Ezembe

by Jeffrey L. Morris

  “Okay, what are we looking at here?”

  “This is a painting that illustrates what I saw when I was infected the other week.”

  “Um, baby, that is just a bunch of gold balls. Did you paint your dreams?”

  “No, Mom, I painted this years ago. This is what my insides looked like when I was in the hospital.”

  “Looks more like a bunch of Christmas tree ornaments to me. Why is it you think you were able to see an infection? Look, I see infections all the time, and I can tell you they look nothing like this.”

  “You’re missing the point. I saw this, and I knew it was an infection at the time.”

  “There’s a million explanations for that, and none of them involve an ‘out-of-body experience’, or an ‘into-body experience’, for that matter. The mind plays funny tricks on us, honey, and that’s all this is: your mind playing tricks. So you had a bad dream and painted it. A dream is no kind of evidence.”

  “No, no! You’re not listening! I painted that years ago. About ten years ago. Look, it’s dated.”

  “Okay, so you painted this, and then you had a dream where you dredged it up again. It’s really as simple as that, Jimmy.”

  “Mother, I’m not a child.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Remember Francis Falcone?”

  “Of course I do. And I remember your histrionics when he died.” Karen reached forward and took James’ hand in hers. “James, there is no question in my mind that you have some sort of empathy for people who are ill. I could see it in you from the time you were very small. I kind of hoped it would lead to a career in medicine. That was not to be, and that’s fine; I only wanted you to be happy, period. And you were—you are! You just can’t go back down this road again.”

  James pulled free and signaled the waitress for a refill as an excuse. “I saw someone with something like what Francis had the other day. The delivery guy from the market. I could see that whatever he had was killing him.”

  Karen’s expression was pained. “Look, the supernatural might be fun, palm reading at parties and all that, but it has no place in medicine. What you have is a good eye for someone who is suffering and an even better imagination, that’s all.”

  “No, Mom. I’ve had my own doubts over the years, but this is real.”

  The waitress brought over two coffees and placed them on the table.

  “Thank you.” James paused, then asked the girl, “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  “Uh, okay, sure.”

  “Do you have a headache or something like that right now?”

  She eyed him warily. “Uh, yeah, I’m getting a migraine. Why?”

  Karen poked him sharply. “James!”

  “Okay, sorry, sorry. Nothing. Just asking. Thanks.”

  Karen sat sideways in her chair and hissed out the corner of her mouth, “Poor girl, what will she think?”

  “What do you think?”

  “My mind hasn’t changed! You have a good eye, and I can’t deny that. Maybe if you educated yourself in the sciences, you would see how ridiculous all this is.” Karen tapped the table impatiently. “Any doctor would tell you what I am telling you now.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Wharton went through all of that crap with me. In the end, all he did was teach me to be quiet about it.”

  “Well, I always suspected you were pretending, but at least he got you behaving like a human being.”

  “I grew up learning to fit in is all!” James snapped. “All I was doing was avoiding the nuthouse by learning to live a lie. Listen, Mom, I don’t blame you. This whole thing is nuts.” He paused. The word “nuts” had been an unfortunate choice. “But I also learned to manage this thing, whatever it is, as I got older.”

  “Well, that was something anyhow,” Karen said, making it obvious she didn’t believe it was something at all.

  “Well, how about looking at this delivery guy I told you about?”

  “You can’t just pick people up off the street and give them physicals. We’re not the medical police.”

  “I know, but could you maybe just have a look at him?”

  “No! Visiting some fellow in a deli wouldn’t tell me anything anyhow.” Karen sighed. “Don’t you get it? Can’t you just drop this thing? Or become a doctor, for Christ’s sake. You’re still young and you’re smart enough, God knows.”

  “Well, I still have no interest in that, and even if I were smart enough to be a doctor, I still probably wouldn’t be able to figure this thing out.” James fidgeted some.

  “That’s fine, but I still don’t understand what it is you expect me to do.”

