Читать книгу Impuls - Aster - Страница 15

And I lay out my cards on my knees, and lie to myself about what's to come:

I shall live till the beginning of March, or before that I shall fall asleep in the snow.

I'll go to the scaffold, having laughed, to the resurrection, having lamented.

Or I am in boiling water, like sugar,

to the end

in thee.

Lorraine Clark does not know the word "no." Emily became convinced of that a long time ago, but now, looking at the neurosurgeon in her long black coat, colorful scarf, and tightly laced army boots, the nurse thinks that, overall, for a recently wounded and sick woman, Clark looks even too good.

And that perpetual gaudy purple lipstick that makes her look like a freak and exposes the pink stripe on the inside of her lips when the neurosurgeon asks:

– Shall we?

Emily expects Clark to take her to an expensive restaurant or even take her across town for a cup of coffee for forty pounds; but Lorraine confidently crosses the A11, turns onto Cambridge Heath Road, and from there dives into the yard.

No. She was prepared for anything – up to and including the fact that Clark keeps a picture of the Queen under her pillow – but not the barely visible "Blind Beggar" sign above the shabby door.

"Blind Beggar?" Is that a joke?

Clark pushes the massive wood away from him-the bell sounds melodically, the warm air hits his face; Emily sees rows of tables and sofas in the light of the red-and-yellow wide lamps; the clinking of appliances mingles with soft conversations; it smells of beer and roast meat.

A typical London pub: the owner himself, of course, is behind the bar, the waiters move around the room faintly, a fat woman at the entrance nods at Clark like an old acquaintance and leads them to a table with a "reserve" sign.

As they approach, the sign immediately disappears.

As Clark unwinds the endless layers of the scarf, Emily notices that the cut spot on her arm is tightly bandaged with a flesh-colored bandage hiding under the long sleeves of her sweater.

– Charlie showed me this place," Lorraine said, folding her coat on a nearby chair and sliding her tiny backpack on top.

– Unusual. – Emily follows suit. – I hardly ever go anywhere but home and work and the coffee shop," she admits, trying to remember how much money she has left and whether she can afford anything more expensive than a free glass of water.

The nurse's hands are shaking – she's so nervous, like she's about to take the most important exam of her life. Although, knowing Clark, she really could give her a test on the spot, and not on nursing knowledge at all.

Who knows what's going on in that neurosurgeon's head?

But now Lorraine is leaning back on the sofa relaxed and squinting slightly at the menu. Still afraid to even breathe loudly, Emily reaches for the leather folder, trying to make as little noise as possible.

To pretend to be furniture.

But she doesn't even have time to open it-a dainty woman's hand with a thin bracelet gently takes the menu from her hands.

– My treat.

– I… uh… – Emily feels herself blushing. – Don't, I…

Clark cocked an eyebrow:

– Come on. You can't even buy yourself a robe, what lunch…

And then Emily flares up, like long extinguished embers from the last spark, carelessly thrown match, lighted nearby fire.

– Well, you know…!

She rises so sharply that people turn on her and remains standing, her fingers clenched in the tabletop until her knuckles turn white.

She is pounding with anger, but the tears no longer welling up in her throat, only the dry twigs of her recent resentment burning as brightly as if they had been doused with kerosene.

Emily doesn't know what to do – to walk away, to scream, to hurl words, to blame Clark for her own vulnerability – but she realizes that she wants it to stop.

The world narrows down to the unperturbed, not even flinching from her antics Clark and the nurse herself – taut, shivering, sparkling.

– Did you bring me here to mock me?

Emily's voice trails off.

The ball tumbles down.

It hits the ground.

And stays on it.

– It's just a damn robe! It's a fucking robe. Fucking. The robe. It doesn't make me better or worse!

– Yeah? Well, I thought it was the only reason you mattered," Clark grinned.

– What?" She looked lost.

– I thought you wanted to be a doctor. – Lorraine gestures for the waiter. – The usual for me and my date.

– I'm not having lunch with you!

– And a couple of glasses of red.

– I'm at work!!!

– Big ones, then.

– Yes, miss. – The young man disappears as quickly as he appeared.

Emily is still seething with unspoken words.

– Johnson, what's with the tantrums? – Clark asks tiredly. – Sit down, this isn't a theater, people eat here, not watch plays.

Emily obediently sits down.

