Chapter Six The Inimitable Sherry Walker
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Brie awoke the next day to the most wonderful smell in all the world.
Fresh coffee.
She quickly dressed and brushed her teeth and hair, threw some extra scrubs and a water bottle in her backpack, and made her way to the kitchen, only to find herself in the middle of the most ridiculous argument she’d ever heard.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying. Please rephrase in the form of a question.”
“So help me, you infernal rectangle, if you do not bring back the old lady’s breakfast lesson this instant, I will feed you to the pit locusts.”
She pulled in a breath, then stepped around the corner. “Good morning. Making friends, I see.”
Cameron whirled around, hiding his hands behind his back, splattered in some strange, globulous combination of flour and milk. He recovered quickly. “Good morning. I was just communing with your… your phone .” He shot the thing a dark look. “For a being devoted to the provision of knowledge, it is irritatingly withholding.”
He looked adorable. There was no other word for it.
His chestnut hair tumbled into his eyes. A dusting of flour powdered his cheek. His bashful expression made Brie feel the way she’d felt about Mr. DiCaprio when she was twelve.
She flashed a grin, cheerful despite herself. “You tried to make me pancakes?”
He glanced behind him, and with a flick of his finger, all evidence was erased. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“I appreciate the effort, but I’m not in the mood for pancakes. I want answers.”
His eyes grew grave. “Yes. I thought you might.”
She regarded him carefully, pouring herself some coffee with sugar and cream before settling on a stool by the counter. The sweet scent of caffeine wafted into her face as she took the first sip.
“Alright, angel. Talk .”
He hesitated, but she persisted. “Was that a nightmare or not? Was I dreaming, or was that some kind of… of vision quest gone terribly wrong? You knew that place, Cam. And you asked what those creatures said. So, they’re real?”
He drew in a breath. “They are.”
Her eyes widened, but she held it together. “And the man?” she asked quietly, wishing very much she could simply forget. “The man I saw? The one who looked like a human? Is he a real person?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted quietly.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder with growing impatience.
“There are many sons of Hell, Brianna. Many who can take human form or any form they wish. Many who would be interested in that pendant.” He raked back his hair with sudden frustration. “Though why they would suddenly be searching is as much a mystery to me as to you.”
She exhaled slowly, staring down into her cup.
Not good enough.
There was a chance he could read minds.
“Give me some time,” he said gently. “I know it’s a lot to ask, and I know you’ve been waiting for answers far longer than seems fair. I do not have all the answers you seek, but I might know some people who do. Give me some time to speak with them, to try to help me figure this out.”
She looked up at him. “And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
With a tentative grin, he gestured around the house. “Fill up the fridge. Buy some furniture. Start your job. Throw away that dead plant you’ve been carting around.”
She jutted out her chin defiantly. “It’s not dead. It’s resting. Recuperating. And with all the supplements I’ve been feeding it, I’m sure it’ll make a marvelous comeback.”
He nodded without a hint of expression. “Perhaps I didn’t make this clear when I explained my job description, but I am absolutely an expert in these matters. Your plant, Brianna, is gone.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then peered in delight over the rim of her coffee mug. “Cam? Did you just make a joke?”
He blushed and turned around, pretending to wipe down the already immaculate counter, replaying the sound of the nickname in his mind.
“Cam?” she pressed.
“You should get that.”
“Get what?”
The doorbell rang, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
Oh, God… Sherry.
She still hadn’t gotten her story straight between the move, the Mormons, and the dream. A rush of panic swept over her before she turned on her heel and sprinted for the door, yelling, “Coming!”
She considered telling Cameron to hide, but there was no time. The windows were too big, and there was no way for him to cross to the bedroom without being seen. She had to count on the fact that her terrible luck would break, and her best friend would hardly notice.
Because that’s totally going to happen. Because she’s super, SUPER low-key.
Brie opened the door and was greeted by a whoop of delight. “FINALLY!”
