faculties. I knew where she was going with this. Abilities like . . . telepathy? Like my brain as some kind of receiver?

She said, “Now, it’s a fact that sleep architecture is greatly disturbed after you’ve had a stroke. Some patients barely sleep at all, and this, of course, leads to a lot of post-stroke confusion and disability. What happens to dream sleep after you’ve had a stroke is pretty interesting too. Depending upon which side of the brain you have your stroke, you can either dream more or less. Mr. Witek had a left-sided stroke. People like him dream more and for longer periods of time, and it doesn’t take as long after they’ve fallen asleep for REM sleep to begin.”

“So Mr. Witek has been dreaming a lot.”

“Yes, but.” She held up a finger. “He’s been doing something else too. You know what a flashback is? And a seizure?”

“Not really. I mean, I’ve heard of them, but . . .”

“Okay, let me put it this way. Someone who’s suffered a traumatic event frequently has flashbacks: periods when they actually relive the event in every detail. Sight, sound, smell, you name it. It’s like suddenly being swallowed up in a virtual reality bubble. Many people who have what are called partial complex seizures will also experience powerful feelings of déjà vu. Patients with PTSD frequently show more right-sided brain activation during a flashback than people who are just remembering something and then telling you about it.”

She was losing me, and I told her so. “How does this relate to me?”

“When you went sleepwalking and drew that picture? That was very close to the time when Mr. Witek’s brain manifested this bizarre and unexpected activation.”

“Why would his brain do that? I mean, was it because of the stroke?”

“Maybe. Or maybe his brain was always that way. But he had a normal and intact brain, relatively speaking. His stroke postdated his slide into dementia where people tend to dwell more in the past anyway. My point is that perhaps this peculiar brain activity was masked when more of his brain was healthy. Then he has his stroke; the left-side of his brain goes a little kaflooey, and then the right side is back with a vengeance.” She paused and then asked, “Were you having headaches?”

“Yes. I still have them. Right here.” I pointed to my left temple and then pressed the top of my head. “And here, like someone’s bashing me with a brick.”

“Is this the first time this has ever happened to you?”

“For the headaches? Yeah.”

“What about the other stuff? The drawing you did of Lucy with the parasol and the . . . vision you saw before you got to the activities room? Where you got into someone’s head? That ever happen before with anyone other than Miss Stefancyzk?”

I wanted to tell her about Aunt Jean. But I couldn’t. So I shook my head. I’m not sure she believed me. But she said, “Remember what I said about empathy? I’ve known some exquisitely gifted therapists who really were able to immerse themselves into a patient’s worldview. Their boundaries were very fluid. So that made me curious about intuition, telepathy, things like that.”

I wasn’t sure I’d heard right. “Do you really believe in telepaths?”

“Let’s say I don’t disbelieve. There’s plenty of literature on people who’ve unlocked amazing talents after a head injury: artists, writers.”

“Yeah, but a lot of them were crazy or just plain weird,” I said, remembering my conversation with Sarah. “Well, that’s me, I guess. So you’re saying I’m a freak?”

“No,” said Dr. Rainier. “I’m saying that you may not be the only one.”

The International Journal of Applied Parapsychology

Research Trends in Parapsychology

Phenomenological Inquiry

Transcultural Trends in Paranormal Psychology

Voodoo. That’s what Uncle Hank would’ve called it.

She said, “Christian, I think you’ve had some kind of ability for a long time and you know how to suppress it. Perhaps strong emotions cause this ability to express itself, the way certain stimuli can promote a seizure. But there’s been a change—only not in you. The change has been in Mr. Witek. That drawing you did of the oil painting in his room would suggest that his mind has found
you
. The onset of your current problems happened very close to Mr. Witek’s stroke—”

“My headaches. You mean, I felt his stroke?”

“Possibly. At least, part of it. I’ll also bet there’s more that you’ve experienced that you haven’t told me.... That’s okay.” She held up a hand like a traffic cop. “A shrink isn’t a mind policeman. You’re entitled to keep certain things private—so long as they’re the
right
things.” She added after a second, “That was a joke.”

“I . . . I’m not getting a lot of humor right now.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” My voice ramped up a notch. I was gripped with this weird, shaky feeling, like I was going to scream or cry or explode. “Do you, really?”

