Читать книгу Impuls - Aster - Страница 7

it will all be over soon. it will be over, I said. I will stop going to memorable places, like going to the Titanic for the hundredth time, I will remember who I am, I will forget who I have not become.

It seems to Emily that the world, which until then seemed gray, as if in defiance of all laws begins to lose even more colors: a few days pass after the operation, and the sun in her pocket dims.

She doesn't believe in fairy tales: she just can't get lucky every time; her luck just flashed and burned out like a match. Maybe for some Rebecca or Dayna, something like this would have been routine, just a small touch in everyday life, but for her, being part of something-albeit a tiny team-was a new, unexplored feeling.

And in the grayness of the days, in the sameness of the minutes, the slowness of the hours, Emily returns and returns to that feeling of the heaviness of the instruments in her hands, Clark's hoarse voice, Dylan's jokes, and the smell of the operating room.

It must be some kind of jolt: Emily feels like a ball – painfully falling and bouncing off the ground, she soars upward. And even if this feeling lasts only a few minutes, it becomes something more than just an awareness of herself.

Except now she's flying down again, and no one can tell if the ground is there.

One morning she doesn't have time to brew her own coffee for work – or maybe she leaves her thermos mug at home on purpose – and walks into Connors' coffee. The small coffee shop on the corner of Maples Place and Raven Row, which occupies a tiny square space, consists of a bar counter and a few chairs and is filled with a song about cough syrup. An elderly barista – Mr. Connors himself – is singing along, wiping down the bulky coffee machine.

– A latte, please. – Emily puts four pounds on the counter. – To go.

A large Kraft glass with colored lettering on the plastic lid appears in front of her a few minutes later; Emily pours brown sugar into it, puts in cinnamon and chocolate, and then inserts a straw – the unusual way she borrowed it from some movie. At first, she was afraid she'd burn herself, but lattes are rarely too hot.

The smell of coffee and cookies is soothing, and Emily lets herself linger at the counter for a moment, gazing out a large window with paper airplanes glued to it, at Turner Street. A stack of colored squares is freely available on the windowsill, and Emily, unable to resist, folds an unsophisticated figure.

And then – very unexpectedly for herself – she pulls out a pen and writes on the fold: NEVROLOGY. A piece of scotch tape and the bright orange airplane finds its place among others like it.

Emily herself does not know why she did it, but Mr. Connors does not say a word, but only grins into his gray beard, and Johnson feels a little better.

The door creaks open, and two voices, male and female, fill the coffee shop with frantic energy:

– What, R&H coffee no longer works for us?

– We need to drive more carefully.

– How did you tie these factors together?!

Still looking out the window, Emily freezes in place: she recognizes the Clark couple perfectly. In the reflection, she sees Charlie's disheveled curls and the perfectly styled (by chaos and wind) blond hair of the neurosurgeon whose name she never learned.

– Double, and more caffeine," Clark voices unnamed. – And for him…

– Milk and syrup! – Charlie finishes.

– No coffee? – The barista says cautiously.

– Half a cup," the psychiatrist graciously allows.

Emily lowers her gaze and pulls her head into her shoulders, trying to blend into the space; but trouble evades her – Clark-whose-woman quickly picks up her cup, says something to her brother in a low voice, and leaves, closing the door carefully behind her. Charlie is left waiting, leaning against the bar and dropping the incessant calls on the phone every now and then.

And then…

– Miss Johnson, I know it's not the best omen to see my sister in the morning, but I thought you didn't believe in them.

– Who? – Emily turned, blushing to the tips of her ears.

– In omens," Charlie repeats patiently.

He didn't look like a doctor at all, Emily thought to herself as she glanced around him, his short parka, his backpack, his worn sneakers. His dark eyes reflected the light from the light bulbs that hung from the ceiling like garlands. Charlie sprinkles his coffee generously with cinnamon, adds sugar, stirs with a thin wooden spoon. He doesn't even look at Emily, but it's as if she can feel his gaze fixed on her, studying her constantly.

