Читать книгу Impuls - Aster - Страница 8

Chapter 7

I'll give up poetry and tobacco and learn everything I've wanted to do for so long.

They are collected in the evening right in the middle of the ward, just after visiting hours. A motley crowd of staff, united only by their white robes and bags under their eyes, surrounds two frail girls in strict pantsuits. A little away from them stands Melissa, her whitened knuckles crumpling the edges of her blue-green uniform.

Clarke slips through the crowd – white hair mussed, cheeks flushed with an unhealthy blush, heels clomping loudly on the parquet – and disappears into Moss's office.

Silence falls, interrupted only by the sound of raindrops on the glass.

Melissa strides forward as if her legs could not bend, and, staring into the void in front of her, reports in a voice not her own:

– Dr. Donald Ray, head of the neurology department, passed away this evening. There will be a solemn funeral tomorrow afternoon, anyone can come… Go back to work, please.

Some whisper, some theatrically cover their faces with their hands, some shrug. Emily digs into her memory, pulls out an image: a black jacket, a kind look, "you did a good job.

The mind, overwhelmed by inner complexes, grasps at every praise, every good word said to her, so "you did a good job" sounds in the professor's voice in her head.

Together with the others she walks out into the corridor leading to the wards; there is one last check-up, two notes for the three of them, and it will be time to go home.

Sometimes Emily starts to think it's easier to bring a blanket and a pillow to work – maybe that way she can get a good night's sleep without spending an hour each way. Sleeping on a bus in bustling London was impossible, even when the bus was deserted: the constant music in the cabin and the ambient sounds outside the window made it hard not just to doze off, but to concentrate on one thing at a time.

Emily walks down the corridor, her stride brisk, her soft crocs making a barely audible squeak as she places her foot on the tiled floor.

Higgins flatly refused to transfer the unidentified bandaged patient back to the ward, leaving her in ICU for the night; and under the bandages was a pretty little girl's face, though with her tongue cut out and such a mess in her head that she was put on tomorrow's neurosurgeons' surgery list. Neal's or Clark's, Emily doesn't know, but Riley let it slip that Clark's second nurse is still looking.

Somehow Johnson isn't at all surprised by this – with the way she treats people like her, a neurosurgeon risks not having a nurse at all.

BOOM!

For a second, there is a continuous silence in the corridor, with no room to breathe in; and then someone turns on a fast-forward, and a barrage of sounds falls on the nurse's head.

The rustle of scattered sheets, the soft rustling of a robe, the sharp clatter of heels and the plastic thumping against the floor.

And as Johnson bends over the scattered papers, muttering "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," her brain does go back a second, aptly displaying an image of Emily clawing her shoulder as she walks toward Clark. She had yet to manage to run into a single person in a wide, empty hallway…!

The world against her, definitely; and Clark is at the head of it.

The neurosurgeon doesn't even bend over, looking at Emily cowering below as if she'd just crushed a cockroach:

– Johnson, maybe you should get some glasses.

– I'm sorry. – Emily straightens up, somehow gathering her papers into one disheveled pile. – I'm sorry.

Clark is so close that in the cold light of the lamps Emily can see the scattering of moles on her collarbones and barely visible freckles on her shoulders – where the collar of her gray blouse ends. The neurosurgeon is only half a head taller than she is, and those centimeters probably add to her heels, so Emily, who had previously thought Clark was tall for some reason, feels her lips stretch into a smile: she finds this fragility cute as hell.

Apparently Clark runs out of words for this insolence, because she continues to stare at the nurse in silence, waiting for further developments.

Emily notices a shiny plastic rectangle at her feet and quickly, in one swoop, picks it up off the floor. Black embossed letters stand out clearly on the white background: "Lorraine Clark, neurosurgeon.

Lorraine, then.

Now that the distance between them is less than twenty centimeters, Emily can clearly smell lemon (that's what hand sanitizer smells like) and a bitter coffee scent; and Dr. Clark, who had seemed like Satan to her, is taking on more human characteristics.

– Again, I'm sorry. I was just wondering… Oh," she only now notices another folder in Clark's hands, "that's from Thirteen, isn't it?

Emily doesn't expect an answer. Her question is rather rhetorical – the numbers are written in black bold marker, it's hard not to see; especially Clark was operating on one of the patients in the room, she probably wants to make sure that everything goes well…

But the neurosurgeon suddenly exchanges anger for mercy and answers in a completely calm, casual tone:

– We want to take another look at the scans. I'll leave the charts with the nurse on duty when I leave, so you can pick them up tomorrow morning.

– I've got overnight duty tomorrow…

Clark's lips curve into a semblance of a smile:

– Good luck.

