Читать книгу Impuls - Aster - Страница 11

the century shrinks to a chamber-like "half hour.

pain changes gait, patronymic and design.

The heart will stop and a tear will run.

The author of the miracle will not give himself away like a partisan.

look, it's you who is turning into a miracle.

or they're turning into you

pre-trans-cha-

or are they turning into you

– I'd like to see the look on his face! – Gilmore laughs. – Is that what you told him? "My personal nurse"?

– Well, I must have at least something personal," grinned Lorraine. – Johnson, didn't you buy yourself a robe? Maybe I should give you mine.

Emily shamefully shifts from foot to foot.

There are three people in the office – Clark-which-woman, Gilmore, sitting on her desk and putting his feet in colored socks on the chair, and Emily herself. The clock read eight in the morning, the hospital was buzzing with life, and the unfamiliar London sun was shining outside the window.

It smells like morning: coffee, clean clothes, and nighttime dust; Gilmore is wearing a bright red T-shirt with yellow streaks, just like dawn; Clark is all in black, from the T-shirt to the regular pumps, and only the white skin is visible through the cut of his jeans just below the knee.

They hate Emily – those other people from the squad; you can see it in every gesture, in every look; and the worst part is that they all notice her now.

Olivia, her lips pressed together, silently issuing her pass; Melissa, asking to find another locker room; Moss, pressing her into the wall with one look; the other nurses, whispering in the back and pointing a finger at her.

Only Harmon puts a heavy palm on her shoulder and says something like congratulations on her return.

They know.

Of course they know, Emily scolds herself; only the truth, the other truth that Moss told them – she almost killed the patient, mixed up the drugs, was afraid to confess.

But she silently clenches her teeth, nods hello to Olivia, apologizes to Melissa, lowers her eyes to Moss, and doesn't turn around when she hears the laughter.

To go not to the bottom, but in a straight line.

If she could, she would write that phrase on herself.

– Drop it, Laurie. – Gilmore's loud voice pulls her from her thoughts. – Have you seen how much a good robe costs? A hundred pounds, no less. And it's more expensive to buy synthetics you can't work in.

Lorraine raises an eyebrow:

– I say, shall I give you mine?

An argument ensues in which Emily doesn't participate, only crumples up the fabric of a sizeless swamp turtleneck and examines her dusty black Crocs, noting that her next purchase will be jeans like Clark wears: black, with a high waist, so she can tuck her shirt in, too.

Yeah, except she wouldn't have the money or the time to be like Clark; Emily was afraid to even imagine how much the clothes she was wearing or that wide black stone ring cost.

Stop.

Why is she even thinking about that?

Because it's impossible not to think about Clark – there she is, right in front of her: sitting there, touching her fingers to her sharp cheekbones, smiling, curving her lips, arguing zealously, proving something; the round neckline of her T-shirt exposes her fragile shoulders with wings of collarbones; the thin chain of her bracelet glimmers with silver lights.

Gilmore laughs loudly, jumps off the table, picks up his robe, pats Emily on the shoulder, and, whistling a song, leaves the office; Clark looks questioningly at the nurse.

– …Documents.

Apparently, the neurosurgeon realizes that she hasn't been listening to much, so she repeats:

– I need to process you through the paperwork. Reinstatement, transfer and all that. Riley will talk to Dr. Harmon, he'll be your supervisor for a while. Harmon, not Riley, of course. We'll set you up as a teller, get you a pass, the right uniform, and even a cafe card.

– But the learning center…" Emily stuttered.

– The training center has nothing to do with our department," Clark cut her off. – If you knew that, Miss Johnson, you'd realize that Moss is just trying to scare you. You're late for your exam, of course, but you can at least count on an unnecessary piece of paper that you've taken the course. And if you're good," she grinned, "Harmon will make you retake the exam in winter.

The ball bounces up when it hits the ground.

He'll give you a retake.

A pass, a uniform, and a card.

That's not how it works, Emily tells herself, yesterday to cry and feel sorry for herself, and today to stand in front of Clark and feel the sun that has already cooled down.

She knows it is scary to trust in an autumn like this, it is dark and cold all around, and there are no miracles, but she wants to believe that all these last chances, all these magical moments are not given to the brave and strong, but to people like her: the frightened, the overcrowded, the overglued.