– I'm sorry.

Charlie waves it away:

– Never mind. Have you made a wish?

– What?

Why, why does he make her feel so stupid when she's around him?

– You should have a stronger coffee," Clark laughed. – Origami. – He points to the paper airplanes. – They write their wishes and glue them to the glass. As soon as it comes true, they take the airplane off. You didn't know that?

Emily shakes her head.

– It's my first time here. Somehow… it wrote itself, – she answers honestly. – Do you think it's stupid?

– No." Charlie shakes his head. – No," Charlie shakes his head. "It's great. That you believe in something like that. We all need a little bit of magic sometimes. – He closes his glass with the lid and heads for the exit. – Have a nice day, Miss Johnson.

The door slams shut.

Emily scolds herself: she should have said something, maybe been more polite, said hello, for example. But she doesn't have time for self-consciousness – she grabs her coffee and storms out of the coffee shop: she's minutes away from the start of her work day.

But now she knows what kind of coffee they like in the Clark family.

* * *

– Johnson, get in here now!

Melissa, who was just telling Rebecca off, turns to Emily. She looks menacing: in her hand, the head nurse has another mountain of files – paper, stapled heavy staples, they balance on the bend of her elbow.

– Don't change your clothes!

Emily frantically goes over all of her screw-ups in her head – she could get fired for anything, just as she could get promoted. Forgotten bandages, unthrown garbage, even a stain on her robe – Royal Hospital is too strict about that.

I should have said hello to Clark.

While Rebecca removes the top layer of makeup and Dana adjusts her high stockings, Melissa stands across from Emily and hands her a sheet in a clear file.

– I just got it," she informs her. – Clark really asked to have you transferred to neurology, they never got anyone there after they got sick. So take the thirteen and don't forget to check in. – Grumbles: – That's how you come to work, and a man's gone off the staff. Who will work for you, I ask you?

– What?

BOOM!

It was the ball, falling downward at lightning speed, that bounced off the ground and ricocheted back into the sky.

Emily's legs shook.

Charlie. Why Charlie? They'd only seen each other a couple of times, hadn't even spoken to each other; it would have been more realistic to get a transfer request from Harmon or Higgins, though they probably didn't even know her name. But Charlie?

Charlie Clark!

Who asked very much for a translation.

Translate!

Emily feels something burning in her chest.

She knows how lingering it is, waiting to be noticed, to be taken under the wing of experienced doctors, to be given a real job, to be guided and forced to learn. Dana is winning over Powell, Rebecca is hovering around Dr. Campbell, the head of the emergency room, Sarah has been promoted to assistant pediatrician and now carries her coffee and keeps diaries.

It's all so mundane, so transparent, but it's still happiness, even if it's simple as hell, stupid as hell. Not to be involved in endless running from ward to ward, not to be on everyone's beck and call, but to have wards and patients to know by sight; to be useful, to be needed.

And then Emily realizes that's the end.

Because if you're noticed, you're no longer invisible.

And she doesn't know if she needs it that way; because when they take off your mojo of invisibility, all that light-reflecting foil, you become someone else. Not yourself.

The doubt must be written all over her face. So Melissa puts her hand on her shoulder and adds a little softer than usual:

– You did good, Johnson.

Charlie.

Charlie Clark.

Rebecca shoves her lipstick into her locker in a rage.

* * *

Emily clutches the cup of cold coffee in her hands, somehow shoves her things from the locker into a large paper bag, picks up her Crocs, and leaves without saying goodbye.

She knows it's not a new world, not a fairy-tale transformation from beggar to princess, but it's at least a step. Maybe this glass corridor leads her to a new life.

A neon-lit BLOCK F sign, a pair of small staircases, familiar loft trim, ivory doors. A thin woman's voice comes from Donald Ray's reception room: Table for four, I know it's Friday, but it's for Professor Ray, you know? Fine.

