Draw the Dark

by Ilsa J. Bick

  And then I felt it happen, the magic, and I was floating, my head expanding.

  Disjointed images and sensations flickered bright as flashbulbs: a hot summer’s day that was so brilliant the sidewalk was bone and it hurt to look; the high screech of a train whistle in the distance; grit in my eyes; a flutter of white dress; a fan of lush black hair. Everything faded away, the itch in my hands, the voice of the teacher, the murmurs of the other seniors. I was only dimly aware that Lucy’s movements were more fluid, no longer hesitant, no longer old but swift and sure and graceful, like we’d found an island of calm in the center of a hurricane. The only sounds in my ears were the soft scratch of charcoal on paper and the steady thump of my heart.

  In time—I don’t really know how long, but I do know that I didn’t want it to end—Lucy went still and then I heard her say, “Oh my.”

  I opened my eyes.

  There is an oil by Whistler called Symphony No. 1, The White Girl. The auburn-haired girl is tall and regal, dressed completely in a floor-length white dress with lace around the collar and cuffs buttoned tight around her wrists. She’s standing on a fox-skinned rug, but the fox’s face is playful, almost like a teddy bear. The portrait is soft and gentle, almost a dream.

  Lucy wasn’t quite Whistler’s girl but close. The girl in her picture wore her hair in an old-fashioned kind of bun that revealed the graceful swan’s curve of her neck; her dress was square-necked with loose, gauzy sleeves. The bodice gave way to a cinched waist and then a flow of skirt that just brushed the tips of her black shoes. She was turned slightly away, looking back at the viewer over her left shoulder, a parasol balanced over her right. In the background, there were tracks and a station platform and a blocky locomotive just moving in, the words RIO GRANDE clear and unmistakable. But the girl was Lucy, no question. All you had to do was look at the eyes.

  “Oh my God.” The teacher, over my right shoulder, and then I saw that Peggy and the doctor were there too. I realized then that I was still holding Lucy’s hand. I dropped it like I’d been scorched. “I...uh...I...I was just help... helping . . . ”

  “I’ll say,” said Peggy.

  But Lucy only stared at the drawing. Tears dripped down her cheeks, but she—oh, she was beaming. “Oh,” she breathed. “There I am.”

  XI

  So Mrs. Krauss was pissed. Her mouth was screwed so tight it almost disappeared. “You were not to do anything other than what Peggy assigned and I approved.”Sitting in the chair next to mine, the doctor said, “I don’t get what you’re so upset about. You’re always talking about how much help you don’t have. I’ve talked to the teacher, and he thinks Christian’s fine, a natural.” To me, she said: “You did good.”

  I nodded. My mouth was very dry, and I could hear the click in my ears as I swallowed. Even now, the whole episode felt unreal, like it had happened to someone else.

  The doctor was saying, “Lucy used to be an elementary art teacher a long, long time ago. But she’s got Alzheimer’s, and well, you can see what’s happened to her work.”

  I slicked my lips and the roof of my mouth. “You mean, that picture of her, the one with her in a red sweater . . . she did that?”

  “Uh-huh. Her illness was just starting. The thing about Alzheimer’s is that while it affects the entire brain, it really whacks the right parietal lobe.” She touched the right side of her head. “That’s where people visualize things in their head and then translate that onto paper or canvas. Over time, her ability to visualize herself has diminished.”

  “Is that why she can’t even draw her own face anymore? Even when she’s looking at it?”

  “Yes. She’s gotten so bad we’ve thought about not allowing her to go to art anymore because it upsets her so much. Today, I’m glad we did because what you did for her was . . . amazing. It’s like you calmed her down enough to tap into her visual memories. I’ve no doubt that her drawing was all muscle memory, a picture of herself from long ago. That’s why there’s the parasol, the dress, the train.” She shook her head again. “Truly amazing. You’ve got a real gift.”

  Yeah. Lucky for me, this time my gift didn’t get anyone killed. “Is that the same thing as what’s going on with that old guy? The one with all the paintings?”