Factory breakdown.

An off the assembly line defect.

– Johnson? Are you in the clouds again?

– Why? – Emily bursts out.

Clark looks at her with a strange look – the same look she got in the locker room when she grabbed her arm.

You can't ignore me.

Yeah, that's not how it works: here comes Clark, tearing apart her goals and aspirations, sending her postulates to hell; rescuing her from her inner personal abyss, collapsing the timeline, pulling her out of her usual mode. Here's your card, form and pass, now you are who you wanted to be, so what are you unhappy about, Johnson…?

And it feels like Emily has hit the movies and now her drama is going to end, giving way to a smooth plot twist – now the that-something-wonder that the audience has been waiting for is going to happen.

But something isn't right. She feels it: there is no magic without real sacrifice, without tantrums and sobs and thoughts of bad things; there is no smoke without fire, her father used to say.

Clark doesn't take his eyes off her.

Emily moves blindly, groping in the darkness, unaware that the light at the end of the hallway will eat her up.

She's about to ask her, right now, and all the words get stuck in her throat, because to say something against it is to show herself to be an ungrateful, insensitive creature.

But she's wrong.

– Because I don't like you," Clark replies in a completely serious tone. – You irritate me, Johnson. That's why you're the one who's going to be next to me. Someone has to be, right?

– But…

– I'm not going to be the fairy godmother," the neurosurgeon cut him off. – I'm not going to mess with you, teach you, do your job. You want to throw yourself on the grenade? Go ahead. But if you screw up, Johnson, remember, this isn't a place to start over.

– But…

– Try to understand one thing. – Clark flips open his laptop. – To become someone, you have to do something.

She plunges into the computer, letting it be known that she's finished; and Emily keeps standing there looking at her, nervously tugging at the already annoying fabric of her turtleneck.

Go in a straight line, not to the bottom.

Figure out what you want.

She gathers more air in her chest.

– Dr. Clark…

The neurosurgeon turns his gaze to her.

– I want to work with you.

* * *

– The department has seven operating rooms. – Harmon's marching orders. – With two general surgeons, Davis and Gilmore, and two neurosurgeons, Clark and Neal, remember? We have two teams here, yes, but you should only care about yours. Remember: two surgeons, two neurosurgeons, and one chief. The chief is Moss, who's our neurologist, so.

– To go into surgery, you have to go through Powell or Higgins first. – He walks swiftly through the corridors of the department. – Then the neurologists. Yeah, let's go again: first the generalists, then the neurologists and finally the neurosurgeons, remember? This one's planned, it'll go in the plan, so you'll write it down in the chart and prepare it. You know how to prepare, right? You learned it, didn't you? If everything's good, you turn on the UV light for about -20 minutes, that's it, and you go and do the clothes. If you feel something's wrong, you tell the nurses to go. The orderlies, then, you take – or you call Mel, yes, Mel will always answer – and they have to do everything. By themselves, yes…

The corridors change to an operating room – glass doors, the smell of disinfectants, silence, a big sign with the surgeon's name and the number of the operating room.

She seems to be taking a good chance this time, or maybe it's just Charlie dropping in without knocking, bringing in more magic; but Clark, taken aback by the insolence, just nods and switches to her brother.

It's like hitting the jackpot.

Winning the lottery.

This time Emily is smart enough not to elaborate on why the answer is exactly that, and a quarter of an hour later she's already tailing Harmon, barely able to remember so much information.

– Clark has two nurses on the team: Sarah and you, yes; also Demp, the anesthesiologist, and the surgeon, who is Gilmore; and that's it, she's had enough – two nurses, Demp and Gilmore, remembered…? The second team, yes, Neal has the first.

He shows the sterile area through the clear glass: cabinets with sterilizers, a drying oven with envelopes, a safe with chemicals, a huge autoclave; you can also see the next room, the pre-op room: two sinks with elbow taps, dispensers, an iron safe. He tells us: this is all a super-clean operating room, where sterile air is constantly pressurized with a laminar flow through a bacterial filter.