Emily squints a little: table for two on Sunday, the best; but it's for Miss Johnson, you understand me, don't you? Deal.

The private secretary in her head adds cheekily: Just don't talk to her about work, she doesn't like it.

All dreams are quickly shattered by reality: apart from the break room, nothing really changes, and if this was a life elevator, it's only horizontal – her duties remain almost the same, only less chaotic. Maybe she'll get a couple hundred pounds added to her paycheck; maybe she'll meet new people.

She's lucky-the door is ajar, as if it hadn't been locked on purpose, and there's no need to look for someone with a pass. Dr. Harmon is still asleep on the couch – he doesn't seem to have changed his clothes or combed his hair or slept once in the past week. Emily clears her throat: She doesn't have the key to her new locker or his number, and she needs help right away.

Harmon jumps up instantly: One second and he's on his feet, looking at her through his unique tiny glasses. There are questions in his eyes. Lots of questions.

– Hello. – Emily decides it would be a good idea to start with the basics of politeness. – I was transferred here from the sanitation department. – She holds out a piece of paper. – I'll be here now.

– Keep it," James waves her off. – Who needs paper, you can't cure, ha-ha, you can't cure, can you?

Emily, who's forgotten the way he talks, nods cautiously.

– That's what I say… So, Johnson, from Mel, well, that's great, Johnson, congratulations, you've made it, ha-ha, you heard that, huh? People. No one's a man around here, ha-ha, we're all oxen plowing fields.

He disappears behind the door to the dressing room, and Emily has no choice but to follow him.

Along the walls stretches a row of very wide lockers with wooden doors. Despite the unreliability of the construction (one bump and the closet collapses with the door), it looks stylish – brick-white walls and dark brown, almost black, furniture. Instead of benches, there is a long, stacked couch with backs. Another door at the end of the room leads to the showers.

There is no separation between men and women; when she asks him how to change, Harmon smiles oddly, shrugs his shoulders nervously, and speaks in a cursory voice:

– So you get into your uniform here, and you wash yourself there if you have to. Here's the key, you take care of it – it opens all the doors, just like Alice's, ha-ha, great. – He takes the key out of an empty locker and gives it to her. – Always lock the door, so keep it tidy, we like tidy here. The kitchen is for the whole ward, and these rooms are for the juniors only, okay? So even Ray can fry his own eggs for breakfast, ha-ha, eggs, here, with us. And they can take a shower if they're too lazy to go to the OB, they have their own, they're lazy… So, give me your badge and I'll make you a pass, don't lose it, it's not recoverable from the juniors. Understand?

Emily nods frantically.

– How many colleagues do I have?

– Twenty? Maybe twenty-five. I haven't counted," Harmon grumbles. – There are only the younger ones here: nurses and assistants, lab assistants and interns have their own room in another building, yes, it's a ten-minute walk to it. And now it's probably okay to work…

He takes her old nametag from her, mutters something to himself, adjusts his glasses and leaves. Emily sees his crumpled after a nap white coat, and involuntarily thought about the history of Harmon: somehow he became like this?

And is ashamed: they are taught from childhood equality, and she shamelessly singles someone out.

She throws her things away, changes, drinks her cold coffee in a gulp, smiles into the void. The locker room is warm and quiet, even the water doesn't rumble through the pipes. The narrow upper windows are tightly closed, the lower ones are curtained with light curtains; and all that light has a calming effect on her.

Three hundred and thirteen, then.

* * *

Emily expects anyone: paralyzed old people, teenagers with serious tumors, pregnant women with heightened nervousness, men with a high degree of dementia, but not this one.

And if Charlie Clark was making a joke now, his joke didn't work.

Because there are three patients in a three-person room: a deaf young man, a blind girl, and something with a tightly bandaged head, brought in less than half an hour ago. Emily cannot determine age, gender, or even illness: the bandages start at the top of the head and end somewhere around the neck, completely covering the eyes and mouth, leaving only a slit for the nose.