  “We do not gossip about our guests,” Mrs. Krauss put in.

  The doctor either didn’t hear or decided to ignore her. “Mr. Witek? No. He’s had another left-hemispheric stroke.”

  Mrs. Krauss leaned forward. “Doctor, this is privileged medical information.”

  The doctor threw Mrs. Krauss a cool, sideways glance. “No, this is information that any caregiver needs in order to serve our residents better. Or would you prefer that Christian just muddle along?”

  Mrs. Krauss’s eyes slitted, and her face hardened. But she flicked a hand, giving permission.

  The doctor said to me, “Mr. Witek’s latest stroke occurred about three weeks ago. The way your brain works, a stroke on the left affects the right side of your body. He’s got right-sided paralysis now because of the stroke; that’s why his face droops. Of course, he had profound memory problems before, but I can’t begin to assess them now. I can only imagine that everything is much worse. Anyway, he was just transferred back to our facility a few days ago. There’s not much more a hospital can do for him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Mr. Witek is going to die,” the doctor said, “and soon. Even if he hadn’t suffered a stroke, his Alzheimer’s is in its terminal phase. Most patients live ten to fifteen years, max. He’s been ill for ten, so . . . at this point, he’s a DNR: Do Not Resuscitate. He can’t eat or drink, so we’re keeping him hydrated and comfortable.”

  “How long can he live like that?”

  “Not long. He wasn’t eating before the stroke, and his body’s eating itself. It’s a normal part of dying. So, a few weeks, maybe a month.”

  “Why can’t you feed him through a tube?”

  “Because that’s not what’s in his living will. Someone has power of attorney. Perhaps a relative, but I don’t believe anyone visits.” She looked at Mrs. Krauss. “Are there any relatives?”

  Mrs. Krauss said, “None of which I’m aware.”

  “So we’re his family,” said the doctor. “The biggest problem now is that if he’s in pain, he can’t tell us. I have to infer. I’ve reduced his sedation, gradually, to see how much he wakes up. I’d rather not snow him with meds, but he’s bound to be confused no matter what. Actually, he had this very peculiar delusion: intermetamorphosis, the delusional belief that people are body-hopping, switching identities.”

  Whoa, that sounded a lot like what I’d felt in the hayloft and just today. “Wow. Really? I mean, can people do that?”

  “Body-hop? Oh no. It’s a delusional misidentification syndrome caused by profound brain dysfunction. Anyway, I don’t know what he’s thinking now because we can’t communicate. Although . . . there are reservoirs of brain function we can’t fathom, or perhaps reliably measure. You’d be amazed how some people have these startling moments of clarity at the very end. No one knows why, but we observe it quite often.”

  “So he can’t paint anymore.”

  “I’m not sure he’s ever painted. The way I understand it, those pictures were done by—”

  “We’re getting a little far afield now, aren’t we?” Mrs. Krauss interrupted. “I don’t see how this is relevant. I understand that you’re fairly new in town, Doctor, and so you may not appreciate the reluctance we feel here in discussing one another’s lives. In a small town, everyone knows everything about everyone else. We strive to maintain some distance.”

  Hunh. Like anyone had ever done that for me. The doctor either didn’t understand or wasn’t cowed. Maybe both. “All I have to do is examine his medical records for the relevant history and ...”

  “And you may do so at your leisure. Now, you.” Mrs. Krauss threw me a look. “You are excused. I need a moment with the doctor.”

  I got up to go.
“I’m really sorry, ma’am,” I said to Mrs. Krauss. “I just . . . Lucy needed help. I didn’t mean any harm.” Thinking of the judge: “I really don’t want to lose this job.”

  The doctor said, “You didn’t do a thing wrong, and I’ll note that in the medical record. In fact,” she grinned, “you were awesome.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I don’t think I can write that in the record—it would sound a little weird coming out in court—but if anything does end up with the judge in any capacity, the medical record will be part of that. Might even be made public, I don’t know. But I’ll be sure to document what happened today—and my assessment of your behavior and contributions.”

