To live, to reach the bright days painted in the celestial score. where the ark is raided, the calm comes before the storm, and the notes reflect on the sheet that has rejected the B and D's, as the square of the apartment walls collapses and the sun rises over the abyss.
Emily Johnson is not heard of, she is not seen, she is not spoken of.
Emily wakes up and sees before her thin streaks of dust on the metal blinds, as gray as the sky outside the window, except you can get rid of the dust, and you can't wipe away the London damp with a rag.
She turns her head to look at the scratched cupboard, scrawled on the back with obscene words and autographs of people who had lived here before her. Just above her head is an inscription: Aliis inserviendo consumor. Burn yourself, shine to others.
Beautiful handwriting: smooth, clear, confident; that's how you write with expensive engraved pens, but not with permanent marker embedded in wood that's almost completely dried out.
Who had lived here before her?
Who could exist at all in this incarnation of rational use of space? There seems to be no space even for her: in the corner, hidden by the closet from everyone else, a small bed with a shelf above the headboard fits somehow; a drawer serving for everything at once, and a few hooks with clothes covers hanging on them – at the other end of the room, where her workplace is supposed to be. But she hadn't bought a goddamn chair or desk in a year of being here, so the same drawer serves as the place for her endless reports. Also, by the way, written out.
Emily's body works harder than any alarm clock, waking her up at exactly five fifteen in the morning every day.
It's a typical morning, like a hundred others: an old notebook in a blue backpack, a black T-shirt, skinny jeans, frayed sneakers, a cold coat. A white coat case in one hand, a thermos in the other; a busy Trinity Street and no hint of sunshine.
She doesn't know there is any other way. In her mind, the world is always the same: on weekends she works from morning till night, on weekdays she has free time until dinner, and then runs to the hospital again, for the night shift. Constant sleep deprivation makes her immune to everything going on around her: Emily is a walking automaton. An unfortunate specimen of an intelligent robot.
Yes, absolutely, Emily is plastic: like an unfinished, articulated doll, gathering dust on a store shelf; as if they forgot to add the finishing details – the thickness of her hair, the scariness of her lips, or the length of her eyelashes; a walking irregularity and dull, mocking: narrow shoulders, wide hips, and a complete lack of breasts.
Fifteen stops on a jam-packed bus (did someone say London is modernized? He was lying) through the most densely populated part of the city invigorates Emily more than coffee. The subway was much better than the subway, she'd learned since she was a little girl; the famous London Underground was like hell in the mornings. On the bus, at least she could open the windows and lean against the cool glass to see what was behind them.
At the Whitechapel Gallery, they linger a little longer than usual: the previous bus hadn't left yet, and Emily pokes her reflection in the darkened glass for a moment: unkempt and short, she huddles in the corner, clutching at the coveted clear cover.
It's like he's making her someone.
It takes them fifty-five minutes instead of the usual thirty minutes to get to the stop she wants: the traffic on the huge A11 is equally huge.
She passes the post office, the bar and the bank, nods to the elderly barista at the newly opened coffee shop, runs across Cavell Street, trying not to look at the unfulfilled dream of eight-story Churchill College, and enters a world of glass and steel: the six buildings of the Royal London Hospital tower over her head like giants, ready at any moment to fall on her with full force.
Normally Emily would enter from the service entrance, but today there are dozens of cars of paramedics who have just finished their night shifts in front of it – and the small interior space is surely crowded; so she walks around the hospital through the main entrance. It's still quiet here: most of the doctors start their appointments at seven, and Olivia at the front desk is too busy with the files of the night's admissions to pay attention to anyone, so Emily slips past her after saying hello to the empty space. A staircase, a wide hallway, and the nurses' room is only a few feet away.
– I'm telling you, I need it today, today," Emily hears behind her. – And no, I'm not asking you to do a paternity test, it's not in our purview… Shit!
BAM!
He doesn't even apologize; he just adjusts his blue nametag, pats Emily on the shoulder, and, without taking his eyes off the phone, tosses something like "Don't get in the way."
I will, Emily thinks, picking up her robe from the floor.
The world is always against her. She knows this without being reminded.
The room with the "Office" sign is as gray as the outdoors – endless rows of tin lockers, slamming doors, drafts across the floor, and gossip hanging in the air, as fresh and bitter as the coffee on the bosses' desks.
Emily awkwardly waves to Rebecca, washing the bright makeup off her face: forty minutes in the morning at the mirror for the sake of a half-hour bus ride, and then the complete destruction of all labor. Completely, Emily would add, if Rebecca ever said hello to her. But she always pretends not to see anything. Well, or really doesn't notice.
Behind her is Dana, twirling and twirling-a short robe, her hair in a braid, big innocent eyes. Small and skittish, she always brings the latest news in her uniform pockets: Dayna follows her Mr. Powell, the general practitioner, everywhere. Sometimes Emily thinks they have a connection: Miss Webb's neckline is too deep, Eric's gaze is too ambiguous.
Melissa, the head nurse, their supervisor, is adjusting her collar by the large closet. Instead of a white coat over her clothes, she wears a strict uniform: straight pants and a short-sleeved shirt; her last name is embroidered in black thread on her chest. Walters, in her forties, has a straight, sharp look and a heavy gold ring on her ring finger.
Emily quickly removes her gray coat and stuffs it into a narrow locker; she fumbles with her pant legs, drops her jeans, and slips into a pair of sizeless pants. They are allowed to keep their own T-shirt; they should just hide it under the robe. Although some, like Rebecca, prefer to wear cotton over their naked bodies.
For junior nurses, the uniform is the same: white pants and a gown with an embroidered Royal London Hospital logo; a nametag attached to the breast pocket; and comfortable shoes – traditional loafers or loafers.
She slips into the unchanging black Crocs, catches Dana's odd look, Rebecca's snort, and habitually throws them out of her mind-something that stays forever.
Taking a sip of coffee from the thermos and strapping on her nametag, Emily hears the others coming up: the night shift ends, flowing into the morning shift, the front door keeps slamming, the cold street air enveloping her feet.
– Ah, Johnson, ready yet? – Melissa arises at her shoulder and picks up the neatly folded folders. – You're in neurology today – James asked me to send him a couple of assistants. Grab poor Evis from the E.R., and get over there.
– Neurology is neurology. – Emily gathered her brown hair into a high ponytail and fastened it with bobby pins. The unruly strands struggled to take shape, here and there the curling ends fell out. – Damn you," she says angrily to the mirror, pulling her robe up.
– What, you still can't get a doctor? – Rebecca tilts her head sideways; her thin lips are clearly marked by lipstick that hasn't been fully washed off. – Don't be sad, you'll get lucky one day. – She sends her an air kiss.
– Take this to Gilmore's surgery and wash the disgust off. – Melissa hands Rebecca a heavy plastic box of papers. – Let her figure out what to do with it.
The last thing Emily hears before she closes the door behind her is Rebecca's indignant voice.
* * *
– It was brought in at night. – The thin file is on the table. – Harmon says it's clear enough, but there's something about it that makes me…" He pauses.