The friends crashed into each other with enough force to dent a car. Arms flailed and hair knotted as they started bouncing in a strange two-person tangle on the front porch.
“I can’t believe you’re here!” Sherry squealed. “After all these months. And I can’t believe you didn’t get here sooner! Here, have a coffee.” She grabbed a drink tray she’d left resting on the porch railing and offered it up.
Brie gratefully accepted an enormous white mocha as her friend swept inside, taking a slow turn around the living room, studying the most insignificant details with an appraising eye.
“Wow, you really got this place set up fast. How did you…?”
She froze dead still, staring at Cameron. He stared bracingly back. For a split second, nothing happened. Then he lifted his hand in an awkward wave.
Heaven, help me. Take him back.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he stammered a bit nervously. “Brie talks of nothing else.”
Sherry took in the measure of him, saying nothing in reply. Then, without breaking eye contact with the angel, she leaned toward Brie and said in a low voice, “Brianna Weldon, are you aware that a Tom Ford model is waving at me from your kitchen?”
Yeah, she’ll barely notice.
Brie was postverbal at this point. She nodded as Sherry reaffirmed, “So, you’re seeing him, too?”
She nodded again and hid behind her mocha.
Sherry raised herself up to full height, all five feet two inches, and narrowed her eyes with a speculative, “Huh.” Then she strode to the kitchen and began pacing around him the way a jungle predator circles its prey. At one point, she extended a finger. “May I?”
May you… what, exactly? What do you intend to do with that finger?
Cameron was clearly thinking the same thing and lifted his eyes to Brie for a moment before he acquiesced with a hesitant, “Of course. Whatever… whatever you need.”
What happened next would forever remain one of the most intensely embarrassing moments of Brie’s young life. She watched as Sherry studied him with the fierce scrutiny of an old-world heiress selecting a racehorse, poking him in the bicep and abs, and running a finger along his jaw. By the end, Brie was surprised her friend hadn’t attempted to examine his teeth, but whatever she determined, she must have been pleased because the finger soon vanished, replaced with an acute stare.
“What’s your name?”
“Cameron.”
“How old are you?”
“Approximately fifty-five hundred Earth years.”
“Fine, don’t tell me. Do you do drugs?”
“Never, ma’am.”
“Do you smoke?”
“Only when aflame.”
“Are you the reason she’s late ?”
His face grew suddenly serious. “I’m afraid that I am. But I’m also one of the reasons she’s here.”
Sherry leaned back, considering this. Then she asked the million-dollar question. “What are your intentions towards my best friend?”
He hesitated a moment, then answered with perfect honesty. “To make her pancakes. To fix the water heater. To protect her from all harm.”
There was a split second of silence, then Sherry spun around, beaming. “I love him. Let’s get one in every color.”
Brie let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding with a slightly hysterical laugh, trying to keep her balance as her tiny, voluptuous friend scooped her up into another hug.
“ Brianna Weldon . You could’ve just told me you’d met a guy.”
“Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking,” Brie panted, trying to catch her breath. “It’s not like you’d put him through the Spanish Inquisition or anything.”
Sherry wasn’t listening. She was busy making plans. “This is fantastic! We can double-date tonight. You’re coming, of course,” she aimed at Cameron. It was not a question. “Brie, I know you ‘lost’ that black dress I got you, so I bought you another one. It’s in the car. Cameron, I’m stealing her now. We need to go talk about you behind your back. Run along home and stay perfect. Fewer clothes next time. I’m envisioning ripped jeans, a leather belt, definitely no shirt—”
“Okay, that’s enough.” Brie grabbed her backpack and coffee and pulled her irrepressible friend out the door, glancing back with an apologetic, “Bye, Cam.”
He lifted a hand with a bemused expression, watching as they clambered out the door and hurried to the car. The second they were safely inside, Sherry whirled on her. “Spill.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you try it, young lady,” she cried. “ Spill .”