“Yes.” She reached out and circled her fingers around my wrist, very gently. “I think you and Mr. Witek may be working together, or your mind provides a conduit Mr. Witek’s lacked. You’re special, Christian, in ways that most of us can’t really understand. As for Mr. Witek . . . well, I think his stroke disabled part of his brain but either freed or activated another. He’s probably lost time sense he had before, because of his dementia. So what if the stroke has triggered flashbacks to something in his past? Or caught him in some loop where that’s all his brain
can
do? And what if he’s always had these flashbacks but kept them under wraps?”

She let go, swiveled in her chair, fingered up a piece of paper. “Right here, from the
International Proceedings of the Academy of Parapsychological Psychiatry . . .
there’s a case study of a stroke victim who suffered from unremitting flashbacks to a car accident fifty years earlier that wiped out his whole family. He couldn’t control the flashbacks, and they seemed much worse when he would enter REM sleep.” She looked up from the paper and held my eyes. “You and Mr. Witek might be synergistic because I’ve been decreasing his sedation little by little, letting him wake up. Clearly, the scene you drew and the barn have significance for him—and now we know why.”

“Because the barn’s where the murder happened,” I whispered. My lips wouldn’t work quite right; I felt as if I’d been out in a blinding snowstorm for way too long, and I was stiff as a board. “Because that’s where a man died.”

“That’s right,” said Dr. Rainier softly. “For poor David Witek, history stopped right there, when he was just a little boy. No wonder his mind returns there, to that barn.”

I nodded as if I agreed with her—but I knew something now that she couldn’t possibly because I hadn’t told her. I hadn’t told anyone: not about the dreams or falling into that little boy’s body.

Mr. Witek’s memories didn’t circle that barn like a drain because his father had killed someone there. Poor Mr. Witek thought about that barn all the time because when his father murdered Walter Brotz, Mr. Witek—David—was there.

”I didn’t point out that a shrink being nuts was probably not a good thing. On the other hand, maybe it takes one to know one, like she said. “But I’ve got my bike.”

“Which you’re going to load onto my truck. I’ve already called your uncle and left a message.”

“What?
When
?”

“When you rescheduled. You didn’t call, did you?” When I shook my head, she tsked. “Christian, you need to learn that people care about you.”

“Not everybody.”

“Even if it’s only one person, you owe your uncle the courtesy of letting him know where you are. He worries about you.”

More like worries what I might do next.
That’s what I thought but didn’t say. Anyway, Dr. Rainier wouldn’t listen to any objections. She clicked off her office lights and shoved me out the door. “Let’s go.”

Whatever Uncle Hank was going to say pretty much died behind his teeth when he saw Dr. Rainier standing there. Before he could recover, she said, “It was my fault, Hank. We rescheduled and then I wouldn’t let Christian bike home in the dark. You got my message, right?” When he nodded, she said, “So, here we are.”

“Yes.” Uncle Hank’s lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. “Here you are. Well, at least he listens to
you
.”

“She didn’t give me a choice,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” he said, with mock dubiousness. “Well, come on in. You had your supper yet?”

“What are you offering?” She said it seriously enough, but I saw the laughter in her eyes—and it suddenly dawned on me that the two of them were
flirting
.
Flirting!

“Penne in primavera sauce,” said Uncle Hank. “Salad. Picked up a loaf of bread, did it up with garlic. And I might scrounge a bottle of wine somewhere.”

I did a double take. This late, we usually do canned hash and eggs or something. But penne? Garlic bread?

Dr. Rainier only smiled—which kind of answered my questions.

But this was nice. The food was great, and the whole thing was comfortable, having all three of us at the table. Uncle Hank and Dr. Rainier acted like they’d known each other a long time. You could see that they fit, and I knew they liked each other. It made me think again about what Uncle Hank had said—how he wouldn’t say or do anything with Dr. Rainier—and I wondered why not. Then I thought:
You idiot, it’s because of you.
Of course. I was Dr. Rainier’s
patient
. He wouldn’t do anything to interfere with what was best for me.

As weird as it sounds, that made me start thinking about leaving again. About how Uncle Hank might be a lot better off if I wasn’t around to keep spoiling things. . . .

“Christian?” Uncle Hank eyed me across the table. “You all right?”