The dark-haired man pulls out his expensive-rimmed glasses from his breast pocket and reaches for the thick cardboard.
– Mr. Moss," the doctor who brought the file continues, "there is a craniotomy performed here, that is, on the head.
– What exactly are you confused about? – Andrew Moss runs a glance over the scribbled sheet.
– Look at the picture.
He presses his lips together grudgingly – his shift hasn't even officially started yet – but still walks over to the huge negatoscope hanging on the wall and, fixing a small photograph to it, turns on the lamps.
– Do you see it? Right there. – The man who brought the folder points to the dot. – What do you think it is?
– A trace from a failed stereotaxis?
– Inside?
– Our brain has no nerve endings," Moss shrugs. – It can't hurt, Professor. You know that yourself. Maybe it's another tumor that hasn't been seen, or a neoplasm that's recently appeared. Well, maybe we should change the machine. Either way…
– Professor M. Higgins, GP, I've checked him in three different machines. They all showed the same thing – the patient does not have a tumor, only this defect. The gray spot on the scan. A cavity that looks like it was forgotten to be filled.
Mark sits in the chair across from Andrew's desk and rubs his gray beard.
– Why do you need my opinion if you already know the answer? – Moss frowns.
– You're going to love this. – Mark smiles at the corners of his lips. – Our patient has an artificially excised Wernicke. There's a void in its place. What's more, he remains anonymous to this day: he has no memory at all. Simply put, he has too many defects for one person. But it is nevertheless a very interesting case: Broca remains unaffected.
Moss adjusts the perfectly pressed collar of his expensive shirt and turns off the wall lamps. In the morning light of the study, the gold dial of his Hublot is clearly visible: the hands are inexorably approaching seven o'clock in the morning.
– Interesting. – Andrew folds his fingers into a house. – Mr. Anonymity with a clipped speech. – His brown eyes seem almost black as he squints. – Afferent aphasia, then. Remind me again, how old is he? About sixty?
– He's hardly twenty," Mark shakes his head. – Found him unconscious in the street, brought him here. There was blood on his head – they suspected head injury, they took pictures… And then you know. Someone operated on him and just threw him away like he was nothing.
– We need to find out if he had epilepsy," Moss returns the file, "or a hemorrhagic stroke. We also need tests for encephalitis, leukoencephalitis, heavy metals, protein. We figure out the cause, we'll get to the main consequence. And we need to show these scans to Grace.
Higgins rises from his comfortable chair, takes the thin cardboard, nods, and leaves without saying good-bye: as a general practitioner, he never takes a shift; his whole life is work.
Afterward, Moss pulls a perfectly pressed white coat out of the closet, throws it over his shirt, and walks over to his desk and takes his nametag – the words Andrew Moss, neurologist, stand out clearly on the glossy surface of the plastic.
Cursing, he slips a pack of cigarettes into his pocket.
The sun gradually rises over the Royal London Hospital.
dress warmer, please, autumn is coming, puddles on the sidewalk, you know the world will overpower you if you lose to yourself.
Emily finds "poor" Avis without any problems – Melissa's metaphor hits the mark: tall and thin, Avis Wood is asleep, laughing with his mouth open, right outside the emergency room. Someone has carefully tucked a thermal blanket under his head and tucked his glasses into his pocket.
Emily shakes him lightly on the shoulder, and Avis jumps up like a stung man.
– Huh?!
– I'm from Melissa," Emily explains patiently. – We've been referred to neurology.
– Ahhhh…
He smooths his disheveled hair and somehow slips on his glasses-the thin metal frames make his already gray eyes almost colorless.
– I'm sorry. – He rises. – I've been on twenty-four hours, and now they've thrown a day job on top of it. – Wood yawns, but moves with confidence, unlike Emily, who doesn't know where to go – in six months of work, she's never been to the neurology ward: it's the opposite block.
– On a 24-hour shift? – She follows him on his heels. – Aren't you studying?
– Yeah. – Avis nods, pulling her robe up tighter. – I'm studying at Warwick, we're on vacation.
– Still? – Emily wonders.
– Everyone's on vacation until October. – He holds the door open. – Didn't you know that?
– No, I…" She's lost. – I just went to a different system, I guess.
Emily bites her tongue: twenty years ago it was cool to go to St. George's University; now it's just for people who have nowhere else to go: there's a gray building on the side of the huge hospital, a lecture hall, proudly known as a university. In fact, her magnetic pass said she was a student in the MBBS4 program, a four-year course in medicine, which allowed her to advance no further than the level of a senior nurse.
She was still lucky – it was rare to find a good job after such poor training; and money for another qualification was scarce, and dreams of promotion were safely and far hidden.
So she lowers her gaze to the floor, but Wood no longer pays attention to her; he doesn't seem to care at all-he didn't even ask her name, and he certainly doesn't care what she does.
The neurology department seems times larger than her usual orthopedics or waiting room: behind the giant glass doors is a wide light-beige corridor with many branches; here, wrapped in ebony frames, are the service aisles to the operating rooms and laboratories.
Wood and lofty, brick-and-white finishes are everywhere; by every ivory door are signs: neurologist, neurosurgeon, nephrologist, senior resident, room for junior staff. The biggest door, of course, is by the department head's office: Professor Donald Ray's waiting room, the gilded sign reads.
– I'm going to go find James. Will you wait or come with me? – Wood doesn't even turn around, talking to the wall.
Emily shrugs uncertainly; Avis snorts and, contrary to her expectations, turns down a small corridor on her way to the operating rooms. They put their badge to the lock and push open a barely visible gray door, and enter the lounge of the operating room's junior staff.
Johnson gazes enviously at the huge, airy, light-filled room: upholstered couches, a television, a small kitchen with a red coffee machine humming, a large cooler by the book stacks; another door leads to locker rooms and showers.
On the dark blue couch, a dark-haired man lazily flips through the pages of a reference book. He would seem overly brutal – broad shoulders, three-day stubble, a tattoo above his elbow – but tiny round glasses give his face a strange, almost childlike expression.
– Dr. Harmon? – Avis clears his throat, drawing attention.
– Ah, Wood! – The man pulls back from his book and squints, as if the dioptres in his glasses weren't enough to see them both. – God bless your Mel! We've got four people who didn't make it out today, and all of them are Mary's! So we need new hands, ha ha, that's right, hands. – He laughs. – Here I've asked her, so she can help me out by sending one of her own; maybe we can manage that at least. – Harmon speaks so fast that Emily can hardly perceive the flow of words. – So, hee-hee, get your feet in your hands and go, hee-hee, put our vegetables on shelves, thank God, not the morgue, just the ward shelves, yes, the ward shelves…
He stands up, and Emily involuntarily takes a step back: only now does she notice that James has a large burn scar on the right side of his cheek, the way the burning skin charred and torn like paper. It's as if Harmon is reading her mind – touching the burnt skin with his fingertips, muttering: "Stop staring," and looks her down from above: he's two heads taller than Jones and much broader in the shoulders, making her feel like a real giant; and in the doctor's round glasses she sees her frightened face.
Avis pokes her in the side with a sharp elbow, and Emily looks down ashamed.