She walks away so fast that it seems as if she can hear the air parting around her. Emily silently escorts her gaze to the skinny figure of the neurosurgeon disappearing out the door, and sighs.

The sun in her pocket flashes with hope for a second – and then goes out at once.

There is no one in the thirty-thirteen except her two wards. Both Doe are asleep, the lights above their heads dimmed, only the staff call button flickers brightly, and the barely audible, monotonous beep of the pulse oximeter breaks the silence.

Emily carefully takes out a blank form, squinting in the half-light, takes readings; trying not to wake her, she barely audibly moves around the room, adjusting the blankets and closing the blinds; picks up the dirty cups, checks the room temperature; finally, puts the completed sheets back in a large hanging file.

And walks out without looking back.

* * *

Duty shifts at Royal London Hospital differ from night shifts in that there is not even a hint of rest. Every junior staff member goes through another round of hell at least once a week, scurrying around the waiting room and helping with incoming patients.

This is Emily's twentieth time, and as she changes in the locker room, she mentally (and proudly) calls herself a veteran – even if it's little reason to be proud of herself, the nurse is happy: the busy night promises to be productive, thought-provoking, and unrelaxing.

The break room is noisy, smells of coffee and spicy Chinese food – one of the many residents eagerly eats noodles from a box, watching a soap show on TV. A woman sitting on the other side of the couch is upside down reading an anatomy book; another is talking loudly with Harmon, waiting for dinner to warm up in the microwave:

– By the way, Apple invented a watch that can do an EKG! What about us? We don't have all the nurses on the ward trained to do it…! What are they getting paid for, you ask?

James takes her around the waist and awkwardly kisses her cheek; the woman immediately flushes and playfully taps his forehead with a spoon.

At a small table, three Indian-looking men, armed with a tablet, are watching a video about robots. The thinnest and tallest one keeps hitting the table with his palm and shouting something in a language Emily does not know. The other two are nodding their heads in agreement, setting him back down.

A few feet away, another nurse is playing online checkers.

Emily walks over to the wide-open window and breathes in with her chest full – the rain that started last night doesn't even think about stopping; the room is chilly, to say the least.

– Oh, Johnson! – Harmon pulls away from the conversation and notices her. – You're in surgery with Gilmore today. – He holds out a red mug with the NESCAFE logo, and against the grayness of the sky it seems like a bright flash. – With Gilmore, yes," he repeats, looking intently at Emily. – Consider the cure.

The bitter, strong coffee burns her palate and fills her half-empty stomach. Emily nods appreciatively – and suddenly gets a smile in return.

And it nudges her forward.

– Dr. Harmon, what do you know about Dr. Clark?

The resident seems to have been expecting this question since her very first day on the ward. He grins, shoves his hands into the pockets of his gown, and takes out a cigarette and puts it behind his ear for some reason.

– Clark, Clark, Clark," he repeats, bending and unbending his arms. – A surgeon is such a surgeon! – exclaims. – I tell you, Johnson, he'll take a bullet out of your brain before you know it, yeah, so you don't even move. Clark's like a shrine, everybody prays on her, ha-ha, pray on a man, that's what I said…! Not everybody," Harmon added in a conspiratorial whisper. – Moss doesn't pray, ha-ha, he's an atheist. – And then he gets serious. Doesn't she love you? No, she doesn't.

– I didn't please her in some way," sighed Emily, taking another sip. – "Even though I've barely seen her.

– I don't." "Okay. – He waves his hand. – I like you, Johnson, yes, I like you, you're, like, honest, open, well, yes, so let me tell you this. – Harmon kicks a chair over to him and sits on it. – You listen, yeah. Listen carefully. So when I came in, Clark had just started working, and I came in a long time ago, let me remember, about five years ago, and it was practice, yes, practice. So I came in, and I was in her surgery. She took out a tumor, imagine, seven centimeters, seven! She took it out, Gilmore was cutting, stinking, and we were standing with others, just like me, watching through the glass as she took it out. They started cauterizing it, and you could feel through the glass that something had gone wrong. Gilmore had just become an assistant, he was a surgeon now, but then he was an assistant, and he said that he had hit a square, yes, an important one, so he said that we had to lift the patient up and take a look.

Emily keeps her eyes on Harmon – the resident sits with his leg tucked under him, and the cigarette, which he had already pulled from behind his ear, flickers in his fingers like a coin.