Brie cleared her throat, but her voice still cracked, like she’d touched an electrical socket. Her best friend had that effect on people. She was living, breathing sunshine with a whopping dose of adrenaline.
“Well, remember you asked if I’d had any car trouble?”
Sherry nodded excitedly.
“I did,” Brie continued. “In the middle of nowhere, in some state park by the border. And Cameron sort of—”
There was a theatrical gasp.
“Did he come to your rescue?” Sherry exclaimed, not pausing for breath. “Out in the middle of the woods? Oh my gosh, was it perfect? Did he change your tire? Was he wearing his shirt?”
“Sherry!” Brie couldn’t help but laugh. “Why would he not be wearing a shirt?”
Why was I so nervous about spinning a story? She’s perfectly capable of doing it herself.
“Oh, that’s so romantic…” Sherry flopped back against the driver’s seat and stared into the cottage windows. “So, wait a minute — he was just out there? Does he live around there? Is he a woodsman?” She paused for reflection. “Is that a thing? Woodsmen?”
They considered it, then left it for another day.
“And you brought him home with you? Brie, that’s incredibly irresponsible. What do you really know about this guy? I mean, I know he looks like Adonis, but come on. What if he’s a serial killer? What if his hair is so perfect because he conditions with the blood of the innocent?”
Ah. That’s why I was nervous.
Sherry might present as a bubbly, irreverent, curvaceous pinup, but she was also sharp as a tack. Brie had always secretly thought she would go into law. She’d make a killing in litigation. Of course, knowing her temperament, there was a chance that wasn’t a metaphor, so perhaps it was in everyone’s best interest that she’d decided to save lives rather than rip them apart.
She decided to tell at least a partial truth. “I don’t know what to tell you, Sher. He saved me, and he insisted on escorting me home. He keeps showing up for me. Being there for me. And it feels somehow… meant to be.”
Sherry considered this. “Alright, I’ll allow it. Provisionally. Pending further investigation.”
Brie snorted with laughter. “You said the same thing about high school.”
“And look how right I was.” Sherry slipped on a pair of sunglasses, gliding them up the bridge of her nose with a grin. “So, what do you say? Shall we go start your illustrious medical career?”
“ Allons-y !”
There was a slight pause. “Don’t threaten me.”
“No, it’s French…”
But Sherry had already peeled out of the driveway and was coasting down the road.
? ? ?
When Brie was growing up, the first day of school was always equal parts exciting and intimidating. The first day of nursing school had been very much the same — anticipation rather than anxiety. The first day of this job was an emotional avalanche — complete, constant bombardment.
She and Sherry parked in front of the hospital, grabbed their bags, and jumped out of the car. For just a moment, they stood together. Brie took in the enormous red brick and smoked glass edifice. She thought she’d never seen so many windows in one structure before, not in person.
Daya Memorial Hospital. It lives up to the reputation.
“Did you ever think we’d both make it here?” Brie whispered.
“Never a doubt in my mind.” Sherry looked up at the monolithic structure, fists on hips, chest lifted, in full Superwoman pose.
Brie finished off the last of her mocha with a long, bracing swig. “Yeah. Same.” She gulped.
Sherry looked over and grinned. “You’re going to be fine. But if you think this is intimidating, wait until you meet El Commandant.”
“El Commandant?” Brie asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Trust me, you’ll know.”
They started to head through the bay doors when an ambulance rig tore into the driveway right in front of them. The back burst open, and a gurney emerged just as a team of people poured from the hospital to meet them. They were led by a short woman of Native descent, rippling with more muscles than a Spartan warrior and radiating competence and attitude to match.
“What have we got?” she barked.
“Code blue. Twenty-eight-year-old male, unresponsive at the scene, no apparent trauma, no witnesses. Someone found him in a parking lot. We did everything medically possible, but Denise…” The medic trailed off, shaking his head with a grave look.
