Читать книгу Impuls - Aster - Страница 13

I'm tired of being afraid of you.

it's the finish line.

Let's call it a draw.

If I fall in love again

shoot me,

– You know, when I first finished my internship, I was assigned to assist some surgeon. So there was a team of ten, and when he said "scalpel," all ten of them repeated like idiots: "Scalpel. Then the surgeon was like, "Clamp!" and then they were like, "Clamp, clamp, clamp…"

– That's so you don't forget what you need, genius.

– Genius, genius, genius…

– Can you saw in silence?

– Tell my ex-wife that," Riley mutters. – Dissecting tissue.

The surgeon's entire craniotomy operation takes no more than thirty minutes: Sara silently, without comment, hands him the instruments; now the tissue is removed, a dilator is placed, auxiliary openings are made. The sharp sound of a saw, and the smell of sawed bone hits my nose.

Emily forceps pick up a fragment of skull, dips it into a bath of special solution, returns it to its place – in perfect synchrony Clark and Gilmore seal the bleeding vessels. The smell of burned flesh and heated metal.

– Current.

More than anything, Emily fears her hands will start to shake; but, contrary to her fears, she holds on even more than firmly: handing over the device, casting a glance at the socket, another at the screen. She can't catch Clark's attention: the neurosurgeon is fully immersed in the Leica while Gilmore talks to Harmon.

– Clamping and taking off at once with a hat.

Emily prepares for coagulation: she serves a small, film-wrapped laser; Sarah puts a gauze drain, blotting it out, Gilmore laments that we can't use a dilator – that would make the access area even larger.

The gauze is barely changed in time: the amount of blood in the area decreases too slowly; some of the many vessels are too thin for the laser and bleed desperately.

– It sucks," Gilmore concludes.

– Let's not go back, it's about twenty minutes of work," Clark says. – Dry it.

Sarah removes the thin tube from the machine once more, presses the button with her foot; the drainage machine begins to vibrate, taking in air; a little further away, Gilmore already places the clamps that have been applied, stopping the blood flow on the neoplasm.

– I laser," Clark says. – We'll clean at different stages, what's at risk, we'll scrape out by hand. That's it, we can close.

The pungent smell that hits her nose makes Emily's eyes go dark for a second, and both Clark and Gilmore stick to the eyepieces of the Leica. Johnson sees all their manipulations on the screen: here's Clark picking up the tumor, and here the beam of the laser scalpel flashes, illuminating the image with red light. Gilmore deftly rakes the affected areas and tosses them into the cuvette, the very small remnants picked up by Sarah's drain.

Emily sighs: it seems there is no more work for her – so she takes the metal container, changing it for another; she watches: Clark acts quickly, almost sharply, clearly moving around the neoplasm – from edge to center, as if carving a snowflake.

This goes on for about twenty minutes – under the reddish-white tumor the affected part of the brain becomes visible, and Emily hurriedly delivers a coagulant laser – Sarah, standing next to Gilmore, personally "glues" the rest of the vessels.

From the second lap, everyone switches places, and the drainage goes to Emily – she puts the tube on the other side, watching the screens carefully: she has almost no access to the wound directly, but she still confidently places the traction on the bleeding areas. And so they walk in a chain: Clark in front with the laser scalpel, followed by Gilmore, also with the laser, but with less power, Sarah with the neurosurgical tweezers and Emily with the drainage, as if picking up the dust left by them.

– Finishing up," Clark announces, getting to the tiniest spot. – Plague. How's that? By hand?

– Fi, how rude. – Riley hands the laser back to Sarah. – Get the micron ready.

The Microspeed UNI ultrasonic scalpel doesn't fit in any way with the white color of the operating room: bright blue stem, wrapped yellow wire, red display border. Emily adjusts it to Harmon's data in seconds: minimally invasive nozzle, single eights and zeros; hands it to Clark, who's been waiting longer than a moment; and gets back to her side with her elbows to her ribs.

– Be gentle with her," Gilmore purrs.

Emily, remembering Kemp's fussing over the Leica, is no longer surprised by anything – that doctors are in love with their instruments has never been a mystery to her.

– I will," Clark assures her, and presses the pedal.

She carefully polishes the area like a tooth filling, constantly adjusting the power with the foot pedal, moving from the middle to the edges.