  “Well, you could try and believe me, for one thing!”

  “Oh, Jimmy, I wish I could, I really do.”

  “Really, I need some help here. Run some tests on me or something.”

  “Tests? What sort of tests? Jimmy, this is mumbo-jumbo you’re talking about here, not science. There’s nothing to test. You could come to the hospital and diagnose some patients, but all you are apparently able to say is that they’re sick in some sort of vague way. I keep trying to tell you it’s not much more than a parlor trick.”

  ’Fessing up about his experiments in the apartment was tempting, but James knew it wouldn’t help.

  “There must be some way of proving this is real.”

  “Well, I can’t think of one. If you had looked at that girl and told me exactly what was causing her headache, well, maybe. But all you did was pick up on some not-so-subliminal signals. Your delivery guy looks like hell, right? He’s obese, and I’ll bet he’s not fit. Am I right? How old is he?”

  “I don’t know. Fifty-something?”

  “I’d be surprised if there was nothing wrong with him. If he looks as bad as you say, it’s likely to be something chronic or very serious. So you see, that’s no sort of proof either.”

  They both fell silent. James searched for a way to tell her about his adventures in microbe-land without having her ring the doodle-doodle wagon. Finally he just said, “There’s more. I can smell microbes or bacteria or something.”

  “We can all smell them, honey. They give off chemicals that make smells. That’s why your pits smell—bacteria.”

  “Yeah, okay, but this is different. It’s not really a smell per se. I mean, it kind of feels like one, but it’s not.”

  Karen rolled her eyes.

  “Just hear me out. I’ve always had a bit of that sense, but after the accident it just exploded in my head. I began to sense them all over the place.”

  “Well, I have to admit this is making your claim a little more believable. If your sense of smell is that refined, then perhaps that explains your sensitivity.”

  “Maybe,” James conceded. Maybe it was best to quit while he was ahead, but he quickly added, “I can smell things without my nose, and like I say, they aren’t really smells.”

  “What do you mean, not really smells? Are they or aren’t they?”

  “Well, I tried pinching my nose and holding my breath, and I could still smell them.”

  “You had some fumes trapped in your sinuses, that’s all. Or are you trying to tell me you have a nose somewhere else?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t. But it’s kind of strange. It’s like a smell, but it’s not. When I sense it, it becomes kind of aural and kind of visual, too. It’s hard to explain. You know when you hear a song and it makes pictures in your head? It’s kind of like that. It’s like I’m smelling, hearing, and seeing it all at the same time.”

  “You’re just reinforcing my argument now. Right, look.” Karen leaned over the table. “I can see where this could lead you to believe all of this is some sort of visionary experience. Only a few hundred years ago, people still believed smells made people ill. They called it miasmatism. It wasn’t till they discovered germs that that notion finally disappeared. Smell is a powerful provocateur of memories in most people, and it has a strong suggestive element. Ever notice how a smell can bring ba
ck a memory suddenly?”

  James nodded.

  “You’re observant and you do apparently have a gift, but it’s not a supernatural thing. Animals have been doing this since the year zilch. A dog sees his world primarily through smell; sight is secondary. We’ve most likely sacrificed those sorts of abilities in favor of sight. In your case, your sense of smell may be heightened and that could be a great thing, a unique thing. But you have to educate yourself for your own sake, James, or you will drive yourself crazy with all of this nonsense.”

  “Umm, I guess. You do make some good points. Okay. I don’t know. I’m not saying it’s supernatural, though.”

  It was James’ turn to fiddle aimlessly with the utensils. One of the other customers, a student, walked past their table. James’ painting caught his eye.

  “Hey, cool painting! Staphylococcus aureus, huh?”

  James allowed himself a tiny smirk. “Is it? How do you know that?”

  “Well, if it isn’t, it sure looks like it, or one of that family. I’ve seen it in pics in class, and in the microscope, too. That’s a really cool painting. Almost like a photograph. Am I right? Is that it?”