– Whatever you think, I'm not going to mock you," says Lorraine, looking at her calmly. – And that's not why I called you here.

– Then why did you? – Emily mutters.

She wants to hide. To hide, to crawl into her shell, to put up walls and stay there alone, curled up in a ball and feeling sorry for herself. To behave as usual, to abandon everything, to sink to the bottom, dragging her home with her.

But Clark looked at her then-as if she'd seen something in her that she herself hadn't noticed until now; and the damned faith, the damned chance-the one, flickering, sunlit pocket warming, damned chance-couldn't be missed.

He just can't.

The neurosurgeon's gray eyes reflect the hanging bulbs.

– Charlie tells me you have a very strange idea of doctors," she says slowly. – As if a white coat or a license or a car makes a doctor. But no cloth, no piece of paper, no piece of metal will make you anything.

Emily looks down ashamed, though the twigs of resentment still haven't completely burned off – only now Charlie seems to be her number one enemy, telling her secrets left and right.

Of course, what was she hoping for? For the privacy of the conversation? On keeping all her secrets?

Stupid.

They bring them wine and warm salads – beef and vegetables in crisp baskets – and Emily notes with surprise the gigantic size of the portion: one such plate could feed four people like her.

– Besides, we have to work in tandem. – Lorraine picks up the zucchini with a fork. – I know you're already friends with Harmon and Gilmore. That leaves Kemp and me, but our Dylan isn't very socialized.

– Friends is an understatement," Emily sighs.

Clark smiles at the corners of his lips.

– Well, they're very friendly to you.

– Are you? – Emily dares Emily.

Clark's throwing herself to extremes is something new to Emily, whether it's crying in her arms, or pushing her away until her bones hurt, or angry to the point of sparks in her hair, or like this.

Now Lorraine seems almost cozy to her.

– You annoy me .

…But only seemingly.

Emily snorts.

– I rarely get noticed, so I guess I'm even glad to be evoking any emotion at all.

Lorraine clears her throat.

– What gave you that idea?

– Well," Emily shrugs, "they don't even say hello to me.

– A hello is not a symbol of significance. Neither is a robe. Don't you like red?

Emily looks at her glass.

– I'm at work, I told you.

– Not anymore," smiles Lorraine. – I kidnapped you for the rest of the day.

Emily turns a perplexed look on her.

– How?

– Well, your main job is to help me. – Lorraine eats so fast that Emily doesn't even understand how she has time to talk in between bites of food. – So today you're helping to pass my time.

– Yeah," Emily nods. – Like in the circus?

– Like the theater," nods Lorraine. – 'Try it. – She touches her fingertips to her glass. – It is homemade.

The wine is indeed delicious – berry and fruity, a little tart but not sour; and Emily dares to take another sip.

She doesn't know how to drink – while Lorraine rests her lips on the cold glass, Emily drinks more than half of it in a gulp.

There is an awkward pause.

– Do you like theater? – Remembering that she has heard the comparison twice before, Emily tries to escape the silence that envelops them.

– Crazy," Clark replies immediately. – Charlie and I go to musicals or comedies all the time. Not dramas! I hate dramas, they're so boring and predictable. It's either death or happiness at the end; it's like there's no third option.

– What could there be a third?

– Tranquility, what else. – Lorraine picks up her glass by the neck. – Well, what about you, Emily? Do you like the theater?

Suddenly the atmosphere of the establishment seems to set Emily up for conversation – and the conversation folds in on itself, as if someone invisible had removed the boundaries or pushed the limits.

Or maybe it's because Clark is sitting beside her-not across from her, but beside her, laughing, covering his purple lips with his lipstick that's barely worn off, smiling, twirling; his hair sparkles, his knitted sweater falls off his shoulders, revealing his collarbones and moles; Lorraine fixes it, but when she waves her hand, it slips down again, and she laughs, scolding the naughty thing.

Emily feels her own body relax; what served as the starting point-the alcohol, the atmosphere, Clark's proximity, or all together-she doesn't know, but she feels the metal plates being removed from her spine and the twigs of resentment dissolving, finally dying down.

Clark jumps from "you" to "you," staying true to his traditions; orders another glass of wine and a vase of ice cream; takes a grape ball with a spoon and laughs as it melts:

– I wasted my entire first paycheck on food. I remember bringing home a dozen bags filled with all kinds of crap. Well, you know how it is, I guess. It was my first unnecessary purchase-and I wanted to burrow into those bags and cover myself with food and sleep in them. Charlie was terrified!