– Patients, uh, yes, patients … There's one with a history of stroke, and he wants general anesthesia, what a fool, yes, with a stroke – to general, well, the fool, well," mutters James, after a moment forgetting about the incident. – So if you see something like that, you'd better let me know, you're not stupid, are you? With a stroke – under the general," he keeps repeating, leaving the room.
Emily sighs: she never worked in neurology, but she had to prepare for surgery and take to the procedure, and more than once. A strand of unruly brown hair comes loose, and she tries to tuck it back in, looking in the large wall mirror.
– Are you going to keep your hair like that? – Evis's abrupt voice makes her turn around.
– No, I… uh…" The hairpin slid into the bundle somehow, scratching her skin. – I'm sorry," she adds for some reason.
Wood stares at her, and Emily's knees shake for some reason.
* * *
The wards in the neurology ward at Royal London Hospital are like rooms in an expensive hotel: beds with high, soft mattresses, staff call buttons at the headboard, drawer drawers by each bed; wide, light-colored cabinets along the walls; and water coolers. Almost every room has four patients with similar diagnoses; probably to make it less boring to spend time, or perhaps to make it a little easier for the attending physician. There are no televisions, but there are miniature folding tables hidden at the base of each bed; through the tinted glass of the doors, Emily sees that some of them have laptops on them.
When she first moved to London, she was fascinated by the British way of hanging curtains – thin, arched cotton in pastel shades, gathered in two places, so that the middle is longer than the sides. There's no such thing here-the panoramic windows can't be curtained; but by pressing the mechanism, the blinds can be fully opened and let the pale sun into the rooms.
This was Emily's first time in Block F: her practice was limited to the orthopedic ward, where she had been assigned to work initially, and, very occasionally, to the emergency room. There, the emergency room was the most interesting place to work; but unfortunately, Melissa quickly gave the position to another nurse, older and more experienced.
Emily turns her head, looking around like a child in a new place.
Neurology occupies the entire sixth floor of the building; only Oncology is higher, taking over two areas at once. According to the signpost, the fifth floor is occupied by hematology and endocrinology; the fourth floor is the giant immunology department and everything related to it; the third floor leads to the physiotherapy center and other healing procedures; the second floor is occupied by rheumatology with its many patients and the vascularization center – a glass corridor leads to the next building.
There were other floors, other centers, and detailed plans of each, hanging on the walls and in the elevators, but Emily never paid much attention to that. For her, even part of the main medical block was a veritable maze she would never climb into without a guide.
A giant anthill.
– Stop standing there," Avis says suddenly angrily, almost throwing the file at her. – Take it. Gather some more anamnesis and take it to Moss. Good luck with that.
Emily doesn't have time to say anything: Wood runs away, holding a stack of cards; and she herself is picked up by a maelstrom of white coats and carried to the wards.
Neurology is noisy and large; not as noisy as the emergency room – another circle of life's chaos – but there is a lot of staff, and Emily doesn't understand: how is it that only four people didn't leave, that they weren't replaced? And why did Wood get so worked up in the first place?
Thoughts bounce: too much emotion for one day; usually in her gray life everything is measured and scheduled, here a drip, there a shot, and here to help the orderlies in surgery; but today it's as if all her stability crumbles.
Brick by brick.
Here and there the yellow badges of the operating room nurses flickered, voices buzzed, the metal handrails of the wheelchairs rattled; the whole space was filled with sounds and conversations. Trying to concentrate, Emily leans against a cool wall in a nook and opens a folder.
Unnamed girl, she reads, admission overnight; under "diagnosis," cortical blindness, followed by the tests performed: visometry, CT scan of the head. In small handwriting, barely legible, along the bottom edge of the sheet are sprawling letters: retrograde. Emily clears her throat: How do you find the room of a man with no name among hundreds of other patients? The smart guy who filled out the chart wrote nothing else, and she quickly got the feeling that the girl who was admitted had simply been forgotten about.
She wandered through dozens of doors, searching for her patient, until suddenly she found her in the farthest room: three of the four beds were empty, and the fourth was hidden from view by a wide screen. Johnson wouldn't even have noticed if her palm wasn't clearly visible through the taut fabric.
Duty:
– Hi, I'm Emily. I'll be working with you.
And she comes closer.
She has a snow-white bandage over her eyes; the same bandage wraps around her head, visibly thickening at the back, as if after a recent operation. She is gaunt and skinny, as if she had been malnourished for years; and her skinny arms, covered with a network of scratches, move nonstop over and around the bedspread – groping the screen, clinging to the corners of the handrail, twisting the wires.
– Dr. Higgins has already worked with you-" she looks at the chart, "-Higgins. He prescribed some treatments for you. Do you remember that?
The nameless girl nods briefly:
– Will you tell me what's wrong with me?
Her voice is so calm that Emily is momentarily lost: Is she really completely blind?
– Dr. Higgins thinks it's some kind of acquired blindness. – Emily adjusts her pillow. – But the diagnosis hasn't been confirmed yet. You also have partial amnesia, but you've probably been told that. It's not so bad, because right now you can still remember events; but it will take time to get an accurate diagnosis. – She pulls out a blank, blank sheet and enters readings from the screens. – I'll take you for an echo and an electroencephalography today. Now we need to rule out arteriovenous malformation… – She stammers. – It's, uh, when your veins and arteries are tied together so tightly that they interfere with the flow of blood in them. You see…? – Waiting for a nod, Emily continues, "So you and I will stop by the angiography on the way; they will look at your vessels again. She sits down in the easy chair and irritably tucks a newly dislodged strand behind her ear.
– There is one "but. – The girl turns her head at the sound. – I don't remember anything.
– We'll remember together. – Emily prepares to take notes. – Imagine you're putting together a mosaic. Do you think you like mosaics? – Nod again. – Great. I don't need to know that much, but you try anyway. Okay…? Let's start simple then…
The scant information I've gathered is enough to fill in the blanks and find out how she got here: yellow street lights, neon signs on Stepney, screeching tires, and the lights of the paramedics' car. She, says the patient, had red hair – the one that found me. I remembered that because I feel like I had red, too. Scarlet. Like blood.
And confusedly, defenselessly she adds:
– You know, I wasn't sick with anything. Nothing. I am sure of it.
The scant information I've gathered is enough to fill in the blanks and find out how she got here: yellow streetlights, neon signs on Stepney, screeching tires, and the lights of the paramedics' car. She, says the patient, had red hair – the one that found me. I remembered that because I feel like I had red, too. Scarlet. Like blood.
And confusedly, defenselessly she adds:
– You know, I wasn't sick with anything. Nothing. I am sure of it.
She has no pain, only dizziness; and the screen shows elevated blood pressure. Emily frowns her eyebrows, putting it on the chart-she's never seen anything like it before.
She pulls her robe up again – the cheap, non-stretchy cotton sits after every wash – and rises from her chair, trying to stretch her stiff back.
– I'm taking the chart to the doctor now," Emily informs me, "and I'll be back to take you to the procedure.
"I'll ask someone which one, too," she adds to herself.