– So they got him up, woke him up, you know, right? There were six of the younger guys standing around, watching, and the anesthesiologist, and the surgeon, and Clark, and everyone was standing there, and the patient just started to break out – he was all jammed up, panicking, screaming, so he was screaming, he grabbed his arms – and he broke away. And the nurse, who was supposed to give him an injection to calm him down, did not do it, because she thought that he could not. He's got an open brain, you know, what could have happened, you know, Johnson, that's what she thought. In fact, nothing would have happened if she had calmed him down, but then, look, he broke loose and knocked out a pin, you know, a fastening pin. And Clark was standing there with the electrode, and he couldn't remove it, and Gilmore was busy holding the clamp. There was a lot of blood, you couldn't see it, a lot, a lot! It flowed everywhere, even on the walls, can you imagine? So the pin fell out, Gilmore jerked, and Clark followed him. And then it was all a blur – they burned some important center, the square where the seven centimeters were, and that was it, he couldn't get up anymore. So Clark was sued right away, saying she was a lousy surgeon, Gilmore, too; the whole staff went there, all together; they all got to know each other, Kemp and Gilmore, and Neil and them, too; Ray stood up for them, saying it was not their fault that the nurse had given the wrong drugs before the operation, and then she didn't know what to do, but she was different, a completely different person, yeah. Of the six people who were there, they all got fired, so. All the junior staff, yeah. And Mel was in charge after that, yes, in charge, she was the only one who had any sense at the time, yes. It was such a mess, yes, a mess, a real mess. Nobody understood a thing, everybody was shouting, only Clark and Gilmore were standing there, holding their instruments.

– After that," the cigarette disappears into his breast pocket, "Clark doesn't trust anybody. And now Ray's dead, there's no telling what's gonna happen to her, he was like a father to her, everyone knows that, yeah. He saw something in her that nobody else saw, you know, Johnson? It happens, yes, somebody sees you better than others, yes, Johnson, remember that, write it down, sketch it out. If you meet one, take care, yes, you see, but Clark didn't. – He sighs.

There is almost no one left in the room, the sounds fade, the rain stops, and Emily, clutching her fingers in a red mug, presses her lips together.

– I… Thank you," she says on an exhale.

– Drop it. – Harmon stands up, grunting. – I know you won't tell, and yes, you can't promise. Now get your coat on and get to work. Yes," he finishes. – Work. I'm going to sleep now…

* * *

The waiting room is so crowded you could suffocate; the smells of chlorine and blood create a hellish mixture. Doctors and nurses rushed back and forth, paramedics' blue suits flashing, sirens howling from the street. Emily huddles against the wall, missing the gurney with the bloody mess, and then someone pulls her hard and painfully against herself by the collar of her robe.

Emily flails her arms awkwardly, but she doesn't fall, and she hears a low laugh behind her. She turns around and sees Gilmore in his surgical suit, leaning against the wall, chuckling softly; his red hair looks like living fire in the light of the cold lamps.

– What's going on? – Emily spins around herself, trying to look around: gurneys everywhere, the air filled with groans, someone shouting into the phone. In the midst of this chaos, the relaxed Gilmore is a veritable island of calm and serenity.

– Southwark Bridge," explains the surgeon. – One decided to go around traffic, another was showing his lady a nighttime drift, and a third braked too sharply. Some of the cars are in nothing, a few are still swimming, the rest are here. Well, the ones who need us.

The loudspeakers explode with names and operating room numbers; Emily hears Clark's last name, and then Davis, the second surgeon, apparently called in from his day off, whizzes past.

– Go to trauma, Johnson," Gilmore says, still too calmly. – Clark's waiting for me.

Emily twitches.

– Aren't we supposed to…

– Tu." Gilmore abruptly turns around and walks toward the elevator. – It's Davis on the bones tonight. And Neil will be here soon. – He's yawning. – They didn't call everyone in for nothing.

– But didn't…

– Take it easy. – Gilmore holds the door. – Clark's a smart guy, but I don't think he and Dylan can do it alone. But who knows? Who knows?

– But there's more people in there. – Emily exclaims, trying to somehow object; Gilmore seems to her the kind of angel savior she can't do without.

The surgeon gives her a strange look: a mixture of pity, understanding, and interest; then he chuckles without answering, and Emily is ashamed: Gilmore is not the only surgeon in the hospital, there are others in other departments, and by now they must all be gathered in the waiting room. And she panics.

So when Riley hides behind the iron doors, Emily doesn't get upset – after all, she has no authority to be in the operating room, and no one has really called her there; but now she has a purpose. It comes out of nowhere, braids a web of ideas, settles in her head and heart, capturing the best places.

To prove Clark wrong.

And while Emily is endlessly bandaging, stitching, putting in IVs and filling out forms, her brain is frantically trying to think of things to do. Her hands work separately from hers, as if on autopilot, highlighting the damaged areas, and all her thoughts revolve around how to get in Clark's field of vision and – the hardest part – stay there.