– Do you live with your brother? – Emily didn't let her glass out of her hands.

– Until… twenty, I think," Lorraine frowned, remembering. – Then things got better, and we were separated right away. Now it's almost an hour by car between us. – Sigh. – So we only see each other at work. Life doesn't stand still, Emily. Things change.

– How did you manage to change things like that?

– I just wanted to. – Clark shrugs. – First your life, then Charlie's. It's not that hard. You just have to…

– Walk straight," Emily finishes, raising her hand with her glass.

The neurosurgeon smiles:

– Glad you remembered.

– Charlie tells me you used to say that phrase to him a lot.

– Charlie talks too much. – Lorraine shakes her head. – Sometimes I think he lacks sociality. There are a colossal number of people around him, but he's still alone.

Emily puts the empty glass on the table – the second at lunch today – and realizes, with a hazy, refusing-to-work mind, that Lorraine is looking at her like she's a child:

– Emily, has anyone ever told you that you can't drink?

Johnson nods – or rather, she thinks she is nodding, but instead her body jerks along with her head, and Lorraine rolls her eyes laughingly.

– I'm sorry," Emily mutters, trying to straighten up.

– It's okay," Lorraine nods understandingly, "the last few days have been too stressful not to get drunk.

– That's not true," the nurse disagrees, grabbing the napkin and crumpling it in her hands. – It's just that I'm so weak. And I can't drink, yeah.

Clark pulls a mirror and lipstick out of his backpack, flips the lid off, and with one swipe, paints his lips with clear lines.

– I don't think you're weak," she says seriously, fixing her hair. – Silly, yes. But not weak.

– I am not stupid! – I am not stupid!" she protests, a little too loudly, and then, ashamed, repeats more quietly: "I am not stupid. I got straight A's in college, by the way! Though I bet you were, too," she sighed.

– Nope." Lorraine pushed her lipstick aside and leaned her head back on her hand, meeting Emily's gaze with hers. – You're wrong. I was a terrible underachiever, but that's predictable, isn't it? We all had very poor grades. I got through basic school by some miracle, I guess," she admits.

The sweater falls off her right shoulder, leaving the gathered fabric dangling somewhere around her elbow, exposing a rubber lanyard around her neck – the same one Emily had seen on the waterfront, only now, freed from its knit bonds, a pendant falls onto the table with a metallic clang.

Medallion simplicity: blackened silver, almost green from old age in places, carved ligature, wide lock. Emily, breathless, freezes, devouring it with her eyes: her fingertips tingle with the desire to touch the warm metal.

Lorraine irritably puts the fabric back in place, hiding the pendant, but Emily manages to notice that the top connecting ring has almost come apart, threatening to fall off at any moment.

– This sweater is obviously too big for you," the nurse comments, straightening up.

– But it's comfortable," Clark grinned. – Except it falls off.

– It doesn't fall off," Emily protested, "you fall out of it… You were talking about college," she reminded me.

– About college? – Clark gives himself a faint sigh. – Oh, yeah, right. College. You know what, Emily, why don't we take a walk? – She raises her hand, catching the attention of the waiter at the counter, and says softly, "With a card, please.

The young man instantly rushes out of his seat, grabbing a portable payment terminal and a small cardboard envelope.

– You know, I'm not much of a conversationalist," Emily admits honestly. – Neither is a companion for the long road.

– Well, at least you did a good job as an alcoholic. – Lorraine pulls a platinum VISA out of her backpack and slides it into the terminal, not even looking at the folder with the account. – That's okay, we'll get some air now. I hope you're on your feet…

* * *

By the time they reached Victoria Park, Emily had sobered up, and with that feeling came shame – she'd been called to lunch and managed to get drunk! Good thing she hadn't done anything stupid, or she would have had to quit her job, and no one would have come after her – who would want an alcoholic nurse?

And Clark seemed to have forgotten about it altogether: she walked along, talking about incidents at work, occasionally drawing Emily's attention to the architecture of Cambridge Heath, a street dotted with art galleries and restaurants, on which they were walking.

