Draw the Dark

by Ilsa J. Bick

  “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.”

  She handed me an open manila folder. “Here are some citations I pulled up last night.”

  The International Journal of Applied Parapsychology

  and Neurology

  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.

  XXII

  “Don’t be crazy,” Dr. Rainier said when we were done. “I’ve kept you way over, it’s nearly eight, and it’s dark. I’d be nuts to let you bike home.

  ”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.

  It was a really nice dinner. Not that we don’t eat well. Uncle Hank’s taught me to cook, and he’s actually pretty darned good at it himself. We’re just rushed a lot, that’s all. And we’re two guys. So. You know.

  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 didn’t really have homework. I’d finished while waiting for my appointment with Dr. Rainier. I wanted to rethink my list and decide where next to go with it.

  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.

  sarah13: Where have you been? Did you get my message? ccage: I just finished dinner. I got home late, remember? I haven’t checked my messages. What is it?

  sarah13: I found it. Stuff about the Nazis...well, the German PWs. Using my dad’s account with the university. I was able to search a ton of databases. I can’t believe I never thought of this before < eye roll >. I mean, who needs the Historical Society? Well, I guess for the microfiche, but when you’ve got the search terms, it gets a ton easier.

  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:

  ccage: What? Tell me.

  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:

  sarah13: . . . and the really weird thing was when people would open their doors and there would be like their longlost brother or cousin or something.

  What? I typed:

  ccage: You’re kidding. There were people in town who had relatives who were Nazis?

  sarah13: Well, soldiers, yeah, DUH. A lot of Germans in the United States had relatives still overseas and a lot were in the war. If they got captured and sent here, they’d try to find their relatives. There are stories about long-lost cousins and brothers and things like that showing up.

  ccage: Wow. So the prisoners could just walk around?

  sarah13: Depended on where. Some towns, they were really nervous about having the prisoners there, couldn’t wait to get rid of them. But other towns, like Sheboygan, places like that, people were sort of ambivalent. Some places, the guards wouldn’t even bother with rifles. No one tried to escape because where would they go? They got fed, and they got money, and they were taken care of, and they had work.

  What would be the point?

  ccage: What about Camp Winter?

  sarah13: Like the newspaper said, Eisenmann—only he was real YOUNG—he donated his old dormitories. Some of the prisoners went to work in the fields, and others worked in the foundry. This pissed off the union, and they were going to strike, only there was a fire that killed a bunch of union officials, and then the strike just kind of went away. This was after the murder too, so I guess the union didn’t have much stomach left for fighting.

  ccage: Who set the fire?

  sarah13: No one knows. They said arson, but it was never solved. The fire was like a very big deal down in Milwaukee because of the union thing; there were a bunch of people saying that Eisenmann had broken the union’s back, and some people said maybe he got his guys to set the fire. Only he was in the clear because he was in the hospital. The Milwaukee paper said Mr. Witek’s father really cut him up pretty bad....That’s where all his scars come from. Anyway, the papers said that maybe Eisenmann’s people did it, but nothing was ever done.

  ccage: What about church people? Remember the article? It said that some church groups were protesting.

  Then I thought of something else.

  Wait a second . . . when was the fire? Was it the Sunday that the union people were meeting?

  sarah13: No, it was a week later, on a Saturday night. The union people were meeting after the end of their services— Jewish people have their Sabbath on Friday night and all day Saturday ...

  ccage: No kidding. That’s weird.

  sarah13: Well, not if you’re Jewish. Anyway, there we
re a bunch of nonunion people there too and their families. The fire killed like fifteen people, and all but two were Jews.

  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.

  sarah13: Christian, your great-grandfather, he was one of the fifteen who died. The Milwaukee newspaper said that he got four people out and then went back in.

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

  ccage: He went back to rescue someone else?

  sarah13: No. That’s what’s so amazing. He went back for the Torah scrolls.

  ccage: ?

  sarah13: Parchment scrolls of the first five books of the Bible, Genesis thru Deuteronomy. The Jews call them the Five Books of Moses, and the whole Torah’s done by hand. Hang on, I’ll send you a picture....

  A link appeared, and I clicked on it.

  sarah13: got it?

  ccage: Yeah.

  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.