– The cleaning of the operating room is all on the orderlies," Harmon repeats. – You only turn on the U.V. flashbulb, okay? Sarah and you have tools on, yes, processing; and paperwork. Lots of paper. Nothing extra, don't get your hopes up, at best she'll let you hold the drainage, at worst you'll be counting tampons afterwards, yeah, like a nurse. And what did you want, Johnson, you're not a surgical assistant, no, just a nurse, yeah. With a lot of new responsibilities.

– How long have they been working together? – Emily asks, while Harmon rummages through her closet, looking for clothes. – The whole crew.

– Nah," the resident shakes his head, going through hundreds of bags. – Demp didn't come in till January before last, and Sarah was right behind him; but the surgeon and he had been together for over three years, even before Moss…

– How long ago did Moss come?

– I wouldn't say," says Harmon, astonished, as he takes out a black hirsute suit. – Maybe two years ago, maybe three. Three, right? This is for you.

The dense black cotton pulls nicely on his hands; it smells sterile and new fabric. A simple, basic uniform: two sets of T-shirts and pants with an elastic band, but Emily holds the package in her hands in awe, afraid to move.

She's never been this close to a dream before.

– You have stars in your eyes, yes, stars," Harmon smiles.

She flashes, biting her lips, but she can't stop glowing; and the sun in her pocket, long forgotten, almost petrified, shines brighter than usual.

Harmon takes care of her – unexpectedly and pleasantly – once again briefly recounting all kinds of materials, from sutures to dressings, makes her practice on him by tying and untying her robe, gives her a smack when Emily mislays her optics, and laughs with her afterward.

– Let's do it again, come on, yes, do it again.

– Hands," says Emily, "hands to standard, dress herself, cover with Mayo covers, dress the others, treat the field, then incise film…

A smack.

– Ow! What for?!

– What tape," Harmon shakes his head, "you're not transplanting a kidney, so you won't have a field there, others will do it for you, yes, and Sarah helps you dress, yes, and then you help her, remember, so no tape, Sarah does.

Emily rolls her eyes.

– Okay, got it. Next up, stand to the right of Clark…

She successfully dodges the next smack.

– From the chief surgeon," Johnson corrects herself. – I remember: instruments, swabs, absorbent cotton, drainage…

After a couple of hours, she begins to feel dizzy from hunger, worry, and information; Harmon is a real resident – he beats the crap out of her intelligently, with a little effort, sometimes laughing, sometimes shouting; and Emily pauses between sequences to get a closer look at him: high cheekbones, wide chin, narrow lips with several scars, short dark hair the color of his eyes-the same brown-black hair; a tattoo can be seen from under his robe-a part of the pattern, not covered by his shirt, covers his neck. The same scar on his right cheek, the same tiny round glasses that made him look like an outlandish bird.

She didn't think he could be easy: Harmon seemed aloof to her, intimidating; but his laugh was infectious as hell, and you got used to the way he spoke, and he spoke as if he were repeating important points on purpose, which you wouldn't want to understand and remember.

James explains: change in the same place as always; locker is the same, key coming soon. Laughs: the previous one never did. The entrance to neurology is different, not through the main one, and should be forgotten about – and not to be seen by Olivia, because Moss is sleeping with her, and it doesn't matter what they talk about there. He's not going to let Moss see her either, and if she does, she's going to run like hell; Harmon repeats that Moss can't fire her, because she's in the Clark crew, and only the neurosurgeon herself is contracted to move her team; but she can make a lot of trouble for her life.

Stay out of anyone's sight, Emily just remembers.

– You'll get just over fifteen hundred pounds a month in a lump sum," Harmon informs her.

Emily coughs, catching air in her mouth.

£1,500.

That's the most money she's ever touched in her life!

– How much?

– Sometimes it'll be as much as two," the resident went on, "if Clark puts you on duty with another brigade; and it probably will be-you need more experience, yes. With the other brigade, then; and then you'll come back. While you stand by her and watch, do all the basic, stand and watch, remember? Don't go anywhere, so no-here; then maybe something more serious, if she so chooses, of course, yes.

And then comes the moment she's been trying to avoid for so long.

– You need to buy a robe. No synthetics, cotton and polyester, you can have linen; but best of all, of course, satori or extraflex, remember, yes, satori, you can have linen, a robe, so.