On Pound Pat Clark pauses, staring at the rushing water-the Regent's Canal is choppy today, crashing with angry waves against the rocks-and then suddenly descends under the bridge, stopping almost at the very water's edge, separated by a thin carved fence. Barely keeping up with her, Emily catches a sense of déjà vu-just a few days ago they were standing, leaning against the parapet, talking in exactly the same way. How far is it from here? About ten kilometers, tops-she could walk to her house if she wanted to.

– You like water," Emily says, barely audible, just to say something.

– Yes," Clark nods unexpectedly. – It's calming and thought-provoking. It was Harmon who taught me how to hear the water, disconnected from other sounds. It's a useful skill.

– Do you know him well? – Emily's getting close. – Dr. Harmon.

Clark puts his hand forward and makes a wiggling motion with his palm:

– Well, that's it. I wish I could do better, of course, but he doesn't have time for all that. Too many women in his life," she hums.

– I like him," Emily smiles. – The only one who supported me when I got back.

– Oh, my God," Clark slams his pockets and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, "you still had to be supported? Are you sure you're not mistaken for a profession?

The nurse snorts resentfully.

– James wasn't always like this," Clark continues, clutching the cigarette in his teeth. – Damn, where did I put it…

– I have a lighter. – Emily pulls an orange plastic rectangle out of the bottom of her backpack. – Here you go. I always carry it with me in case it comes in handy.

– Oh my god! – Clark clicks the wheel. – It's the best thing in your backpack. Can I borrow it?

– If you tell me about Harmon. – Emily gives the neurosurgeon a sly look.

– I'm not the personnel department to tell you about employees.

– You know more than they do, I'm sure of it! – Emilie implores, setting her backpack on her sneakers and swaying slightly. – Besides, you need a lighter too badly not to take me up on my offer!

– Okay, okay," Clark surrenders. – Just don't tell Harmon I sold him out for cigarettes, he won't get over it. – She takes a deep puff. – And honestly, I don't know what you want to hear. We used to live on the same floor: me and Charlie and James and his parents. I didn't talk to him much, even though we went to the same place – only Harmon, even though he's older than me, got in much later. He used to be a paramedic, but then he decided to train as an anesthesiologist and resuscitator. He and Charlie had been friends-he'd told me, in fact, that James's father had gone crazy, but it had passed me by, to tell you the truth. But I know James wasn't like that. He was…" Clark just let out a puff of smoke now. "He was kind, open, honest, helpful. He often drove my brother and me to school – he had an old pickup truck that he still drives. And then one day," another puff, "they just disappeared. His whole family. You know, Johnson, people don't just disappear, and so here – Charlie raised the alarm, caused a panic, and eventually they found Harmon – well, found him, almost out of a noose. Turns out they'd gone out of town, to the lake, as a family. They made a fire, and the father was overwhelmed – he took a burning stick and shoved it in his son's face. And while he was trying to put out the flames, he set his mother on fire. The mother wasn't saved, the father was locked up in the hospital, and Harmon almost went crazy himself after that. I know Charlie had just started practice, and James was his first patient. They'd spend 24 hours together, and then somehow, just like that. – and then somehow, just like that, things got better. – Clark shakes off the ashes. – Then I lost him again and met him in the hospital – he was an intern, and then he climbed up to resident very quickly. When he finishes his residency, he will join us as an intensive care specialist.

– Yeah," Emily exhales. – Charlie is a hero. Saves lives, fixes lives. Like an angel.

Clark twitches so hard that the cigarette falls out of her hands into the water.

– Yeah," she says, huffily. – Like an angel.

And then she turns around, leaning her back against the parapet:

– You know, Johnson, Charlie was right: to you, a doctor is a robe and a car; an angel is a life-saver and a fixer of fortunes. Strange notions you have, Johnson, broken and twisted. Success is not the mark of a professional.

Emily loses count of how many times today her cheeks have burned with shame.

– I… I just…

Clark pulls out another cigarette.

– I just always thought that if you did a good job, you got a lot of money," Emily explains on an exhale. – But when I met you, I realized that I wasn't… I mean… I mean, I was wrong. I just kept…

– Dramatizing," Clark helpfully suggests.

– Yeah, I guess so. – Emily shifts from foot to foot. – You know, it's just so hard to walk," she admits. – It's only been two days since I've been back, and it makes me want to break in half. It feels like I'll never get anywhere," she adds in a whisper.