Johnson leaves the room, closing the glass door behind her, and carefully places the patient sheet in a special transparent folder – now anyone who decides to find out what kind of person is here can do so simply by reading the information on the form.
Emily returns to Neurology through the main passageway – she doesn't remember the way through the service corridors, so she just has to follow the signs – and enters from the side of the nephrologist's office. After wandering between doors, she finds the right one.
But instead of Andrew Moss, she finds Powell in his office, the same one Rebecca has been following. Eric smiles amiably, offers tea and, answering Emily's question, tells her that Mr. Moss can be found at Clark's. Where to look for Clark, he doesn't know, but he hopes it's somewhere nearby.
Because without Clark, they'll have half the department extinct, he jokes, and the sky reflects in his gray eyes.
But Emily gets lucky, a couple of doors down from Moss' office, she sees a sign: Dr. L. Clarke, neurosurgeon – and, breathing in more air, she knocks.
A low, guttural "Come in" answers her door.
Two male figures, leaning over a wide black table, discuss photographs strewn across the glossy surface of the wood: an old man in a business suit and an unbuttoned jacket, and a young, dark-haired doctor whose white coat hangs from the back of a leather chair.
An expensive white robe, Emily notes from the corner of her mind: she has dreamed of good form so many times that she can easily tell the difference between plain cheap fabric and snow-white cotton and polyester.
Both men lift their heads in sync and look at her so intently that Johnson is momentarily lost.
– I was told to take the chart to Dr. Moss. Mr. Powell advised me to find you at Dr. Clark's. – Which one is which, Emily still doesn't understand, but she hopes she can make out the nametags. – So there you go.
– Oh, is that the one, Andrew? – The one in the business suit reaches for the folder and opens it. – The one with no memory and a piece of brain?
– Absolutely right. – The dark-haired man lazily straightens up. – Another man from the street… I see the information has already been gathered. – He turns his gaze to Emily. – Already something. What a strange anamnesis. What makes you think she wasn't sick? – The look in her dark brown eyes pierces Johnson.
– She said so herself. – Emily shrugs her shoulders.
– She doesn't remember anything, Miss-" she squinted, "Johnson. So what makes you think you can believe her?
I wish I had glasses too, Emily thought, I could see which one was Moss.
– Intuitive memory is hard to fool. It's more reliable than reflex memory.
– You did a good job. – The older man smiles at Emily, and her cheeks flush. – Come here and tell us how you managed to get her to talk. We're all very interested, aren't we, Dr. Moss? – He almost winks at Andrew.
Emily takes a step forward:
– I'm sorry to rush you, Dr. Clark, but I really need directions to…
– I'm not Clark, Miss Johnson," the doctor laughs.
– I'm Clark," comes a voice from behind her.
these people think that doctors live somewhere
for them: I wish I could get through, I wish I could shout;
Who will take the responsibility of collecting
those moaning with phantom pain in their shoulders?
Emily turns around.
The woman in front of her must be like a thousand other women; except that the world around them doesn't shrink, doesn't chew itself up, doesn't beat a cold, bright light in her face. And, of course, these other women do not look as if they are not human, but expendable. A pebble stuck in a pointy-toed shoe; a tiny crease on a perfectly pressed blouse from a new-fangled designer.
Her gaze catches Emily's, pauses a little, puts a branding – an annoying, nagging factor that it is not customary to talk about out loud; an unnecessary element of decor in the office; a formally donated statuette for the next anniversary of the company.
Of course she was mistaken, Emily keeps telling herself, just mistaken, saying the wrong name, just mixed up, well, it happens to everyone, yes, she repeats, trying to stare at the floor, but sees only her reflection in the lacquer of the black pumps.
– Ah, Dr. Clark! We've got another mystery here," the one who was praising Emily a few minutes ago announces all too happily.
– Send her to the diagnosticians.
– How did you know it was a girl?
– I meant the riddle. – Clark puts a Kraft bag and two cups with R&H logos on the table. – It's 8:00 in the morning, Donald. What's with the gathering in my office?
Emily, standing slightly behind the woman, steps away from the desk as inconspicuously as possible; bumping into the owner of the office, her supervisor, and apparently a colleague is in no way part of her plans for the day.
Neuroscience, in fact, is.
Standing behind a small cabinet – very, very flat, Rebecca would be sure to let off some unfunny joke – Emily feels panicky.
More than anything, she wants to be invisible: in all the time she has worked here, she has never found herself alone with such people in an office, and now she has no idea what to do: answer an earlier question, repeat her directions, or run away, forgetting to close the door behind her.
But it's as if she's no longer noticed – after some quiet negotiation, all three of them lean over the scattered pieces of paper, and then stare into the wall-mounted negatoscope: six projections of the brain catch their attention more than Johnson, who languishes waiting for the right papers.
Emily looks at the back of the neurosurgeon's head – almost white, short-cropped hair, a sort of pixie haircut that crosses all boundaries: torn strands and real chaos instead of styling.
The nurses also wore the same kind of hair, only it was more flashy and provocative: pink, blue, green, with the addition of dreadlocks, long bangs, or shaved temples, but it looked like they were trying to get attention. Clark, on the other hand, seems to find a breeze in every second, allowing that hair to be styled in any way .
– …patch it up right here," her slightly husky voice made the air vibrate, "see if anything comes of it. It won't be completely repaired, of course.
– Can you do that?
Clark shrugs, and the outline of lace underwear becomes visible through the thin fabric of her gray blouse.
– I'll try," she answers evasively. – But I need more tests.
– Speaking of tests. Miss Johnson is still waiting for her referrals. – Donald turns to Emily. – Moss is going to write it all out, wait for him outside, please.
– Dr. Moss," Andrew whispers, "is too busy for paperwork.
Emily doesn't know why, but she flares up like a Christmas tree, as if she'd been rudely answered, or rejected altogether; she blushes so red her cheeks are hotter than a fire; and Moss stares at her with an angry look in his eyes.
She has to get out of the office; a step, a second, a third – a soft footstep on the parquet, the barely perceptible creaking of the door, the sudden stuffiness and the strange, almost black sky in the windows.
Emily leans her back against the cool brick wall, and the air around her crumples like old dry paper. Scary words flash in her head: panic attack, anxiety disorder, nervous breakdown; but her pulse quickly evens out, and the decrepit paper air crumbles to ashes, allowing her to take a breath of pure oxygen.
She remembers: she is seventeen, a dusty path to the tops of medicine, dozens of books and bitten pencils ahead of her. Becoming a doctor, Emily dreams, saving people, deftly wielding a scalpel, saying "dry" to the head nurse, and having dinner with her colleagues in some quiet place in the evening, pouting cheekily, and stretching the words, "Let's not talk about work?"
Bites her lip: the tuition bills, the failed exams, her mother's sneers, "Daddy's very unhappy," George's dark red uniform: equality, they said, is the foundation of the basics.
Emily remembers the numbers: ten thousand dollars a year; one loan; two jobs; three hours of sleep. Pathetic attempts at self-indulgence: this is not the worst thing that could happen to a dream.