– And what is Dr. Clark's robe made of? It's so beautiful. – Emily makes puppy dog eyes.

– Cotton, silk, polyester," the resident grins. – Liked it, too, didn't she? She takes it to the cleaners every two or three days, yeah, I've seen it myself, so it's a lot of trouble, yeah. But it's nice, though. And it costs a lot," Harmon grumbled.

– I'm afraid I can't even afford synthetics right now," Emily sighs.

Harmon raises an eyebrow – his glasses slide off his face funny – and shakes his head: he thinks a doctor without a gown is a doctor without hands.

– It has to be now," he says. – Yes, now, not tomorrow, now, because Clark already wants to talk to you after lunch, yes, and we still have to collect the papers, so we need a robe… What to do, yes, what to do… Okay, I will think, maybe Clark will think of something, yes…

He leads her down confusing corridors for a long time, until the "Employee Medical Center" sign appears in front of them. A couple more doors, a cold metal corridor, and Harmon literally pushes her into a narrow room.

They take blood, swabs, tests of some kind; they do not speak to her-an elderly nurse only ticks and signs endless vials, stamps the forms, phones the lab, dictates Johnson's data.

From the medical center, they run to the makeshift Human Resources Department, where Harmon has a long and florid conversation with a young girl, making eyes at her, shoving Emily to the side to nod and smile, and then finally getting the coveted file.

– Sweetheart," says the resident, "you are my treasure, you know, yes, my treasure. I owe you your favorite coffee, yes, I still remember what you like. Coffee, then.

And, picking Emily up under her elbow again, he dashes onward – the finance and legal departments are located one floor above.

Emily had never been in this part of the building before-Melissa had checked her out, and there was nothing else for her to do here. The sterile, lofty ambiance of the hospital was nowhere to be seen: the walls were wood-paneled, the floor was dark purple parquet. Instead of blinds, the windows have thin curtains, water coolers on every corner, flowers, and soft couches. No signage – without Harmon, she'd never have figured out where anything was.

Four floors of hospital governing bodies – lawyers, boards of directors, the chief medical officer and his secretaries, financial departments, human resources, waiting rooms, boardrooms… Emily swiftly passes one sliding door after another, out of the corner of her eye sees a dozen people sitting behind a huge table, recognizes one of them as Moss, and pulls her head into her shoulders.

– Dr. Clark has arranged for you to get two work cards in your hands," Harmon says in an unexpectedly even voice, and Emily flinches – so alien his intonation seems without the eternal repetition. – One you'll be on the record, the other you won't.

– Do you have a deal? – Emily barely keeps up with him.

Two working cards, she exults; she doesn't care about her seniority, as long as she gets to be a teller without any record of competency!

Harmon leaves her question unanswered-just takes the two laminated, A5 cards. Her own work history: hired – fired with a note, hired – employed to date.

She still can't believe what's happening, even when her fingers touch the cold pavement, even when the girl secretary smiles at her, even when Harmon claps her on the shoulder again.

It doesn't work that way.

She knows.

But it still flies high.

* * *

She hits the ground half an hour later-when Clark silently slams the office door in her face without explaining much; Harmon runs off to lunch, promising to bring her the whole package of papers afterwards, and Johnson herself has no idea what she should do now.

She has never had the means to buy lunch in the hospital cafeteria – a single cup of coffee costs more than ten pounds, and she does not even think about the cost of hot meals; so Emily, deciding that she will have to do it sometime anyway, goes to explore the work building.

Except that her feet take her to another block – a huge, green-glowing "P" and a hundred signs below it. The Psychology and Psychiatry Department is easily accessible through the seventh floor: an elevator, two corridors, a huge glass vault with awards and photographs, and a small staircase. A few more doors and brightly colored signs on the wall, and Emily enters the main part of Block P.

They're darned different – neurology and psychiatry. While Emily's ward is lined with loft bricks and illuminated with neon lights, here it's more like a botanical garden: dark green panel walls, carpeting, flowers and fountains everywhere. The corridor is solid, with no branches or windows; only at its very end stands a glass wall leading to the main staircases, wards, and platforms.