In front of Emily's eyes, the swelling shrinks, becomes barely noticeable, and then disappears altogether: the drainage instantly takes in any remaining particles, preventing them from spreading; Sarah blows out the area once more, Gilmore prepares to put everything back in place.

– Wonderful," the surgeon says, looking at the screens. – Let's close it up.

A satisfied Clark pulls away from the Leica for a second, handing Emily the Micron, and suddenly shrieks.

The curved metal ball-shaped nozzle glistens in the light of the shadowless lamps for a second, there's a whirring sound, then the sound of the instrument falling onto the tiles, and the sleeve of her robe is soaked in blood in an instant.

Clark stands frozen, holding his hand palm up, blood trickling from the damaged skin to the floor in a thin stream, lingering just a little on the pieces of torn glove.

– Go, I'll replace it. – Gilmore, not even looking closely, takes her place. Sarah doesn't move either, and Emily remains the only one who can help.

And the neurosurgeon, still not turning her hand over, is already running to the pre-op – that's where the anti-AIDS kit hangs on the wall; Emily runs out after it and, after a change of gloves, opens the plastic lid.

Clark is pale as a sheet, even under the mask, but her hand does not flinch, and she stands as if nailed to the floor; she just reaches for Emily's injured hand – to pour alcohol, apply iodine, bandage it; cut the robe on Clark, push the neurosurgeon – right in the mask, shoe covers and cap – into the hallway, and from there – under the elbow, without panic, on bad legs – to the dressing room.

Clark's face slowly matches the color of her light green hirsute suit; and Emily, once again changing her unfortunate gloves, with a familiar movement of her foot, rolls up her table.

Everything she needs is already arranged in the container – all that remains is to decide on the nature of the wound. Emily carefully cuts the bandages, removes the remains of the glove – the wound, though cauterized with iodine, still bleeds – and places her hand on a special table with linens.

Emily opens the dry-room, rips open the kraft bag with the carpel syringe, takes out the lidocaine carpel, sets it inside.

There's a click.

She's so damn calm – no panic, no fuss; with one hand she holds the palm open, with the other she gives four shots to both sides of the wound – deep, but unexpectedly perfectly flat.

Clark silently observes the actions of the nurse: take out Hegar, pick up the needle, choose a sixteen-millimeter, clasp the needle holder in one hand; it remains to put the thread in the corner between the ends and the needle, pull lightly – and in a moment the thin fiber is already through.

Emily says out of habit:

– It doesn't hurt. Do not worry, please.

She's stitched enough wounds in her life that she doesn't even have to think about it; the body works separately from her: all the movements are honed, adjusted to the millimeter. The needle slides back and forth, piercing the thin skin with ease, Emily smiles, assuring her that everything will be fine, the tendons intact, which means it will soon heal.

– But the scar will remain," she says seriously, without stopping.

Seven stitches in less than five minutes, Emily makes the final knot, which she does with a needle holder, wrapping the thread around the ends, angling it to catch the loose edge and pulling it toward her.

A flick of the scissors, a final work on top, and Emily removes her gloves.

Clark, previously silent, pulls the mask off with one hand, tosses it into the garbage can, and asks in a hoarse voice:

– Who taught you how to load a needle this way?

– Uh-" Emily doesn't know whether to run or rejoice, "I guessed it myself somehow. It's faster that way. Will you allow me…? – She generously pours a piece of gauze fucorcinol and looks questioningly at the neurosurgeon.

Clark nods.

And so they sit, Emily, slowly touching Clark's arm, and Lorraine, keeping her gaze fixed on her with her dark gray eyes.

The neurosurgeon's hands are icy, frozen in space, detached, as if alien; Emily's are warm, light touches, more for prevention than necessity; and sparks flare in the thin fabric from each press on the stitched cut.

And then they meet, and Emily begins to burn from the inside out.

But she can't tell if it's the stars or the flames of hell.

It is as if she is lifted up to the sky and then squeezed by a vise, breaking her ribs under her skin, an instant addiction that makes a man a slave and from which it is impossible to escape on one's own. As a needle rips into crystal skin, as a grenade fragment falls into the frozen sea, exploding the ice.

The world cracks at the seams – as thin and neat as the palm of my hand, rejecting all attitudes, mixing "right" and "wrong."

Emily had never known it to be like this; she had always thought that falling from such a height was bloody dangerous, almost fatal, but now, without trying to break free from the vise that gripped her chest, she lets herself go.