  I had a feeling she’d meant that more for Mrs. Krauss than me because Mrs. Krauss’s face suddenly pinked. If that look had been daggers, the doctor would’ve been skewered.

  “Okay. Thanks,” I said.

  “My pleasure,” said the doctor. “See you around, Christian.”

  It was dark and there was no moon, so I followed the headlight on my bike all the way home. There were no cars on the road, and as the blackness closed around, I let my mind go.

  Okay. To say that I was freaked out would’ve been an understatement. I really thought I was losing it, big time. The first time, I’d had the awareness that something was happening to me, Christian Cage. Yes, I’d been that kid, David, but the sense that there was something wrong in my/his head had been there from the start.

  This time, that hadn’t happened with Mr. Witek. It was literally a case of here one instant, there the next—and it happened when I saw them, the paintings. There’d been the draw, the same kind I felt when I’d painted all over my walls, like a door waiting for me to have the courage to step through into the sideways place....

  The thing was, I wasn’t being honest with myself. Forget being honest with the doctor or anyone else; they already thought I was crazy, even if the doctor had been okay. But the thing with Lucy? Oh yeah, I knew that feeling. That little click in my head happened when I painted, at the moment I separated the thinking, critical part of my mind from what I was actually doing. When the click happened, it was like another set of eyes opened up in my mind, and I painted what they saw. I drew from them. And I knew that because I’d done it before: with Miss Stefancyzk. And Aunt Jean. Now . . . Lucy.

  Shit, I’d have to be careful.

  That night, after Uncle Hank thought I was asleep, I painted over the door on my wall. There was no way, there was just no way I was going through there—or letting them out.

  Then I went to bed, expecting to dream or time travel or body swap or whatever. But nothing happened. Thank God.

  XII

  I got to my first shrink’s appointment about five minutes early. The waiting room was empty. A closed door opposite the entrance obviously led to the shrink’s office. I’d seen in movies how shrinks usually had a little light or bell or something that told them when a patient had come in and then the shrink always opened the door like maybe three seconds later. So I didn’t sit. Figured, heck, I’d just have to get right back up. Only the door didn’t open and didn’t open—and then just when I started to feel stupid, the door opened.

  “Hello, Christian.” Today, she was wearing a white, buttoned shirt open at the throat, blue jeans, and brown cowboy boots. But it was her. “I’m Dr. Helen Rainier. Come on in.”

  I didn’t move. “You’re Dr. Rainier? But . . . they call you Doc, like you’re a real doctor.”

  “Because I am? All psychiatrists are, and I’ve had additional training in neurology and geriatrics. So I’m boarded in both. Actually, triple-boarded.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “What did you want me to say, exactly? And would you have wanted me to do that in front of Mrs. Krauss?”

  That was a good point. “Well, that’s a good point.”

  “Yeah, I thought so too. Everyone at Aspen just calls me Doc, so . . . I didn’t see any graceful way to bring it up, and I didn’t want to embarrass you. Winter’s a small town. Most people are pretty sensitive when it comes to seeing me, and we hadn’t set any ground rules yet.”

  “So, uh, what do we do?”

  She stepped away from the door. “Coming in would be a start.”

  And here I’d been all prepared to hate her.

  There were three rooms: a playroom with toys and an easel off to my left, the room where Dr. Rainier saw her adult patients to our right, and another door directly ahead. I pointed to that. “What’s behind there?”

  “Nothing important.” She tilted her head to the right. “Want to come have a seat?”

  I hung back. “Who goes in that room? With all the toys?” And the easel . . .

  “Kids, mainly, ones who are too young to want to just talk. Do you want to go in there instead?”

  I eyed a box of crayons and colored pencils, watercolors. A blackboard. “Ah . . . maybe another time.”

  Her main office was big, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along one entire wall, a bank of windows opposite that overlooked the lake, a desk with a computer workstation, a couple of sling-back chairs. She gestured me to one and then dropped into the one opposite. She said, “Let’s talk about here versus Aspen Lake first, okay? At Aspen, we work together, so it’s nothing heavy. Just whatever comes up, and we may not run into each other that much. Here, we work together too, but . . .”

