Читать книгу Impuls - Aster - Страница 14

I can't help thinking you're stronger, you're the most beautiful thing in the world, your eyes will sell the whole world for you, but I'm a coin from a purse.

I can't help thinking that you are the most important, they will fight in a foreign country for you, they will drown for you, they will burn in the fire.

I, alas, can never reach you.

And if yesterday was war – Emily gets out of bed, shattered with lead. Her arms and legs are disobedient, her head is buzzing, every bone threatens to break at any movement. The clock reads twenty past seven, the time she has allotted for sleep running out all too quickly.

Everything is so familiar and gray, unchanging, unnecessarily stable-even the dust between the blinds lies exactly as it did before. The actions, reduced to automatism: to get out of bed, take a shower, pour a cup of coffee; to glance at the calendar – there are a couple of days before the rent is due; to try to collect my thoughts – to glance at the empty bag, to throw things into the backpack, to drink a diluted dark slurry, remotely resembling a normal drink; to go to the misty Trinity Street.

Except the nasty swamp turtleneck smells like Clark – and Emily feels like a neurosurgeon somewhere near her: menthol, lemon, and iron.

Crammed into the farthest corner of the bus, Emily cradles her backpack and closes her eyes, going back to last night.

There they sit – half-dead, as if on burnt grass, staring with unseeing eyes at the sky – black, starless, bottomless. Sitting there, stilettoes under their ribs, broken bones, glands between their vertebrae; and Clark speaking, barely audible, not in his own voice, or, conversely, in his own, real, not artificially icy, not eternally ironic:

– How I hate all this.

Emily does not specify what; she is afraid to do anything at all; she knows: one move and Clark will fly away, disappear, dissolve; she is a damn bird with chains on her wings.

Clark warms up, becomes softer, lighter; he thaws, relaxes his head on Emily's shoulder, closes his eyes.

And as she buries her fingers in Clark's hair, the scent of her shampoo lingers on the tips of her hair.

And then she shakes Emily off, like shaking off useless, irritating dust; stands up sharply, slaps her palm against her palm, straightens her shoulders-a snow queen, a grin, a piercing look; tilts her head sideways and, her lips open, spits out an ice cube:

– I think it's time for you to go home.

And everything collapses again – or builds like a wall, brick by brick, bloody blocks, impenetrable, monolithic, marble; Emily nods, mutters "goodbye" – and walks out.

She is in so much pain that her stomach cramps and her mouth becomes unbearably bitter; but the sun persists in warming her pocket, as if to remind her that even people like Clark know how to feel.

The familiar gray building of London Royal Hospital unfriendlyly greets her with bustling corridors and the smell of buns in the break room.

That Lorraine isn't at work, she realizes immediately.

It's not because the door to the neurosurgeon's office is shut tightly; no, it's worse than that-it's wide open, as if Clark had just stepped out a minute ago.

Except that both robes are just as they were left yesterday, and the broken glass is still catching the reflection of the frowning sky in its shards. Things around Emily are scattered in chaos-folders mingled with crumpled papers, pens and pencils lying around, a fallen electronic clock counting down gently.

The white cloth, dirty and crumpled, is crumpled in the middle of the office, and Emily somehow picks it up first, as if it might still be usable for something; but reason tells her that professional cleaning is needed here, and the nurse simply unclenches her fist, letting the robes fall to her feet with a soft rustle.

Behind her she hears footsteps, keys jingle, a lock clicks; Emily feels the bitter smell reaching her through such a distance and panics: if Moss sees her here, he will fire her right away, for no reason, and he won't give a damn about Clark.

But luckily, the trouble passes her by, scorching her breath-the head of neurology slams his door on the inside, and the main corridor is quiet again.

Emily exhales.

– This place needs to be cleaned up. – A heavy hand rests on her shoulder.

She shudders in surprise and turns abruptly; her brown hair, loosely tied up in a bun, falls in locks and bobby pins to the floor with a metallic clang.

Gilmore, who remains perfectly calm, yawns frankly:

– We're working with Neil today, and you're still with me on general plannings. – Another yawn. – Why are you looking at me like that? I slept for six hours," he mutters.

Emily expects Riley to say something about the mess.

Or ask what happened here.

Or ask her to get someone to clean it up.

But instead, the surgeon glances at her wristwatch and asks a single question:

– Didn't you take our schedule…?

And her workday begins to spin.

In the hour before her first operation, Emily combines her job as secretary and janitor: she runs like a madwoman from neurology to the waiting room and back, over and over again, in a hundredth circle.

It's the same thousands of little leaves, slipped into the pockets of her jeans, the same bog-colored turtleneck, the same glances at her – a blank space, a misty grayness, a weed that has sprouted through the concrete.

Emily takes today's schedule – incomprehensible numbers, initials, designations; she scolds herself, hastily converts it on one of the free computers into three columns – time, crew, patient code; and no stupid abbreviations in which nothing can be understood. Thinking about it, she adds blank lines – let them be, she will make unscheduled ones later, it will be for her report and Sara's help.