It hurts.

And scary.

Because she doesn't know the feeling – and she can't define it: to sit like this, eyes colliding and silent; only to feel herself torn apart by the flood of words she wants to say.

Clark is still motionless.

A stone.

A monument.

A rock.

And the rain splashes on the bottom of her gray eyes.

Emily knows: you can't touch her hand – but she can feel Clark flexing it a little, as if trying to catch it, to stop the movement.

Latex and perfectly clean skin.

What could be worse than Clark's fragile, glassy fingers with their mirrored, transparent veins? Emily doesn't know how to take hold of herself, because she's not sure whose to take hold of.

She has been explained: how to extract the root of a number, how to seal vessels, how to mix solutions, how many quarks are in a proton, how much grief it takes to be exalted; but all this knowledge has now proved zero, because she has not been explained the main thing.

Why doesn't every damn cell in her body belong to her anymore?

And when Clark opens his dry, weathered lips, cracked in an instant, and begins to tell her something, Emily still can't calm her atoms .

– …Eighth in a shift. Damn Autumn.

– Damn autumn," Emily echoed, working up the courage to clench her fingers.

A deep breath.

The tightly closed door swings open, the colorful patterned cardigan flashes, and eternity, frozen for a few minutes, continues its run again.

Charlie appears out of nowhere: how he found out, who told him, it is unknown, but his face is unaccustomedly serious, frowning; he casts an eloquent glance at Emily, and she leaves the room, leaving them alone.

She doesn't know what's going on behind the closed door, but as she carefully closes it behind her, she sees Charlie take a seat in the chair across from Lorraine and take her healthy hand in his. The psychiatrist's quiet voice has a soothing effect – even without distinguishing the words, Emily knows what they're talking about: Clark Sr. needs to rest.

Bored, Emily starts walking back and forth down the corridor – she doesn't know why she's waiting for them to finish – but it doesn't last long: the clock is running inexorably toward six, the official end of the unfinished operation is minutes away, which means that Harmon or Riley will soon be here to announce the news.

She's not wrong – barely as Charlie leaves the room and passes the nurse without a word, Gilmore shows up from around the corner – still in his hirsute suit, tired, but immediately smiling as soon as he meets Emily.

– Everything's fine," he informs her, patting her on the shoulder. – Where's Clark?

Emily silently points to the door of the dressing room and, with a sigh, follows the surgeon in: Lorraine is still sitting in her chair with her legs tucked under her – a stone statue, a frozen flame, a block of ice.

She even endured the stitches without a single emotion.

– The prognosis is good. – Gilmore flops back in his chair, and it creaks miserably. – How'd you do that?

– I don't know," Clark replies honestly, shaking his head. – I have no idea. I must be really tired.

– You have the tenth operation in a day, you already exceeded the plan twice, – says the surgeon in a dictatorial tone. – Let's go home, Clark. Get some sleep and come out tomorrow, and Neil will fill in for you.

– What about you?

– I've got another one. – Gilmore's face takes on an expression as if he's got a toothache all at once. – And then I'll go, too.

He stands up heavily, leaning against the table, salutes Clark goodbye, taps Emily lightly on the shoulder one more time, and walks out.

– So, Johnson," Clark grins sadly. – Home.

* * *

Emily finds Harmon lying imposingly on the couch – he's covering his face with some three-year-old magazine and twitching his leg to the beat of the music from the TV.

– What," he says as soon as he sees the nurse, "they stitched it up, didn't they? Stitched?

– Yeah," she answers absent-mindedly. And more out of politeness than interest, asks: "And how are you? All successfully?

– Not a damn thing. – Harmon sits up abruptly. – So they sealed the vessel, and there's a thin artery, and, boom, there's a dissection, yes, a dissection right inside. And he had already closed the bone back and forth, sewed it up. We had to open it up, and while they were opening it up, the patient was in stoppage, and it's a nasty thing. That's the one, by the way, yeah, if you remember – he had a heart attack, and he's under full anesthesia, so with a heart attack, well, stupid.

Emily's fingertips start to itch:

– Saved…?

– The hell no, – repeats the resident, trying to straighten a crumpled robe. – Our patient is finished, yes. Couldn't stand the stratification, yeah, so you imagine – there's a sea of blood, yeah, just knee-deep, blood everywhere, so elbow-deep; not saved, yeah. That sucks, huh?