– Drama again," Clark croaks. – You don't get anywhere by standing still. And you're stuck in your snotty, self-pitying self again. How do you even do that? I guess it's hard as hell to lie on the couch, hoping the world will understand you. The world, Johnson, will never understand anybody. It can't understand at all.

– Don't tell me you've never felt sorry for yourself," Emily mutters.

– Do you think I've ever had time for that? – Clark grins sadly. – There was a brother standing behind me the whole time that I had to have my back.

– Did you have your brother's back in the office yesterday, too?

Emily realizes too late what a silly thing she just said, the words crumbling like broken glass at her feet.

– Oh, Johnson, your nobility is as deceitful as you are. – Clark is covered in ice in a second. – In fact, it's the only thing I've ever…

Before she can finish, Emily covers her mouth with her palm, pressing her hand down as hard as she can, getting ready to grab onto Clark at any moment.

Just to hold her.

Not let her get away.

And the water beneath the bridges is black over blue, and the sky seems colder than before; and it becomes so scary that another second and the moment will be lost, another done-said foolishness will break everything.

A wave of frost runs down my back, leaving chunks of ice on my skin, growing into my spine.

Emily looks into Clark's eyes – gold and platinum – and shakes her head, silently whispering incoherent ramblings with her lips alone, turned into one continuous "ne'er-do-well."

She's scared – and that fear is coursing through her veins, making her heart pound so loudly that it can probably be heard from hundreds of miles away, standing under the bridge, hidden from prying eyes.

Clark was warm, almost hot; Emily had forgotten that she'd looked sick this morning, and now she was standing in the wind, though hidden from the icy gusts, in her bloody long coat, which didn't look reliable at all.

In the daylight, her skin seems glassy – smooth, smooth, with occasional glints of light; only the corners of her eyes hide wrinkles, not from age – from fatigue; and her eyelashes tremble barely noticeably.

She doesn't even try to pull away, only blinks slowly and slowly, still unaware of what is happening.

– Don't, please. – She looks pleadingly at the neurosurgeon. – I say stupid things, all the time, yes, but don't, please. Don't go. Don't. Please…

They are so close, so damn close, that the fabrics of their coats touch – coarse gray wool and delicate black cashmere; Emily feels Clark's measured breath caught in her palm.

– Please," Emily whispers, "listen, I just… I do a lot of stupid things, I talk a lot of nonsense, but I care, I care so much that you noticed me. Of all of them, you noticed me, and that's priceless, you know? I've been invisible all my life, even if I feel sorry for myself, even if I seem pathetic and dramatic again, but I'm sincere, you know? You noticed me in the crowd, you've done more for me these days than anyone in my whole life. I… I just don't know how to say thank you in a way that you can understand. You gave me a chance, you know, not your brother, but you, you, you. It was you. You found me in front of the house, you left work on purpose, I know that, James told me you'd been gone for hours. I know I'm nothing but trouble, I know I annoy you with every bit of me, I know how hard it is for you to make any contact with me, but I promise, I promise I'll get better. So you won't regret choosing me. Just don't go now, please. I just… I wasn't thinking. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.

Clark probably thinks she's crazy. A sick girl who's obsessed with a neurosurgeon – not even the best one on the planet.

Not even the best in the hospital.

Bones on hinges, plastic body, total lack of intelligence – that's exactly what Emily thinks Clark thinks she is.

Useless. Unimaginative. Clueless.

– Please…

Her breath beats like a bird in the palm of her hand, leaving barely visible purple feathers on her skin. She just can't say anything else-she can't, she's only capable of the stitches that hide behind the elastic bandage on her arm.

They're so damn straight and even, it makes her sick to her stomach.

It's as if the only thing she can do is mend someone else's wounds.

When Emily finally removes her hand, Clark doesn't move.

Then she throws away her long-extinct cigarette and, smiling, says:

– I'm cold. How about some punch?

* * *

Please go away, Emily prays, cradling her pillow.

Get out of my damn head.

Dissolve.

Let go.

I can't stand you in it.

But Lorraine is already inside – sitting with her leg up, smoking menthol cigarettes, watching with her heavenly gray eyes, squinting, tilting her head sideways, parting her dry lips.

Johnson has in her backpack a stolen check from the bar and two punch glasses, one with a print of purple lipstick on it; her own little secrets that she will hide in a big box in the morning and pull out to remember the day.

Emily gets chills, and the floor merges with the ceiling when she finally falls asleep.