  “Yeah, I guess so, but I’m not a doctor or anything.”

  “Nice job. You should go into illustrating textbooks or something.”

  Karen folded her arms and locked them tightly, but her eyes darted from the student to the painting to James’ smug face. When the student walked off, she said, “There are a million ways you could have done that picture. Just for example, you grew up around my medical literature. It wouldn’t be at all surprising that you’d pick that up. You saw those things somewhere and filed it away for future use. It’s probably as simple as that.”

  “Mom, I avoided all that stuff. I wasn’t interested. I’m sure I’ve never ever seen those things in a photograph.”

  Karen pressed her point. “With everything I had lying around, you would have seen plenty. A quick glimpse of a medical journal on the kitchen table could have put that image in your head. Hell, a browse through a National Geographic or a TV commercial for a cold remedy could have done it.”

  James had to admit her point.

  “Also, lots of your paintings have a similar theme to this one. It could just be a coincidence. You paint enough, and eventually one of them will look like something.”

  “Maybe. I still feel that it’s more than that. I don’t really remember painting that picture, or what I was doing around that time. I wasn’t sick, anyhow; I’m a hundred percent sure of that, as you know. And I don’t think I paint my dreams. Not dreams that I remember, anyhow.”

  The waitress asked if they would like anything else.

  “Two ciabattas, please, and I’ll have another cup of coffee, too,” James said. The waitress repeated the order, then he asked, “And can you lend me a pencil for a minute or two?”

  She pulled one out of her apron pocket and left.

  James began to doodle on the back of the place mat. He wasn’t drawing in the usual sense, but pocking the paper with a series of dots, through which he then carefully dragged the eraser before repeating the process. The result was a crisp image of what appeared to be a sponge ball.

  “There,” he said, and slid it across the table.

  “What am I looking at here?”

  “That is what is making that girl sick.”

  Karen gazed at the paper briefly, then slid it back. “James, migraines are not caused by any sort of infection. They’re a result of a blockage in the arteries, among other things. This isn’t even a good parlor trick.”

  “Mom, I’m telling you. I don’t know how I know, but that is what is making her sick.”

  “So you’re telling me you can see this thing? C’mon now.”

  “No, I can’t see it. I just drew it. I guess I have a sort of an image in the back of my mind, but not what you would call a clear picture. I did just that last week, and didn’t even realize it until just now. I made a study very like this when the cleaning women were in the apartment. One of them had a runny nose, and I painted something a lot like that when she was there.” James ran his finger around the image for emphasis. “I didn’t ‘see’ this in my mind, or feel compelled to do it, or anything like that; I was just passing the time.”

  Karen took the paper back. Looking at tiny pictures of microbes wasn’t her thing, but this did look an awful lot like a common garden-variety virus.

  “How did you do this, then? How did you know what to draw?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Ten

  Karen hardly dared to think it, but the specter of a serious brain injury loomed in the back of her mind. James had had a thorough neurological check in Hahnemann, but the brain is tricky.

  She ran as fast as her high heels could carry her in order to catch Pat before he left for the day. Glued to his computer, he was perusing some graph or other as she stumbled in, breathless.

  “Jaysus, don’t burst in on me like that. I thought you were the creature from Admin.”

  Karen pulled the napkin from her pocket and placed it on the desk. “Could you do me a favor, Pat, and have a look at this?” Karen gasped. The “Tie of the Day” was illustrated with Marilyn Monroe’s inflated skirt scene.

  “Sure, anything for my favorite girl! What am I looking at here?”

  Karen shoved her bottom onto the stool next to Pat and said, “You tell me.”

  “You’re trying to stump me, are ya? It’s a little hard to tell from a pencil sketch, though it is a very good one.” Pat regarded the drawing respectfully. “Has one of your team taken up medical illustration?”

  She nibbled on her upper lip. “No, Jimmy did it.”

  “Your son? When did he become interested in drawing viruses?”