And the realization: no, it's much scarier than that.
She doesn't even have a pass like everyone else – you can't use it to get benefits, to brag about it in front of her family, to put it in a nice cover or wear it proudly with a ribbon around your neck. St. George is not a place to be proud of, and four years is too little for a doctor and too much for a nurse; just as the next forty thousand is another stepping stone on the way to quite the wrong place to be.
Sigh.
Emily knows: this is going to be one hell of a fall.
* * *
When she returns with her cherished papers back to neurology, the door to room three hundred and thirteen is unlocked and the bed itself is empty, with only the sheets carelessly wrinkled and the recliner somehow pushed back in.
She should have handled it without leaving the girl unattended, but failed here, too. Now there's no use looking all over the hospital for the patient: she could be anywhere from the treatment room to the exam room. So Johnson sits back in his chair, tucks his legs under him, and taps his fingers on the table – he has to pull himself together and do something.
Fear should have possessed her by now, but Emily feels only endless fatigue weighing on her shoulders. Her own burden, as it turns out, weighs and presses her to the ground worse than someone else's.
My thoughts do not leap, do not rush, they stand still, frozen in space; and somewhere in the margins of consciousness a simple thought emerges: there are so many staff in the hospital that a blind and probably panicked patient would not be left without attention. So she is either in another room, or indeed taken to…
Dr. Higgins enters the room just as Emily prepares to fly out of it in search of him – sandy jacket, crumpled shirt, silver-tinted hair. They'd seen each other once before, Emily recalls, perhaps in the emergency room or in the lower therapy rooms.
– Good afternoon!" Mark salutes in greeting. – I took your Miss Anonymous to the next ward. Glad one of us thought to do the paperwork. – A nod to the pile of directions and a smile. – I don't like all that… By the way," he doesn't wait for an answer, "the angiography showed no vascular lesions. Now she's on an EEG and an Echo. Just give it to me, don't be shaky. – He reaches for the papers.
Emily obediently hands over the forms, filled in Moss's fine, cursive handwriting, and looks expectantly at Mark: the general practitioner, in his sixties, looks forty-something thanks to his light clothes and some inner, radiant smile.
– She likes you. – He takes a pen out of his breast pocket and signs. – Our Jane Doe*.
– Where did she come from? – Emily mechanically unfolds the bedspread. – I mean," she corrects herself, "how was she found?
– Oh," Mark sits back in his chair, "it's a very interesting story, Miss Johnson. All she remembers is that she was found by the paramedics. They themselves say someone called 911 anonymously to report the girl.
– But the police…? – Emily frowns.
– What about the police? – Higgins splashes his hands. – They came, talked to someone from the emergency room, and left, didn't even take her chart. Don't you think they've got enough of Jane's kind? Though maybe Donald or his secretary will fax them all the data, but that's when it's-" He shrugs. – You know, Miss Johnson, there may be something you can do for this young lady…
– What?
The ringing of an old gray Nokia interrupts the professor. The standard message tune cuts to the ear, then abruptly cuts off by the incoming call. Higgins frowns as he listens to the caller, nods without asking anything, and then just tosses the phone back into his jacket pocket.
– Change of plans, Miss Johnson. Forget about Jane, her namesake is waiting for us. – Mark stands up abruptly. – The other doe has a complication and needs to be prepped for surgery. A cyst.
– The other doe? – Emily's looking blankly into the void. – Professor, wait!
* * *
– What the fuck?! – Moss is furious as hell, and the air around him is saturated with electricity, threatening to turn into a storm. – We looked at his labs this morning, they were clean, did that crap come out in two hours?
– We looked at his head, not his back," Mark corrected him gently. – And we thought the pain was from hitting the pavement.
– There's a sack of shit for half the picture! – Andrew turns around so sharply that the flaps of his robe fly into the air. – How can you not see it?!
Higgins only shrugs his shoulders:
– It's been too little time, Andrew. We haven't even finished the general tests yet, and a new pain has arisen. It's no use blaming the poor orderlies.
– I'll get Neal to pump out the fluid and put in his miracle patches. – Moss signs the papers one by one and almost throws them at Emily, who is standing next to her. – Take this to Ray later. Where the hell did she come from?" The neurologist puts the scans back in the envelope. – Give this to our surgeons. And take care of the patient… – he yells again and storms out of the room before Emily can say okay. Mark follows, not even glancing at Johnson, holding a pile of unstitched files.
The other Doe, in Emily's opinion, needs no preparation: he sits perfectly still and doesn't take his gaze off her. His chart was almost blank-no test results, no allergies, no-whatever, as if they'd forgotten to fill it out, and there was no time to gather a medical history. Especially since he'd already been to some kind of procedure-the nurse sees a couple of cotton lumps glued on with a Band-Aid, a fresh IV line, a fresh bandage on his head, too.
Emily knows: it's just under an hour to surgery, which means that now we have to figure out what he's been doing and eating before; and when you consider that this is another memoryless man, the level of difficulty doubles.
Well, at least he can see her.
– Hello," she says. – I'm Emily. I will work with you.
Silence.
– The anesthesia doesn't hurt," she continues. – But first I need to remove all your jewelry, braces, and piercings. If you have lenses or hearing aids, they also need to be removed for the operation. But I'll get them all back to you afterwards, don't worry. – The smile on duty.
Silence.
Emily begins to get nervous: dark green eyes of the young man closely watching her every movement, as if analyzing.
He repeats:
– Are you wearing any of the things I have listed?
And looks expectantly: maybe he will at least reach out to her, or show her his ears, or nod; nervousness is quickly replaced by irritation: let him already do something, as long as he gives signs of life.
Emily scrutinizes his face: barely noticeable wrinkles in the corners of the lips, a scattering of freckles, high cheekbones, circles under his eyes. If you meet him on the street, you think he's a high-school student, lacking only a backpack or a laptop bag. His head is bandaged tightly, so you can't see any hair at all, but one or two strands of red at his ear are dishevelled and tugging ridiculously.
* * *
– What the fuck?! – Moss is pissed as hell, and the air around him is electrifying, threatening to turn into a storm. – We looked at his labs this morning and they were clean, did that crap come out in two hours?
– We looked at his head, not his back," Mark corrected him gently. – And we thought the pain was from hitting the pavement.
– There's a sack of shit for half the picture! – Andrew turns around so sharply that the flaps of his robe fly into the air. – How can you not see it?!
Higgins only shrugs his shoulders:
– It's been too little time, Andrew. We haven't even finished the general tests yet, and a new pain has arisen. It's no use blaming the poor orderlies.
– I'll get Neal to pump out the fluid and put in his miracle patches. – Moss signs the papers one by one and almost throws them at Emily, who is standing next to her. – Take this to Ray later. Where the hell did she come from?" The neurologist puts the scans back in the envelope. – Give this to our surgeons. And take care of the patient… – he yells again and storms out of the room before Emily can say okay. Mark follows, not even glancing at Johnson, holding a pile of unstitched files.