She takes the folders, takes them to the archives, certifies them, signs them; she pokes a nametag that Harmon brings her – her pride: gray background, photo, Emily Johnson, nurse, Block F.

You want to take a picture and send it to your mother – look, Mom, what I've accomplished, how I can now.

Not to the bottom, but in a straight line.

She runs into Gilmore again and again in the hallways-the surgeon is unaccustomedly gloomy and taciturn, changing coffee cups every hour, frowning while talking on the phone, and a few minutes before the preparation for surgery even begins, he catches Emily by the shoulders and pushes her into his office.

And if Clark is impeccable brevity and polished minimalism, and Charlie is a desperate tribute to hippies, Gilmore turns out to be a real narcissist.

Apparently, he shares an office with two other doctors: the simplicity of the loft-like decor is obscured by a wall full of diplomas and photographs. Emily wouldn't be surprised to see a trophy under the glass – the title "Most Narcissistic Surgeon – 2018" would definitely go to Gilmore.

She cautiously sits down in one of the two chairs by his desk – the same glass one Clark has – and looks questioningly at the doctor.

– We have a problem.

Emily consults a sheet of paper:

– We're scheduled to operate on Miss Mills at eleven. Stem glioma, stage one, along with Dr. Neal's team and…

– She's anemic," interrupts a plump Gilmore in her chair. – And she's Zoroastrian.

– Is that a disease?

– Worse. Religion.

Emily shrugs:

– So?

– Her… uh… God? What do they call their priest over there? Not the point. Anyway, he forbids blood transfusions, and we can't risk putting her under the knife with anemia. – Riley taps his fingers on the tabletop.

– We could use a substitute," Emily suggests. – A preservative…

– You don't get it. Her religion forbids medical interventions in general. – He holds out to her a thin folder with just one sheet. – The cells of this crap have already grown into healthy tissue and, in some places, have even replaced it. We've stopped the development, of course, but the glial cells don't want to function normally-so what's inside her can't be stopped. Only to cut it.

Emily remembers the volume of the Bible, carefully lying in the top drawer of the nightstand, and somehow she becomes ashamed.

– Is there really no choice?

– It's a combo, Johnson: Ataxia, hypertension, even nystagmus. They brought her in at night with seizures, put her on the plan in the window, and the plan was busy, but the patient wasn't there. In the morning came her … uh … colleagues, said the good news.

– What about her? – Emily frowns, returning the folder: you can't learn much from one sheet of paper, and the scans and basic papers are probably already in the operating room itself.

– She's a fanatic. – The surgeon presses his lips together. – There's nothing to be done. It's not like we're going to beat her up to get consent. So maybe we shouldn't try to make tea in cold water, but rather rest?

Emily looks at him in surprise.

– You mean," she says slowly, frowning, "just give up? Is that what it turns out to be? What does Dr. Higgins say?

– Higgins? – Gilmore adjusts all the objects on the table, automatically. – What about Higgins? He diagnosed him, scheduled the surgery, what else can we get from him?

– And Moss?

The surgeon's expressive gaze answers all questions.

– But we can't just leave her!

– What are you supposed to do? – Gilmore shakes his hands. – We'll put all the solutions we can, but the operation without the patient's consent is against all the laws.

– Even if her life is at stake?

He thinks for a moment, and then shakes his head slowly and slowly:

– Between religion and life, she chose religion," Riley just says.

– Maybe, at least…

Emily doesn't have time to finish: the internal phone on the surgeon's desk rings, and he picks it up with a jerk, listens to his interlocutor, and then, without saying goodbye, puts the flimsy plastic back in its place.

– She's having a seizure that not even twenty cc's of nemiazine would relieve. – He rubs his temples. – It's either anesthesia or death.

– But how…? – Emily opens her eyes wide. – How?

– Operate," a familiar voice comes from behind her.

Emily turns around.

Clark was leaning against the door frame, pale as a sheet, only a feverish blush barely showing on her cheekbones, and her eyes gleaming sickly and wet. Her bloodless, dry lips were slightly open, her head tilted, a trademark gesture the surgeon managed even in this state.

And Emily also somehow knows that Clark now has icy hands.

She's not wearing a robe, as if she were a visitor, not a doctor, and it's damn unusual to see a multicolored striped sweater several sizes larger than hers instead of a T-shirt – her frozen wrists are hidden in the wide cuffs of her sleeves.

Other than that, Clark is as perfect as ever: black jeans, pumps, a thin bracelet chain visible through the coarse knitting of the sweater.

Emily thinks that women like that must have been the reason wars were fought.

Gilmore sighs heavily and longingly, runs a hand through his red hair, ruffling it.

– We can't," he says.

– No, we can," Clark argues. – We not only can. We have to.

– She doesn't consent," Emily inserts. – Without consent…

– Are you asking her to marry you? – the neurosurgeon suddenly asks.

– E. No?

– Are you asking me now?

– About what?

– Marriage.

– I answer. – Slightly taken aback by this conversation, Emily begins to crumple the fabric of her turtleneck in her hands.