But you have to stop being invisible in order to be noticed, right?

Emily puts on the last stitch and lets the victim go; she runs through her options in her head: she's not going to faint during surgeries, she doesn't have outstanding surgical skills, and she can't impress Clark with her abilities, either.

"You never know what would happen, so, you know, yeah, Johnson, that's what she thought…"

That's what she thought.

Emily starts blinking rapidly at the sudden idea, scolding herself for not figuring it out right away. Of course Clark needs a brain; and not just in the patient, but in the staff as well. And the nurse who accompanies her to the surgeries certainly must not be stupid.

About how to get into the operating room with Clark, Emily does not have time to think: everything around her is happening too fast.

A man bursts into the tiny dressing room – his body covered in blood mixed with shards of glass, his hair disheveled and soaked in gasoline, his clothes torn into a thousand scraps of scraps that are bound together.

Behind him, almost breathing down his neck and supporting him by the armpits, was Higgins. Without his customary sandy jacket, in a bathrobe with the sleeves rolled up and glasses slanted sideways, he seemed to be the end of the world.

– All the operating theatres are occupied! Let's get him in here!

While the man is being laid on the room's only couch, he does not make a sound. The air is saturated with the heavy smells of sweat, blood, and kerosene, and countless scarlet drops fall to the floor.

Emily jumps up.

– He has to live to operate. – Higgins jerkily pulls up a dressing table with bandages, solutions and an emergency sewing kit. – We start with the neck, I take it out, you sew and treat. Do you understand me?

Emily nods.

The cuvettes jingle with metal, taking in endless streams of bloody bits, the built-in lamp overhead rattles faintly, the world behind the glass door rushes and flips, and Emily keeps putting stitch after stitch, wiping sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her robe.

The man is silent, just opens and closes his mouth, trying to breathe; and Johnson says some silly, incoherent phrases now and then: hold on, just a little longer, this is the hardest one, you see, yes, it hurts, you have to be patient, I have already given the injection, it is about to work, it should work now, so you must be patient…

Higgins, pulling out the splinters, keeps his eyes on her in tiny second intervals.

But Emily is calm inside-if she hurries now, she will sew up crookedly, somehow; and then she will bandage and close the terrible wounds, and who knows what this unnecessary haste may cost her. So her movements are precise and exact, only her eyelashes tremble when another drop of blood gets on her robe.

She doesn't know why she's so sure – maybe she got it from Gilmore, maybe there's nothing else on her mind – but as she finishes bandaging her forearm, Higgins pats her on the back and asks what must be the most embarrassing question she's ever had:

– Emily, why aren't you in the operating room? You're doing great.

She twitches – the needle falls into the cuvette with a ringing sound – she grunts, sighs deeply, and closes her eyes for a second.

– I only trained as a nurse.

Stitch, stitch, stitch…

– And then?

The splinter flies into an almost full bowl.

– It is very expensive.

And again.

– We have a training block* with a couple of budget seats where they'll teach you everything you need to operate in a week of intensive training. I'll make you a referral if you want one, of course.

When it's time to cut the thread, Emily feels this is how you say goodbye to your old life.

* * *

– Smoke, Johnson?

At six forty in the morning, Emily wanders around the hospital courtyard, shuffling her legs, having followed Higgins around all night, helping, bandaging, mending. Toward the end of her shift her hands began to shake treacherously and her head began to swirl from the constant smell of copper, but by six in the morning the rush of casualties had abruptly ceased, and there was a dead silence in the emergency room, occasionally broken by the slamming of doors and the shuffling of footsteps. There was no ambulance, no screaming, no sound of gurneys.

And there is a pause, during which Higgins vanishes, then, returning, hands her a blue cardboard referral card.

– Go home now, Emily. Try to get some sleep-and be in K-Block by noon. This is your pass; you mustn't lose it, I hope you remember that. You will give the referral to your supervisor. As soon as you've completed all the training and received your certificate, come back to me and we'll decide what to do with you next.

Emily throws herself around his neck, as if pushed off the ground. Higgins smells no better than she does, but Emily doesn't care. She kisses his bristling cheek and thanks him so much that Higgins rubs her hair affectionately.

– 'If I had known,' laughs the professor, 'that I would have made someone so happy, I would have given that direction as soon as I saw you. Good luck, Emily!

And now she stands, still clutching a big black bag with a hopelessly ruined robe, in a haggard overcoat, and smiling stupidly at the dawn sky.

The sun in her pocket is blazing, scalding.

Behind her the front door slams, soft footsteps, a rustle, the click of a lighter, and a familiar voice asks without a trace of sneer:

– Do you smoke, Johnson?