Here the psychiatrist's and psychologist's offices blend into one another, and toward the end of the corridor the door signs say "narcologist," "psychiatrist on duty," "lead psychotherapist"; and Emily is lost between dozens of names, trying to spot the right one.

Charlie Clark's office is decorated not only with a gilded plaque, but also with the insignia of a six-pointed star. Emily searches her memory – these seem to be hung for members of charitable foundations.

Somehow she has no doubts or fears – even if Dr. Clark is busy, there's nothing wrong with that, so Emily raises her hand and knocks.

Suddenly a woman's voice says "Come in," and Emily swings the door open.

She's not in Charlie's office, no; she's in front of his waiting room: there's a pretty girl behind a big glass desk, panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows, a soothingly gurgling fountain, and even a humming, colorful coffee machine.

– Are you here for the reception?

Emily shakes her head frightened: she was expecting anything but her own secretary.

– I… I…

The door to her right slides open in a Japanese fashion-paper finish with calligraphy, fine wood, intricate patterns-and Charlie's head flashes open: a shower of blond hair, barely noticeable freckles, and gray eyes like her sister's.

– Miss Johnson! – He smiles as if he sees her as an old friend. – Come in, please. I thought you were having lunch.

– I'm not eating. – Emily says it as if she's been on a strict diet all her life.

Charlie's office is half the size of his waiting room, but a dozen times more substantial and chaotic: photos and diplomas clutter the walls, a Japanese garden with a windmill and waterwheel on a big square table, and no desk as such – a long glass tabletop nailed along the wall that serves everything at once: two working laptops, speakers, piles of papers, and a cup of coffee. Two armchairs-soft, with cushions in colored pillowcases, with retractable footstools; between them is that very garden table, a little further away another with a solitary cup. Improvised crystal garlands of colored glass dangled from the small chandelier, giving the place a special charm; the city was visible through the loose curtains-the windows faced south, so Emily could see the outline of the London Eye in the distance.

– You're lucky," Charlie smiled. – One patient couldn't make it, and it freed up my time. You say you don't eat lunch? Coffee, then?

He doesn't wait for an answer, opens the door, says something like, 'Two cups for us, please,' and then he's right next to Emily again.

Charlie is wearing a long, almost floor-length kimono cardigan, embroidered with colored patterns, with huge sleeves; light jeans and a plain black T-shirt; there is no question of a white coat – the psychiatrist has attached his nametag directly to the pocket, and now it hangs around his knees, threatening to come off at any moment.

– I've been waiting for you, Emily. – He sits gently in his chair. – We have a lot to talk about.

At that moment, Johnson sees for the first time the resemblance between his brother and sister: they lean their heads slightly sideways and open their dry lips in the same way, hovering like statues; they fold their palms in a triangle so that their fingertips touch; and they look long, piercing, expectant.

Charlie doesn't look eighteen anymore, there's nothing left of a college student in him; and even the seemingly ridiculous clothes make him look much older.

How much of an age difference do they have?

– Almost five years. – It was as if Charlie could read her mind. – I'm twenty-three, in case you were wondering. Sit down; there's no need to stand.

One part of the window – the top one – is ajar, and, if you listen carefully, you can hear the sound of the street; the colored glass shines peacefully, swaying in the wind.

Emily hesitates and sits down on the tip of the chair, but the soft leather prevents her from sitting down, and she literally falls backward, shrieking in surprise. Charlie laughs-apparently she's not the only one who's fallen for it.

Now they're both half lying there, warm and soft, and Emily, with her head back on the pillow, decides to get her own psychiatrist when she becomes a great doctor.

Or hire Charlie Clark for a job.

– How can you have all that at twenty-three? – bursts out of Emily's mouth.

She immediately bites her tongue – she must have said something like that!

But Charlie just smiles.

– I hear that question from every patient," he says. – I have no idea, to be honest. It just sort of worked itself out.

I wish it had, too," sighs Johnson.

They get two small glass cups of coffee, and Charlie pours the espresso into the milk pot and then back into the cup.

Emily, desperate for milk, swallows her words in surprise, staring at the machination.

Charlie catches her gaze and defiantly adds four sugars.

There's a momentary pause, and then the air shakes with general laughter.