Clark brushes her off and turns his gaze to Gilmore:

– Get the serum ready. Just so they don't get pinned down, take the maximum synthetic, maybe even something with polyglucin. Put the packets in, but use as a last resort. Ask Neal to open up quad 7, have them cut the crap out. I'm assuming there's hydrocele, which means get ready for an endoscopy. Keep her on surrogates till last, get as much blood in as you can.

– But what do we tell her?

– We'll treat it as an emergency intervention. We save a life, not a belief in it. – Clark shrugs his shoulders. – What will Moss do? Fire her? For God's sake. They'll write a couple of complaints, we'll send all the results… Just you know what?

– What?

– I bet they won't," the neurosurgeon smirks. – Tell them she survived by a miracle. Neil, really, he's going to get cocky…

Emily is torn apart, pulled to the sides: here is her God, long settled in her heart, an unshakable faith, lines from the Bible by heart; and here is the work, the saved life, a sense of the rightness of what is happening.

And which side is right – she doesn't know, only feels that the scales are equal: that's probably why she doesn't hold back and asks:

– But what about her choice…?

– Do you want to poke religion at me? – Clark turns sharply to her. – Then you shouldn't be here! – She barked. – And until you buy a robe, forget about surgery!

Emily is at a loss: yes, she said a stupid thing, but she finds Clark's reaction… scary?

And unfair.

The resentment of bitter black branches sprouts from the vertebrae, entangles the bones, squeezes, gives more and more shoots – thin and whipped twigs with metastatic leaves, suffocating, stuffy, hot; comes to the throat – presses on important points, blossoms poisonous flowers.

Clark says something else, throwing around words that hurt her delicate unprotected skin, repeating them as if they were a stumbling block, as if they were the reason she cried yesterday – the reason a bloody piece of cloth is now lying in her office.

As if she hadn't been the one who had laid her head on Emily's shoulder.

Treacherously hot tears come to her eyes, hold there for a few more seconds, and then tear down, leaving glistening streaks on her cheeks.

Clark misfires.

Shutting up.

Closes his mouth.

Emily brings her hand to her face and wipes away the moisture with one motion of her stretched sleeve.

– I have to go," she says in a hoarse voice. – Folders.

– Laurie," Gilmore calls out. – I've got to tell Neil we're minus two.

– Harmon bailed? – Neurosurgeon grudgingly grimaces.

– He took three days off," Riley said.

Clark nods briefly.

A few feet away, with her back against the cold wall, Emily covers her mouth with her palm, letting the heavy flowers of resentment fall down.

* * *

It's so quiet in the pre-op room, as if all the background noise had suddenly been turned off, turning the power down to the minimum.

In the room itself, of course, she is not allowed: without the overalls and Clark's permission it is impossible; so Emily stays in the area between the front door and the operating room itself – in the very narrow space where the surgeons wash their hands – and again huddles in a dark corner, trying not to get in anyone's sight. Gilmore, after thinking about it, gives her a chance, but tells her to change into a hirsute suit and be as quiet as a mouse.

Through the transparent thick glass she sees the operating table, on which the young girl lies; even in this deep anesthesia her body is unnecessarily tense – swollen veins Emily notices almost immediately.

She sees Jake Neal, the second neurosurgeon, for the first time. He is stout, tall, with gray hair on his temples and an incredibly eye-catching blue-and-yellow tattoo on his arm (Emily squints to see sphinx heads and human faces), laughing out loud as he tells the old joke about the surgeon and the screwdriver.

He seems whole. And while Clark to Emily is the epitome of ice, Neil seems to her like a steady, living flame, calm and warming.

– Darling, put on some opera, it's so good to work to…! – His calm and soft baritone, without any accent, has a soothing effect on the nurse. – Bellini or Norma, better the former. He handles his voice admirably, the damn handyman!..!

Gilmore notices Emily, winks, turns on the machine; Neil heads straight for it – unlike Clark, he leaves the Leica calibration to the machine itself.

Emily presses her forehead against the glass so hard it hurts, but she can't take her eyes off the monitors: the surgeons' hands flicker over the ruled squares.

This is Emily's first time at spinal neurosurgery, but she doesn't see any significant differences in preparation – except that the patient is not on his back, but on his side, and there are more tubes and wires to him, as well as the people themselves – two anesthesiologists, two surgeons, four nurses and a couple of orderlies, sitting peacefully on chairs in the corner.

There is a click – the main flashlight turns on, signaling the start of surgery, and the red circle above the door lights up – the operation begins.

Emily tries to remember every detail, eagerly catching every movement, but it is almost impossible to see from this distance, and she sighs disappointedly.

And then someone coughs softly behind her.

– There you are.

She turns around – and slips on a drop of disinfectant solution. Awkwardly swinging her arms, miraculously not knocking over the sterile linen rack, Emily almost falls into Clark's arms.

The neurosurgeon stares at her for a moment with a strange look – I-I-didn't-expect-anything-other – and then suddenly speaks:

– How about lunch?