  “You get to call the shots.”

  Her lips moved in a small smile. “You could put it that way, but not really. Anything we talk about will have to be a two-way street. The thing is, we might also run into each other around town. I usually leave it up to patients to approach me. So if you spot me, I won’t say anything unless you say something first. That way, you control things, not me.”

  I liked that. “What do I call you?”

  “What do you want to call me?”

  I thought about that. “Dr. Rainier, if that’s okay.”

  “That’s fine.” She fingered up a sheaf of papers. “I’ve got the court’s report, the sheriff’s report, and the results of the psych testing. There’s other stuff here from the time when your mother left: the report your uncle filed and an assessment by a court-appointed social worker.”

  “I don’t remember any of that.” It also hit me that I hadn’t thought about my mother in days. It felt like years. “My mom didn’t leave.”

  “Oh?”

  But I was already sorry I’d said anything. I just shrugged and then folded my arms and looked at the wall of books. “You read all those?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So you’re smart.”

  “I’m not sure that reading a lot translates to smarts. You can read Swahili too, and not understand anything. I once picked up a book on quantum physics, and I could read all the words, but I didn’t understand a thing.”

  “That’s different. You read Swahili?”

  “No. French and German. What about you?”

  “I take Spanish. I wanted to take Japanese, but the school’s too small to afford a teacher.”

  “Why Japanese?” Then her face cleared. “Ah, you must like anime.”

  I blinked. “Manga. Yeah. I like Hellsing. Alucard is awesome.

  She was nodding. “I know that one. What do you like about Alucard?”

  “Well, you know it’s Dracula backwards, right? He’s just . . . awesome. He’s got this great red coat, he’s kind of creepy, and he goes after ghouls and bad vampires and . . .” I stopped.

  “What is it?”

  “This tells you about me, doesn’t it? I mean, that I like this kind of stuff.”

  “Well, you also like art, and that says just as much about you.”

  “You don’t want to know all about me.”

  “Why not? We all have our dark places, Christian.”

  “Right. Like what bad things have you lived through?”

  She cocked her head, studied me for a long moment that stretched into three and then four—enough
to get a little uncomfortable. She said, finally, “Here’s what I’ll tell you. I don’t have to have a heart attack to know how to treat one. In a way, it’s the same thing here. I don’t have to be an axe murderer to understand how to deal with one. But—” A smile flitted across her lips. “There is the old saying about shrinks: either you have to be incredibly normal to know what crazy looks like or it takes one to know one. Let’s just say that I’m comfortably in-between.”

  “So . . . not too crazy?”

  “I have my moments, but . . . no, not too crazy.”

  I liked her for that. “So how come you’re not scared of me?”

  “You mean, beyond the fact that you’re not holding a gun to my head? What’s to be scared of?”

  “I dunno,” I said, feeling stupid. “A lot of other people are.”

  “You mean because of what happened with your teacher? Betty Stefancyzk?” She shrugged. “I wasn’t here then. I don’t know anything more about it than she had a nervous breakdown. How that’s related to you, I don’t know. But if the reports I read are right, she’d been diagnosed with manic-depressive illness. Ten to one, she simply didn’t take her meds.”

  “She said it was me in her note.”

  “So what?”

  “Well, I . . .” I thought of the power flowing out of my fingers with Lucy. And Aunt Jean. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  “Okay. So then let’s talk about the barn. How come that happened?”

  “I . . . I don’t remember doing it.”

  “So you were sleepwalking. What do you think you were painting? A nightmare?”

  Yeah, but someone else’s. I remembered what Uncle Hank had said about a murder, and for the first time, it occurred to me that maybe that was what I was seeing. Like what they talked about when you heard about haunted houses, a psychic residue. Except why now? I’d lived in Winter my whole life, and I’d never gone out to that barn or ever heard about a murder. I said nothing.