The other Doe, in Emily's opinion, needs no preparation: he sits perfectly still and doesn't take his gaze off her. His chart was almost blank-no test results, no allergies, no-whatever, as if they'd forgotten to fill it out, and there was no time to gather a medical history. Especially since he'd already been to some kind of procedure-the nurse sees a couple of cotton lumps glued on with a Band-Aid, a fresh IV line, a fresh bandage on his head, too.
Emily knows: it's just under an hour to surgery, which means we now have to figure out what he's been doing and eating before; and when you consider that this is another memoryless man, the level of difficulty doubles.
Well, at least he can see her.
– Hello," she says. – I'm Emily. I will work with you.
Silence.
– The anesthesia doesn't hurt," she continues. – But first I need to remove all your jewelry, braces, and piercings. If you have lenses or hearing aids, they also need to be removed for the operation. But I'll get them all back to you afterwards, don't worry. – The smile on duty.
Silence.
Emily begins to get nervous: dark green eyes of the young man closely watching her every movement, as if analyzing.
He repeats:
– Are you wearing any of the things I have listed?
And looks expectantly: maybe he will at least reach out to her, or show her his ears, or nod; nervousness is quickly replaced by irritation: let him already do something, as long as he gives signs of life.
Emily scrutinizes his face: barely noticeable wrinkles in the corners of the lips, a scattering of freckles, high cheekbones, circles under his eyes. If you meet him on the street, you think he's a high-school student, lacking only a backpack or a laptop bag. His head is bandaged tightly, so you can't see any hair at all, but one or two strands of red at his ear are dishevelled and tugging ridiculously.
Emily patiently repeats:
– Are you wearing any…
– I can't hear you," the young man says suddenly, licking his dry lips. – I am deaf.
If Emily could, she would shriek in surprise and some ridiculous horror of the situation, but she just smiles and nods; and then takes out a pen and writes the words on the back of the blank form: piercings, braces, rings, hearing aid?
He shakes his head.
Then Emily deduces: put a score on overall pain – and hands him the pen.
7/10, the answer follows.
The next part of the conversation resembles a comic sketch: Emily takes turns drawing a glass of water, coffee, a sandwich, and for some reason a slice of watermelon; then she draws a clock face – and after ten minutes she finds out that the patient had eaten nothing since morning and drank only water an hour ago after another blood sampling.
She points again to her name on the nametag, waits for the nod, and puts on her gloves; four ampoules, apparently brought by Moss, lie on the table, waiting to be filled: the anesthetic enhancer midazolam, the respiratory reflex inhibitor atropine, the stomach-soothing metoclopramide and the anti-allergenic Benadryl. Emily knows this sequence by heart.
The patient's hands are cold and scrunched up; Emily searches for a vein that hasn't been used before giving the injection, and then barely stops the blood spurting out of the blue. There is no doubt that she administered the injection correctly, but the young man shows no emotion – no pain, no panic, nothing. A perfect, absolute emptiness.
Emily writes nothing more, only sits down heavily beside him, feeling the fullness of the day's woolen shawl cover her shoulders. Now she should be saying comforting, soothing words: everything will be all right, our doctors are professionals in their field, and that-that-someone-Neil is just a luminary of modern surgery.
But she won't say.
And he just looks at her with his dark green eyes and speaks a little in a chant, as if addressing someone invisible behind her back:
– And he who knew no sin made him a sacrifice for sin.
Emily is silent: the overcrowded mind does not immediately identify the biblical quote – and afterwards the patient's eyelashes tremble as he leans back on the pillows and closes his eyes, and Johnson puts a pulse oximeter on his finger in fear, but the perfectly even numbers glow green.
He's just asleep – the nuclear mixture of drugs must have had an effect, or he, too, may have had a hard day, or maybe his whole life; Emily gazes into his young but tired face and tries to imagine his life before the hospital: maybe he was a wandering musician, or a secretary, or a simple student; or, like her, a medical student, too.
And then, picturing clear, colorful images, she whispers quietly, a little hesitantly:
– That in sin we may be made righteous before God.
Emily picks up the file again – the rest of the lines need to be filled in, and then she takes everything to the rooms; and soon the patient must be taken away for anesthesia – here her work ends, the operating nurse comes into play.
The glass door swings open and strikes the stopper so loudly that Johnson jumps up – and then owes a sharp edge of paper that cuts his skin.
A disheveled, panting kid in a white overcoat, with his nametag miraculously held in his pocket, stops in front of Emily, trying to lick off a drop of blood.
She almost succeeds, and only the long, thin scratch on the back of her hand is a reminder of what happened.
Something clicks in her head.
– Emily Johnson? – The student tries to catch his breath. – Let's go see Miss Clark.
And in her eyes is the unexplored Milky Way;
the unguided stars wander back and forth;
all roads end with Rome someday,
but without Rome the roads will never end.
The student leads her down service corridors-networks of narrow, windowless passageways with dim yellow lights and an endless string of doors without any identifying marks-so it's a mystery to Emily how he navigates through them. They enter the neurology department in two and a half minutes – the familiar break room, the cubbyhole, and the large space of the main part of the ward.
Emily enters Clark's office, holding her breath – if she had messed up or made a big mistake, she would have been reprimanded by either the attending or the head nurse, but not by the neurosurgeon: he has nothing to do with the junior staff, unless, of course, it was his own team.
Clark stands half-turned, his arms crossed over his chest, his white coat sloppily slung over his shoulders, his lips curved into a semblance of a smile.
Emily's spine sucked – fear mixed with a strange kind of awe. If it were Rebecca, she'd have pressed her lips together, relaxed her shoulders, and looked at the whole thing through a spiteful squint. But Emily isn't Rebecca; all she can do is wrinkle the already creased fabric of her gown and wriggle from foot to foot.
Of all the hospital's sixty-thousand-person staff, Miss Clark needed her.
Or…?
– Johnson," the neurosurgeon's heavy stare is almost physically palpable, "is our psychiatrist, Dr. Charles Clark.
Oh shit. Good thing she didn't say a word to him.
Her lungs run out of air as the student who called her here sits down on the padded couch and puts his leg over her leg; but-she's willing to swear! – at that moment, mischievous sparks flicker in his dark eyes.
The prank was undeniably a success.
Charlie had a mop of blond hair, ripped jeans, and a T-shirt with the Beatles emblem on it. Emily mentally excuses herself: Anyone would mistake him for a student intern; only the gray nametag that had fallen off his long robe gives him away as a doctor.
She looks closely: a long black Swatch strap, gray and blue Balmain, and a careless, as if intentionally placed blot on the lower left field of the robe – another famous logo, the name of which she does not remember. An envious sigh – in Britain, doctors are paid almost more than in other countries.
– Miss Johnson…
– You can just say Emily," the nurse says quietly, trying not to be distracted by her thoughts.
Are they brother and sister or husband and wife? Which one is older? And what is this woman's name anyway?
Why is she here…?
Charlie only silently spreads his hands as if answering unasked questions.
– Let's get right to the point. – Clark-whose-woman sits down in a wide, high-backed chair. – They say you spent the morning with a certain patient with a very strange diagnosis, right?