– Oh my God. – Emily shakes her head. – Does Dr. Clark know?

– No," Harmon cuts her off. – She doesn't know, so you don't know, okay? She doesn't, and you don't. And she shouldn't know, so you don't know, yes.

– But why?

– So this is Clark's third shift in a row, yes, third shift. So it's the third shift, what is that? That's almost fifty hours in a row, yes. Fifty, right? Yeah, that's right. – He nods to himself. – She doesn't need to know about it, because she'll get upset, yes, she'll get nervous. A nervous doctor is a bad doctor, yes, remember that, Johnson. If you tell her…

– I understand," Emily interrupts. – But you're confused about something: I saw her yesterday near the train station. We even talked.

The last phrase sounds so strange that the usually not too emotional resident raises an eyebrow in surprise.

– 'I couldn't know,' he says. – About that, I mean, I can't; but I do know that she went out for a couple of hours with Moss, yes, because I was giving him a report at the time. And then she came back, yes, and I was still doing it, so Moss was tormenting me for two hours, yes, he couldn't live quietly…

…It's pitch black in the locker room, and when the lights flicker, reacting to movement, Emily thinks she's about to go blind. Reaching into the locker, she tears open the sealed bag, hastily removes the blood-stained robe, and shoves it inside.

She slaps her bare feet on the unsterile floor, unafraid of catching an infection, pushes open the shower stall door, turns on the hot water, and leans her forehead against the soft blue tiles on the wall.

She fears this day will never end.

A bloody obstacle course.

Gold dances under her swollen eyelids, circles that must be how the capillaries tear. Water poured into my eyes, into my mouth, trickled down in a thin stream, smashing against my legs.

There's a little more left. Just a little longer, and she'll climb under the covers, close the gray blinds, and fall asleep.

She'll deal with everything tomorrow.

The shower room fills with smells – apricot shampoo, milk shower gel – and sparkling foam swirling around the drain grate; steam rises into the air and remains hovering somewhere at head level; Emily pulls on her towel, miraculously not slipping on the slippery tiles.

She just wants time to go faster.

But as she wraps the huge striped scarf around her neck and prepares to slip into her coat, Emily notices a white stain in the corner of her locker.

The white robe, borrowed from Clark for the rest of the day, causes only tired irritation – I should not have taken it at all, and now, apologizing a thousand times for the inconvenience, carry it back.

To Clark.

To the Underworld.

* * *

She stands with her arms around her shoulders, still wearing her light green surgical suit, looking out through the endless veil of fog. A carved statue, shattered, splintered.

No trace of the unbending surgeon remains; Lorraine seems too human – sharp shoulders, skinny arms, thin, skinned bones; and in her enormous form she is lost. She dissolves, desperately embracing herself, almost scratching, straining her long fingers with the swollen ring mark – and the bandage finally loosens, leaving barely visible white threads on the thin fabric.

Emily can't take her eyes off of her.

Clark gets under her skin. Under her ribs, bypassing the arteries, it slides into her heart; it sprouts through, pierces her bones, and that's it, the point is reached, you can't get it out if you want to.

Stubborn grass through concrete.

And then she clutches her mouth with her palm, covers it with another and breaks – with a thin, barely audible crunch; bending in half, clutching the cold floor with her knees, with a choked sob, frantically pressing her hands on her trembling lips so as not to give herself away.

To tell those inadvertent, ill-timed visitors: I just lost my earring.

And to wipe the gray bandage of salt from her cheeks.

Emily catches up with her in an instant – even if she scolds her, pushes her away, screams, it doesn't matter – and cradles her.

It is so torn, shattered, cracked; and this stone shell crumbles, showering everything around them with gray sand; and Emily repeats everything as she goes along, absolutely not knowing what to do, but holding the thin body to her as if to protect her from the whole world:

– It's just a scratch, come on, it will heal… It's just a scratch, tomorrow it will be easier, and in a few days we will take the stitches out… I will help, in everything, really, really. I may be silly, I may be stupid, but I'll do anything and everything…

Emily knows that everything you're afraid of will happen tomorrow, but tomorrow is hours away, and now all her fears are receding, and even Clark, who seemed so arrogant and prickly before, turns out to be human.

– It'll heal," Emily whispers into Clark's hair. – You'll see.

They sit on the floor of the office.

And autumn smells like salt.