Three cards – two completely filled and one completely blank – stick out in a special compartment at the entrance to the room; and Emily scolds herself for not thinking to ask Harmon what she should do now.

She starts with a simple one: check on her well-being, review files, write down vitals, and pull out the injection and treatment forms from the envelope. Despite the taciturnity of both patients – John and Jane – Emily subconsciously senses that they are pleased with her; that is why she entertains the girl with silly stories, and manages to get John a whole stack of crossword puzzles and a pencil. She does not go near the bandaged patient: without Dr. Higgins' instructions, she might do unnecessary things, and Emily herself has no idea what to do with it all. So she enters the figures in the blank card and puts it back in its holder in good conscience.

Higgins arrives at ten, takes a long look at another unnamed patient, carefully examines every inch of skin, and then tells Emily to take him to the treatment room.

– What are we going to do? – Emily asks quietly.

– We have to take the bandages off," Higgins says. – I just saw Riley at Clark's, so bring him in and put him to work. In the meantime, we'll get ready and go to the seventh, it seemed to be free.

With the doctor's help, Emily carefully moves the patient from the bed to a wheelchair and quickly exits the room.

Higgins is not mistaken: from behind the ajar door of Clark's office come the voices, among which Gilmore's bass and the neurosurgeon's own laughter are easily recognized. Emily shifts from foot to foot, chest full of air, and knocks.

– …practicing on a chicken, remember, Laurie? The bald one, the skinny one.

– How's your wife?

– Ex-wife… Come in!

Emily's wrong. There are three people in the office. Clark half-lounges in his huge chair, his legs in tight jeans on the armrest; opposite her stands Gilmore – a white robe carelessly thrown over one shoulder, a pack of cigarettes unashamedly peeking out of his pocket; on the couch in a lotus position sits Charlie – not even dressed in uniform yet, except that the badge swinging on his chest.

Clark-woman points the tip of her pen at Emily and declares loudly:

– Whatever you want, I'm not moving.

– I'm not here to see you, uh… Dr. Clark.

– Good for you. – The neurosurgeon puts his pen down and straightens up. – You want what?

– Dr. Gilmore," Emily doesn't know where she gets her courage, "Dr. Higgins would like you to come to Procedure Room 7. We need to get the bandages off of one patient. Or one. I'm not sure yet.

– Isn't that the third monkey? – Charlie interrupts her. – The mute one," he explains, catching the incomprehensible stares.

– What manners! – Gilmore throws on a white robe. – How did you find out about her?

– Higgins called me in early this morning for a psych evaluation. – Charlie stretches himself. – I told him there were no options. How am I going to talk to a mute? – The psychiatrist exchanged his hands.

– What makes you think," Clark-which-neurosurgeon puts his elbows on the table and puts his head down on his hands, "that she's mute? Doesn't she have a tongue?

– That's right, sister," Charlie nods. – A bloody mess in her mouth – and in her head, too. Apparently, something went wrong at some point, and they just cut off a piece of her tongue.

– God," Emily blurted out.

All three of them look at her as one.

– Miss Johnson, are you still here?

Of course I am, Emily thinks. Dr. Clark hates nurses.

– I'll wait…

– Look, Charlie," Gilmore lets Clark's remark pass his ear, "but come with us. You never know what's going to happen.

– Nah. – Clark rises lazily from the couch. – I've got a band-aid lady in half an hour, and I've got to go. I'm not sure I want to piss her off," he whispers in Gilmore's ear. – She's six times my size.

– Maybe she's just not very neat. – asks the surgeon cheerfully.

– I wish," Charlie sighs. – They're for weight loss. By the way," he ducks out the door, "Miss Johnson is doing a fine job as a personal therapist!

Gilmore just smiles and shakes his head, looking after him, and then gathers his thoughts and looks at Emily:

– Come on, Johnson. We have great things to do.

Emily sighs: Being a personal psychiatrist is the last thing she wants.