– But we didn't talk for more than half an hour. – Emily shakes her head. – I was only asking…
– You were talking about the mosaic. – Charlie leans his head back relaxed and looks up at the ceiling. – Just so you know, a mosaic, Emily, is part of a system.
– What system? – For the second time today, Johnson feels like a complete fool.
– Her memory, of course.
Everything Emily gives out in response fits into a simple, "Eh?"
– Our brain," Charlie explains patiently, "tries to cover the gaps in our memory with memories from nowhere. Or, if the trauma is too severe, it clings to words, places, actions-and inserts them like missing pieces.
– Like a mosaic," Emily guesses.
– That's right," the psychiatrist nods contentedly. – Her brain is clinging to two factors: it is you, Emily, and the puzzle. The puzzle. A fragment. A stumpy piece of life – whether past or present. And this idea-that she had something to do with it all-is now firmly planted in her head and taking root there.
– Like a virus?
– Exactly. Like a virus.
– She's about to have surgery. – It's like the neurosurgeon didn't even hear them talking. – We're gonna cut her head open again to see how she's doing. – A funny joke from her lips sounds like black irony. – She'll be conscious for a while, and Dr. Clark advises that you should be around. Maybe this way we can provoke… something.
– "Intraoperative brain mapping," Emily says in a cursory voice. Nightly vigils over textbooks have had their justifiable effect – Clark throws her a look full of surprise. I guess she's the kind of person who thinks all nurses are idiots.
– You think there's a tumor in there?
– We don't think anything," cuts off Clark-who-is-anything-woman. – It's Higgins who's thinking. And while he decides it's a good idea to open up her skull and make sure there's no sign of a tumor and her visual center has been removed for some other reason that the CT and MRI don't show. And he doesn't care at all that the scans don't show that very tumor.
– Do you mind? – Emily asks timidly.
– I'm not sure that prying into someone else's head without a good reason is a good idea," the neurosurgeon answers grudgingly. – But Mark insists on reducing all risks.
– By increasing them? – Johnson barely audibly clarifies. Clark-sitting-in-a-chair rolls her eyes.
– That's because nothing just happens," Charlie says. – You can't wake up blind or deaf or dumb and then go about your business in peace. And you can't go blind in a second and keep your eyeballs intact. She doesn't have any external effects, does she? So there must be something inside. – He folded his fingers into little arrows. – So it turns out that in order to know the causes of blindness, we need to know the previous diagnosis. If we know the diagnosis, we know what was treated. We find out what, we find out where and who. – Charlie yawns. – And so on.
Drowned in so much information, Emily finally loses hope of a lifeline.
– But why me?
– You'll sit with her for the whole operation," the neurosurgeon begins to lose patience. – What don't you understand?
Johnson makes a mental note: one of the two Clarks is definitely annoyed with her.
– As a pageant host for one," Charlie smiles. – You need to talk to her and make her listen. She knows you, so we get rid of unnecessary stress and emotional strain on an already overloaded brain.
– But…" Emily looks up. – But I don't know her at all. I was just doing a background check. I'm not sure that I…
Clark-who thinks she's an idiot-waved her hand, silencing her.
– I don't want to hear it," she cuts him off. – That's your job. Or can't you handle it?
Emily is tempted to mutter something like: Actually, it is the job of a neurologist or a psychiatrist or an attending physician, but not of a nurse, who is not related to the patient – but she just nods silently.
After all, it's not like they're going to eat her.
Well, at once.
* * *
When Emily slips into the nurses' room at the end of the day, she feels worse than sick: her legs ache from the unaccustomed running around all over the floors, her head buzzes with thoughts, and her hands, which are now and then administering injections and shots, start trembling treacherously at the end of the twelve-hour shift.
She never got a chance to eat or even drink tea; all she could manage was a couple of sips of water from the coolers, and then she had to run again. Higgins must have thought she was assigned to him, so he kept her busy, both with files and with patients. He would appear stealthily, disappear quickly, and then loom up behind her again, repeating that time was of the essence.
Melissa diverted from her business and sat down next to her on the stiff bench, looking exhausted, too – except her shift was smoothly turning into a night shift.
Well, there's at least one person in the world worse off than she is.
– What's up, Johnson, rough day?
Emily leans her back against the cold metal of the locker and nods, pulling the studs out of her head. The back of her head immediately begins to whine.
– What's to come.
Melissa claps her on the shoulder, is silent for a minute, and then gets up and walks out without saying a word.
Emily changes as quickly as her tired body will allow; she searches in vain for a hair band, but finds none, and decides to leave her tangled, curly hair this way: it is unlikely that anyone will notice her.
Olivia – still vivacious and full of energy – again fails to notice her, and Emily leaves the hospital for Whitechapel. At eight o'clock at night, the street is crowded, with couples and companies lounging on benches, music blaring from cafes and bars across the street, and people trying to cross the street in the wrong place, hurrying to the subway.
Emily adjusts her bag, breathes in the London air and walks slowly toward the crosswalk across from Turner Street.
– Hey, do you need a lift?
She turns around-more reflexively than interested-and sees two figures running out the front door behind her: one in ripped jeans and an acid-green leather jacket, the other skinny, tall, throwing a small leather backpack over her shoulder.
– I'm on mine," a woman's voice came over her.
– Does she still drive? – Laughter in response. – Maybe you should get a scooter.
– Fuck you," the woman replies laconically.
– After you, sister!
She tries to say something back, but the sound of the engine starting and the momentary screeching of the tires interrupt her; the woman's shoulders slump tiredly.
She walks forward seven meters – a little more, and she will be at Johnson's side – and then she flicks the alarm, and the dark blue MINI Cooper flashes its headlights; a minute more, and the roof moves back, obeying an invisible command.
That's the car they were asking about, does it drive?!
Emily sighs enviously again – what could be better than rushing through the London highways in a convertible after a long day at work…?
The light of a passing car illuminates the face of a stranger for a moment, and Emily is surprised to recognize her as Clark.
Without knowing why, Johnson stands and watches until the car disappears in the distance; only then, on her way down to the subway, she smiles to herself: it's a good thing she ended up in neurology after all.
Maybe this is her tiny chance to get better.
The next two days pass all too quickly – both the night and day shifts are devoted entirely to the emergency room: Emily hasn't really figured it out, but some major accident outside the city has thrown her schedule off, turning it into a 24-hour shift. For almost twenty hours she relentlessly bandages, washes, stitches, and injections, filling out thousands of papers at the same time. Nothing is heard from neurology – either they have forgotten about her, or the date of surgery has not yet been set. Johnson hears from the ear that the operation in a deaf boy is going well – but does not pay attention to it: is not enough deaf young men all over the hospital?
By morning, Emily no longer knows where anyone is, doing her job on autopilot, and then, collapsing with exhaustion, she crawls to her locker, where she somehow pulls off her white coat, crumples it into a ball, and throws it on the tin floor.
Nothing, Johnson thinks, in two weekends she will have washed it three times and ironed it four times.
Somehow the fact that she has had to work so hard, as if for an entire shift, makes her angry; but this anger is not bright flashes or flashes of thunder, no; rather a humming and gray longing for calm.
