I’ll just rest for a minute.
Chapter 22
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I HAVE NO IDEA where I am. The pungent odor of menthol burns my sinuses. When my vision comes into focus, I find myself in a small beige room. A few small windows near the ceiling indicate that it’s night outside.
My head rolls to the side. I’m lying on an uncomfortable narrow bed with metal rails boxing me in on both sides. My left arm is connected to an IV line, which is connected to a clear saline bag hanging from a stand.
In a chair beside my bed sits an elderly woman crocheting black fabric. She must be in her eighties. Her gray hair is tied back in a ponytail. She’s wearing sweatpants and an exercise hoodie.
“Paige?”
The old woman looks up and smiles. “How are you feeling, sweetie?”
“I’m so confused.”
She holds up her project—a black mesh vest. “What do you think? It’s for my grandson.” She leans in to whisper. “He lives in West Hollywood, if you get my meaning.”
“Okay… where am I?”
With great effort, the woman rises from her chair and collects her materials. “I’ll get the doctor for you.” She shuffles to the door and covers the ten feet in just a few short minutes. Her arthritic hands open the door, and she steps in a hallway. “She’s awake!” she screams then shuffles away.
Paige rushes into the room, sliding to a halt just inches from my bed. She’s dressed in light-blue nurse scrubs with white rubber clogs.
“You’re a nurse?” I ask, still a bit loopy and trying to get a handle on things.
Paige looks at me, relief overtaking her. Her eyes well up. Then she smacks me. “God damn it, Darcy! You scared the shit out of me!”
“Geez, sorry.”
I try to lean up and feel a dull pain in my shoulder. My arm sits in a sling, with a bandage that wraps around my chest. A red stain blossoms through the gauze that covers my gunshot wound. Instead of my pantsuit, I’m wearing teal nurse scrubs. My feet are bandaged, and I can only imagine how torn up my soles are from running down the fire escape.
“Okay, where am I?”
“Hollydale Homes,” the doctor says as he walks in.
He’s African American, probably in his sixties, with a thick white beard that frames his cheerful smile. He peers at me through square-framed spectacles that perch on his nose. Father Ramon trails behind him and stands at the door.
“Hollydale Homes?” I repeat. The name is familiar. It’s a nursing home in Silver Lake and was in the news recently for… something I can’t quite remember. My memory is usually reliable, so this is going to bug me.
“That’s right,” the doctor says, pulling up a stool and taking a seat at my bedside. It’s not uncommon for nursing homes to have a medical staff on premises full-time.
“Darcy, this is Dr. Savell,” Father Ramon says. “He’s the only doctor I could trust and who I knew would be available at this hour.”
That’s smart thinking on Father Ramon’s part. Bringing me here was a lot safer than taking me to a crowded hospital.
Dr. Savell maneuvers my injured arm, rotating it through the normal movements. “You’re lucky. There are a lot of joints and bones in this region.”
“It’s doesn’t hurt that bad,” I say, proud of my toughness.
“That’s probably the morphine,” he says, peering over his glasses.
When he tweaks my arm a bit too far, I flinch, pulling it back. He ignores my discomfort and grabs my hand. “That’s odd,” he says as he continues to articulate the entirety of my arm, hand, and fingers.
“What’s odd?”
Not answering, he removes the IV from my arm. With practiced care and experience, he bandages the puncture. Then he pulls out a blood-pressure gauge and stethoscope. The cuff inflates around my arm and takes the reading. I glance at Paige, who watches with a worried expression. Dr. Savell removes the stethoscope and leans back with a discouraged look.
“What’s wrong?”
His eyes stay low as if he’s pondering his own diagnosis. “Nothing,” he says, sounding mildly shocked. “And that’s what’s so peculiar. You were shot in the shoulder, and when you came in, I was sure you had suffered nerve damage. But now it seems you didn’t. You lost a lot of blood, so your pressure should be low. But it’s normal.” Finally, he looks up at me. “Is this because of the demon?”
I look at Father Ramon. “We can trust him,” he says.
Dr. Savell smiles. “I’ve been helping Father Ramon for—what? Five years now? I’ve treated many of the people he’s cured.” He looks me over. “But I’ve never seen anyone like you before.” From his coat pocket, he pulls out an ophthalmoscope. “May I?”
I nod, and he proceeds to examine my eyes. “Very, very interesting.” His process is analytical. Direct. Fearless. “So it’s still in there?”
“Yes.”
“Have you always been able to heal this quickly?”
I exchange a look with Paige. She sits next to me and takes hold of my hand. She squeezes mine gently as if to reassure me.
I finally answer. “I think I noticed it the first time about a year ago. I was biking to work when my foot slipped off my pedal and smashed into my leg. It tore a gash right into my shin. By the time I got to work, I had blood dripping all the way down into my boot. It was deep. I thought for sure it was going to scar. It didn’t.”
“How long did it take to heal?” Dr. Savell asks.
“It was gone the next day. No scar.”
“It’s been ten years, Dr. Savell,” Paige says, taking over. “Ten years, and she’s not any closer to getting rid of this… demon… than she was when it first possessed her. Over the years, little by little, it’s taking more and more control of her body. She’s getting colder even on warmer days. The attacks happen more frequently.” As Paige speaks, I cast a guilty look at Father Ramon. “Twice in the past month. And