Denise listened while conducting a thorough, blindingly fast examination of her own.
“No chest rise, no pulse. Alright, people, let’s get him into trauma room five. Move!”
Her band of followers took over in a wave of blue scrubs. Denise stayed behind for a moment to get the rest of the information from the paramedics.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Den. He’s too young for this kind of cardiac event. There’s nothing wrong with him, except he’s dying. MI maybe? Or some kind of new drug?” He watched the gurney disappear into the ER with a helpless look. “I think we lost him on the way over.”
“You did what you could, and it isn’t over yet. Don’t beat yourself up, Tim.” She turned slightly, registering the friends. “ You .”
El Commandant.
She pointed a finger at the center of Brie’s chest, freezing her in place. “You have a lost, useless look about you. Are you my new nurse?”
“This is my friend from Atlanta, Brianna Weldon,” Sherry interjected quickly. “She’s one of the good ones, Den, so don’t bite. Hard.”
Hard?
“Hand her over and go clock in.”
Sherry saluted cheerfully and sailed inside, leaving Brie at the mercy of her new captor. She immediately decided to opt for a near-militaristic level of politeness. “Hello, ma’am. I was told to report to the ER for orientation and a tour.”
Denise raised an eyebrow. “This is your orientation. The tour begins in room five. You’re shadowing me today. May God have mercy on your soul.”
I could have a friend of mine put in a word.
Denise strode purposefully away without a backward glance, expecting to be followed. Brie threw her coffee cup into the nearest garbage can and hurried after her.
At a glance, it was chaos. Only if you knew what to look for could one discern the pattern, the underlying structure beneath. It was a living algorithm — a team of highly trained individuals working together, triaging patients by order of urgency, taking family histories, and gathering pertinent information before channeling them into the appropriate rooms.
The giant patient board behind the nursing station was at capacity — fifty-two rooms, all containing patients with varying degrees of need. Before Brie could orient herself any further, a commotion from room five captured her attention.
The former occupant, a man whose arm had just been set in a cast, was reluctant to vacate for the incoming trauma. “This is my room. Get out! I’m in pain. Wheel me back inside. Ow!”
Denise bent down and whispered something in his ear too softly for Brie to hear. His eyes went wide, and he tensed so completely that his shoulders nearly touched his ears. He stayed like that for a moment, then ducked his head and began studiously avoiding eye contact with everyone.
“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, then preoccupied himself with a concerted effort to be invisible.
Someday, somehow… I’m going to find out what she said.
Room five was a concentrated version of the controlled mayhem that characterized the rest of the hospital. Nurses and techs poured in from every direction and began the practiced choreography of running a code. A dark-haired man who looked far too young to be in charge of another person’s life bagged the patient to force oxygen into his lungs. An almost worryingly thin nurse was doing chest compressions, humming “Staying Alive” to keep the right rhythm.
“Can you start a line?” Though they’d only just met, Denise’s voice was already unmistakable, indelibly fixed in Brie’s mind.
“Yes.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
Brie grabbed the IV supply tray and tore open the plastic cover with a slightly overenthusiastic burst of speed. She tied off the man’s arm with a tourniquet, watched as his lower hand darkened with the pressure, and then waited for a vein to appear. This took only seconds, but it felt like an age as she patted his inner wrist and forearm, trying to coax something suitable to the surface.
Come on. Where are you…
Finally, one appeared. She carefully pressed the needle to the skin and waited to feel the faint pop as it pushed through. “Number twenty gauge IV established.”
She looked back for further instructions from Denise, only to find her standing just a step away, arms folded tightly across her chest. She gave a curt nod of approval. Brie sensed that this was the highest praise she might hope to receive from this person, certainly today, possibly ever.
“Alright, someone hand me the epi and standby with the Narcan—”
“Hold on there, Pocahontas.”
The room froze.
Brie gasped. Denise stiffened, then rotated around in such a predatory fashion it made the rest of them almost feel sorry for whatever eminently stupid, lost soul had seen fit to throw the racial slur.