“Fine.” I screwed on a smile and tried not to look at Dr. Rainier. (Stupid;
she
couldn’t read minds. Still.) Scraping back my chair, I gathered up my dishes. “I still have homework, though.” That reminded me. “Uncle Hank, I need to do more research at the Historical Society, only they close early on Fridays. I’ll be able to get in tomorrow because it’s a teacher workday, but if I need more time, is there any way you can get me in?”

“Well.” Uncle Hank’s eyebrows tented in a frown. “I don’t know. I hate to inconvenience people. Have you ever thought of just asking? On your own?”

Yeah, right, like people were going to open their doors to the town curse. That must’ve shown on my face because he held up a hand. “You know, that was dumb. Of course, I’ll help if I can. I can call first thing tomorrow, see if maybe there’s some way you can use their resources after hours. After all, you are working on a legitimate project.”

“And Sarah,” I put in. I felt Dr. Rainier’s eyes on me. “She’s helped a lot...and...you know...”

“Fair enough,” said Uncle Hank, and then he snapped his fingers. “I forgot. The anthropologist will be here tomorrow.”

Dr. Rainier perked up. “Really? Oh, Hank, I wish I’d had more warning; I would’ve shuffled patients so I could be there. What time?”

“Marjorie said bright and early, around about eight or so.”

Dr. Rainier was already up. She riffled through her purse, fished out an iPhone, and started tapping. “I won’t be able to get free until eleven or so. Well, better than nothing.”

I was calculating furiously. There was research to do in the Historical Society, but the pull, the
draw
I felt—this sixth sense that the baby’s body was important—was very strong. “Can I come? You said it would be okay and Sarah . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, I checked, I didn’t forget,” said Uncle Hank. “The anthropologist—Nichols—said it would be fine. Just mind what she says. You want to call Sarah?”

“I’ll let her know. Thanks.” Then I had another thought. “If that’s okay with you, Dr. Rainier. I mean, maybe you don’t want me to see where you live or something.... Maybe there are some kind of, I dunno,
rules
.”

“Thanks for asking. As it happens, there
are
rules.” Then she grinned as she took up her wine glass. “I’ve already broken several. So what’s one more?”

I never check for messages; who would e-mail me, after all? So when I fired up my computer, I was surprised when Sarah pinged me right away.

Of course, she couldn’t know about what I’d discovered with Dr. Rainier. I started typing
Yeah, I found out stuff, too
— but then I erased it. I could feel Sarah’s excitement vibrating through the screen. She’d done something for me, and I remembered what she’d said the other night about me making it hard for people to be nice to me. (Heck, if I were being Freudian, Dr. Rainier, I might start talking about self-fulfilling prophecy.) So, instead I typed:

Sarah went on to detail pretty much all the stuff I already knew. She was so happy, though, that it gave me a good feeling to let her go on. Then she wrote something that made me sit up:

What? I typed:

Then I thought of something else.

I felt sick. Fifteen innocent people, and to the Jews, the symbolism of the fire and being burned alive, especially in light of the Nazi death camps, must’ve been devastating.

Sarah went on.

This was news. Uncle Hank had never mentioned this. All I knew was the dying-in-the-fire bit.

A link appeared, and I clicked on it.

A window opened and a photo of a muscular man popped onto the screen. In either hand, he held one end of a large wooden dowel. His arms were spread to reveal a large section of inked parchment held tautly between the dowels. The scroll unrolled from side to side, not up and down as I expected—the way you see pictures of Romans reading scrolls, for example. Zooming in, I saw the same kind of stylized letters I’d seen on Mr. Witek’s mezuzah. The scroll was very tall too, easily three to four feet high.

Holy crap. I wondered if Uncle Hank knew this. Ten to one, he didn’t. So never mind that this was a piece of Winter’s past that no one ever talked about—which was kind of ironic, considering that our assignment had been to look at local history. Yet hadn’t Dr. Rainier said history was written by the winners? In this case, the town’s history had been completely whitewashed, obliterated, relegated to old newspapers.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. I mean, I was a prime example of something people wanted to forget. Ignore me to death and eventually I’ll go away. I could see that this might all be stuff people really wanted erased: the day the Germans came, the murder, the fire, all of it.