The assistant brings another small pitcher, and Emily enjoys inhaling the smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm milk.

– So, tell me, how does it feel to be back here? – Charlie almost gulps down the contents of his cup.

– Oh!" Emily flashes back at once. – Thank you," she says. – She says thank you from the bottom of her heart. – I don't know what I would have done without you, to be honest. I still can't believe Dr. Clark decided to bring me back. – She laughs. – I didn't even think she remembered me; and then suddenly we happened to meet on the boardwalk near my house, and she said so many things to me. It was important to me.

– What kind of things? – Clarke clarifies.

– She guided me… straight," Emily replies quietly. – Not to the bottom.

Charlie suddenly smiles – and it looks so sincere that her lips stretch into a smile, too. After a long questioning look from the nurse, Charlie does speak:

– 'Laurie told me that all my life,' he sighs, 'until I got on my feet and actually walked that very straight line.

– Really? – Emily catches her breath.

Charlie nods.

He feels her – there's a reason Charlie Clarke chose this path. Johnson knows that she is now an open book for a psychiatrist, as she has always been. And the whole atmosphere–the blind trust, the talk, the colored glass–the whole atmosphere is as if it were made for her.

It's as if he's been waiting and preparing for her.

Charlie looks relaxed, but his eyes are sharp, just like Lorraine's, missing only the scalpel in his hand and the biting lips.

– Dr. Clark said you grew up in an orphanage," Emily said cautiously.

She doesn't hope for anything – you can't come and say hello and learn the whole life story of people she will never be on the same step with; but some shards, scraps of phrases, bits and pieces of past or present can be collected.

To cherish.

But it's time she got used to it-the world is always against her, even if there are occasional exceptions, but that's more to confirm the rule.

– We all have our own story, Emily," the psychiatrist says softly. – If you want to hear mine, you'll probably have to tell me yours.

Emily looks at him in surprise:

– What could possibly be interesting about my life?

– You can start at the end, if the beginning isn't interesting," Charlie smiles. – For instance, tell me about your dream. You must have a dream. We all do," he adds.

– I would like to be a doctor," Emily answers after a while.

– But you're already a doctor," Clark says with surprise.

– Well…" Emily crumples her pillow, "yes. But not like this. I want to be different. Not that kind," she repeats.

– Like what?

– Like your sister or you," the nurse exhales. – Successful, rich, so you can have dinner with your family at night, and not think in the morning that you could be fired at any moment for the slightest mistake.

Charlie Clark's face turns into one big question mark.

– You have a strange way of thinking about doctors, Emily," he says after a moment. – It's strange that in all that list you didn't mention such qualities as professionalism, understanding, knowledge.

Johnson's cheeks blush.

– Why such a desire to become successful in the field of medicine? Why not business, not law?

And again, those palms triangle, the stare and Clark-which-brainwalker.

Emily shrugs her shoulders:

– I've wanted to since I was a kid.

– И?..

– And that's it.

Charlie raises his hands:

– Okay, my turn. – He sits back and makes himself comfortable. – You know, I went into medicine because I wanted to give people hope. That sounds romantic as hell. – He laughs. – I wanted to be for others what Laurie was for me – she was the one who turned a troubled teenager into a human being. But I still don't have enough! – He raises his finger.

– So that is why I am here! – Emily exclaims. – That's why you gave me the chance, isn't it?

Charlie nods:

– Exactly. A year ago my assistant was a student with a lot of debt, and she came in for a job interview as a joke, and now, look – now I'm without her. I even know what time my workday starts, and I used to come every time at a different time. If you can, why not help? Everybody needs a little bit of magic sometimes. Especially in our town. – He winks.

Adding up two plus two, Emily has no time: in the pockets of her jeans crackles-ringing old, still broken phone. After apologizing, she presses the call button, but before she can even say "Yes?" the phone explodes and cuts into familiar notes:

– Johnson, to my office, now!

Emily jumps up from her seat; spilling her coffee, setting it right on the sand in the Japanese garden, muttering:

– Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me! – and storms out, miraculously not blowing down the paper door.

Charlie Clark looks sadly at the ungodly ruined composition, at the coffee stains sprawling across the carpet, and, taking out his phone, quickly dials a message:

Catch a bird.