  “I thought you couldn’t tell what it was?”

  “Oh, it’s a virus, all right. I thought you were trying to nail me down to a particular species. At a rough guess, I would say Varricellovirus—herpes. You see the fivefold axis? Look here, it’s an icosahedron, which is typical of that family. Brilliant drawing! Fair play to him. Has he taken an interest in this sort of thing?”

  Karen wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she just said, “Yeah, I suppose he has.”

  “Pretty damned cool. What’s he using for models, pictures off the ’net? I could give him some of my stuff. These little buggers can be so very beautiful.”

  “He seems to have a source,” she said quietly.

  “Well, I always thought this stuff was art-worthy. I suppose I just have an artistic mind!” Pat blew on his knuckles and polished his suspenders with them.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Karen hedged.

  “You still here, Karen?” She jumped. The head of their department, Bob Scholl, had stealthily appeared out of the blue—a habit of his. Bob tapped at the face of his watch.

  “Don’t worry. Just on my way out now, Bob,” Karen said.

  Bob smiled sickly-sweet and wagged a finger at Pat. “I think you’ve been delaying this young lady, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah, Bob, I was just about to haul her off and lock her in my dungeon, in fact.”

  Bob ignored the impertinence. “Best get a move on, Karen. We need you representing ‘our team’ out there.” Pat was behind Bob now, making mock lip-synching motions as Bob spoke: meh meh meh meh meh meh. Karen picked up her bag, and with a silent wave, left the building, as Bob turned to face Pat’s dimpled grin.

  The limo got Karen to the airport with little time to spare. Settled into her seat, she reflected on her meeting with James. She picked up her phone and sent a text to Pat.

  Can that virus cause a migraine?

  Dpnds n d vrus. Cud if d right knd

  Karen clucked her tongue. A grown man writing like a thirteen-year-old girl.

  One of the flight attendants reminded her that phones must be switched off prior to departure.

  “Sure, I’m doing it now,” Karen said, then texted a reply.

  What about the one
I showed you? Answer in english please!

  Yes defo. Lives in the ganglia. Migraine like symptoms common enough.

  Seeing a virus? The idea was ridiculous. Viruses aren’t even visible with an ocular microscope. But those gold balls in that painting: staph infection. Any doubt she’d had about that was long gone. What she was beginning to doubt was what a lifetime in medicine and science had taught her. There had to be another explanation. If all of this was true, there was another grim reality to be faced—she had seriously misjudged and mistreated James as a child. He had gone through hell just because she could not, would not listen. Oh, she’d been such an idiot! She wept into her hanky. The sweaty guy in the rumpled suit next to her and the teenager absorbed in his personal stereo on the other side were oblivious.

  Once airborne, Karen ordered three mini-bottles of white wine and tried to reassure herself that what was done was done. James had turned out okay, so while things could have been better, they could have been worse. Even if she had recognized this talent when he was five, what would have become of him? Why, he could have been taken by the government, become someone’s lab rat. The way it had happened could have been the best thing for him. The rationalization eased her nerves. Any port in a storm.

  Karen wanted to fix it right there, that second. To hug him, tell him. She thought, God, how could anyone have survived what he has been through and be as well adjusted as he is? I don’t deserve to be a mother. Another wave of remorse washed over her, but she knew there was no point in self-recrimination. What was important now was the future. She slugged down one of the miniatures in one gulp, and gave sweaty-rumpled suit an angry look.

  The airplane plunked down in Minneapolis, and for a few hours Karen was mercifully occupied with her baggage and catching the shuttle-bus to Duluth.

  The line to check in at the hotel was long. There were two conventions in town that day, and most of the guests in this hotel were there for a bowling tournament. She cursed Bob Scholl under her breath. In the room, the feeble air conditioner blew tepid, stagnant air. The carpet was stained, most likely with the blood of the countless crack dealers murdered there, and God knew what else. Imagine the field trip James could have in this dump, she mused.