Almost. Not quite. Whoever said that deserves whatever comes next.
A man stood in the doorway. A man whose overriding physical feature was oil. His hair was slicked straight backward from all points of his skull, shellacked into an unyielding dome. His skin, predominantly his forehead, had an unhealthy, greasy sheen.
He laughed an erratic, hiccupping laugh while his eyes darted around, bright with nerves. His slightly oversized lab coat and name tag lent him an authority he didn’t seem to deserve.
Denise exhaled through flared nostrils. “Dr. Matthews.” It sounded like an obscenity. “To think we’d gone nearly a week without sending you back to HR,” she said flatly.
Matthews ignored this and addressed the room. “What’s the story, folks?”
The young-looking medic piped up. “Patient was found unresponsive in a parking lot. No ID, no visible injuries—”
“How long ago was this?” Matthews interrupted.
“Um… about twenty minutes.”
Denise fixed him with a scathing glare. “We’re a bit busy here, so perhaps you’d like to run the code. Or find me someone who will.” Without waiting for an answer, she turned back to the patient and barked, “Where’s that Narcan?”
Brie kept waiting for something to happen, for whatever madness derailed the chaotic rhythm to either reveal itself or, at least, go away. But it didn’t.
Matthews merely stood there while Denise ran the code. Brie swore she saw him check his phone. It was shocking . The tiny nurse doing compressions was exhausted and stepped aside as the patient’s chest was affixed with pads fitted with electrodes to defibrillate his heart.
“Clear!”
In one swift movement, everyone stepped back. Denise was about to press the button for defibrillation when a sudden shout echoed in the room.
“Time of death, zero seven thirty-three.”
The room froze again.
“You’re calling it?” Brie asked in disbelief.
Matthews’s eyes narrowed to slits as he looked her up and down. A self-preservation instinct reminded her that she was still technically “touring” and should probably shut up, but she was too concerned for the patient to worry about the impression she was making on her first day.
“You can’t!” she insisted. “We’re one second away from trying to bring him back.”
El Commandant completely ignored him. “Clear!” she yelled again and jolted electricity through the patient. No response. The man went back to asystole immediately.
“Stop it!” Matthews cried.
Denise glanced up with a look of such malice, it would likely scare off a panther. “Or what?”
Brie moved subtly towards the back of the room, watching the storm brew as the two turned slowly to face each other, armed with wildly different standards of patient care.
Matthews turned beet red and looked as though he might say something before he shrugged, glancing again at the clock. “Time of death: zero seven thirty-three.”
As the room stared in disbelief, he walked over to the patient and snapped an eyelid unceremoniously open with his thumb, pointing a penlight directly inside.
“No chest rise, no heartbeat, pupils fixed and dilated.” He took a step back, putting his pen back in his pocket. He looked around the room. “This man is dead, people. I realize I’m the only doctor here, but that is a distinction I hope they teach you in nursing school.”
He let out another skittering laugh, only to be met with utter silence.
“If it makes you feel any better, look at those tattoos,” he said, gesturing carelessly at the tribal markings on the man’s face. “He’s some gangbanger. Your energies are better spent elsewhere.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked out the door, texting.
He left a sea of stunned faces in his wake.
Denise was the first to move, taking off her gloves and slapping them on a side table in disgust. She looked around the room, her features softening for a moment. “There are other people to help in this building. Find them. Help them. Go.” Despite her militaristic demeanor, she clapped a few of her more demoralized-looking colleagues on the back on their way out. Only Brie stayed behind, still shaken by the experience.
“I don’t understand,” she murmured. “How can he get away with… with not trying ?”
Denise replied flatly, sparing no emotion. “That isn’t something you can control. Let’s go find something we can control and make it better.”
She walked out the door without telling Brie to follow her. She didn’t have to.
“Welcome to Daya Memorial.”