Melissa puts her hand on her shoulder, encouragingly, saying that everything will be all right; but Emily does not react: it seems that if you put a pulse oximeter on her, it will show solid zeros.
And dots.
Mel says:
– You got off easy, Sarah's got three in there – all on her hands.
An outsider would have thought it was children, but Emily knows that one of her colleagues has had three deaths. Not that death scares her – in hospitals, death is always wandering the halls looking for its own room – but it must be a stressful time to lose your mind.
Or not.
Already as she walks away, slipping past Olivia, the perpetually charged battery from the front desk, she hears her holler.
And, fixing a mop of curly, perfectly coiffed blond hair, she smiles and hands Emily a form folded in half:
– Dr. Harmon said to tell you he's expecting you in the operating room tomorrow.
She doesn't seem to have two days off.
* * *
Emily is embarrassed to admit, but she's never been in a real surgery. No, of course, college internships meant attendance, but it was one thing to be in the operating room with a supervisor, another to be in the operating room with doctors like that.
What it is about them she doesn't know; maybe it's because she's never worked with surgeons, or maybe it's because Clark-who-who-is-no-name and Moss-who-is-always-evil seem like little gods in this vast system called Royal London Hospital.
On the morning before surgery, she wrinkles in front of her locker, buttoning her robe at random, tucking unruly strands into a bun, and checking several times. A piece of paper rustles in his pocket – the form Olivia gave him, time and number: two o'clock in the afternoon, room seventy-four.
Mel jokes wickedly: like a date, by golly – and hands out a hirsute suit in a rustling bag. He adds, "They'll put the rest of the sterile part on you there. Smiles: some experience, if not the greatest, but experience. Rebecca looks crookedly out from under her false eyelashes, and Emily unwittingly wondered if they let her into the operating room…
At the exit of the office nurses meet Dr. Gilmore – the same whom Johnson ran into a few days ago – and politely greeted. Strangely, the doctor, rushing through the corridors, shouting something into the tube about a paternity test, is now a swarthy, almost dark-skinned man with a short red haircut and a nametag sloppily tucked in his pocket.
– Clark asked me to keep an eye on you," Riley says loudly as they walk leisurely down the halls. – She might skin you if I let you out of her sight! – he adds. – Now, where was I… Oh, yes, they'll wake her up to find out if she's been damaged in some way by rummaging around in her head. Don't you worry about it! – Gilmore pats her on the shoulder.
– I'm not.
– We've got the best anesthesiologist in the hospital, by the way! And Higgins promised to stop by, but knowing him, he'll forget.
They go up to neurology, and Emily's legs begin to shake. A metal staircase into the operculum, a circular branching corridor, and they're inside.
She thought it would be sterile, white, and quiet; in fact, the operating room is hardly quieter than the wards themselves: there are white coats everywhere, conversations, and solid doors with glowing numbers – from the seventieth to the eightieth. Separating them from the operating room itself is the washroom, a small space with a hand basin, shelves, and one tin bench.
Emily washes her hands, the fingers, the interdigital spaces, the back and nails of her left hand, in quick, honed strokes; then she moves to her right hand. The smell of sterility and ammonia hangs in the air; wipes rustle; cerigel is rubbed.
A nurse, fidgeting at the lockers, helps her put on her top gown, fixes her sleeves and tightens her sash; Emily feels like an important surgeon and, for a moment, closes her eyes and imagines that it is she who will perform the operation.
But the gloom quickly dissipates – Clark's loud, sonorous voice can be heard even through the heavy doors:
– Finishing balancing!
– Doesn't he tune himself? – Emily asks in a whisper, trying to stay close to Gilmore.
– Trust no one," Riley shrugs.
As soon as the door behind them clicks shut, Clark turns his whole body around, holding a thin metal wire in his hands:
– What the hell have you been poking around in there? We'll get started soon," and immediately retreats to the other end of the room in quick strides.
– Welcome to hell, Johnson," Riley winks and, whistling, retreats to the operating table.
Chapter 5
the word does not heal him, does not resurrect him,
it does not give hope, it does not torture, it does not kill,
Here lays it on a new bandage,
and it presses hard,
it thickens viscous,
it squeezes, it rubs, it pokes,
it melts elusively on the delicate wound,
bleeding under the crust,
leaving a nasty tang of questioning.
"will I live, doctor?" -
and cauterizes.
Emily spins her head, trying to look around her.
In the middle of the operating room there is a huge plastic and steel structure, flashing all the colors of the rainbow and constantly making a nasty, sharp beeping sound. Emily recalls: it seems that in the textbook this structure was called a monoplanar angiographic system and was depicted much more simply than in real life. Johnson can almost hear the advertising slogans in her head: six square screens, an X-ray tube, a seat for the patient – the latest equipment allows you to penetrate the most complex areas of the brain.
A girl is already lying on the bed with a movable leg – still under anesthesia, and the anesthesiologist is chirping in his high chair with wheels (Riley whispers in Emily's ear that his name is Dylan). He has another pair of screens next to him, on a movable tripod; a large computer-like keyboard, and a whole bunch of wires.
Everything around Emily is wrapped in sterile film: the enormous microscope Clark is fiddling with; the surgical bench with the nurse standing by; and even the anesthesiologist's chair. The man sitting in it is talking so loudly that his voice echoes off the walls:
– Look at this! – he shouts in admiration, touching the stem of the microscope. – It's a Leica! You don't even have to do anything with it, just stare and enjoy it! My girl," Dylan adds fondly, patting the plastic.
Clark raises an eyebrow.
– That's what you said about the last one, Kemp," she says wryly.
– "Yuck," he says with a grudge. – That one wasn't as graceful and deep as…
– Don't go on. – Clark walks over to the tool table. – What have you laid out for me here? Why would I want this? I'm going to kill you!
– It's not me," Dylan waves his hands. – That's the new nurse Andrew brought in. The one with the big tits! – he whispers loudly, pointing to the girl standing in the distance.
– And a small brain. I don't need half of that. – Emily can almost feel Clark's lips pursing. – I'm not going to do an LP. And why couldn't we just split this up into two tables?
– Need I remind you to fire her? – Riley's voice booms.
– I'll think about it. – Clark's approaching the patient. – Are we ready? Then let's get started.
The shadowless lights flare and bright white light floods the operating room, making it look like Purgatory. A minute later, there is a click, and the film-wrapped docking station with an iPhone inserted into it begins to play unobtrusive music.
Emily is waved away, told not to disturb her and to stand in the corner, and she, huddled in a chair at the very end of the operating room, keeps her eyes on the surgeons and the screens: they now show the image of the shaved back of the patient's head.
Emily can hardly see what is happening, but she can clearly hear Dylan joyfully informing her that she can dissect.
– Beginning the trepanation," Riley informs her.
Clark, standing on the other side of the patient, yawns under his mask.
The screens show every movement: here the surgeon carefully cuts a small, horseshoe-like semicircle; puts staples on both sides of the skin, secures them; Clark runs a scalpel inside, carefully separating tissue from bone; the operating nurse instantly dries. Clark dissects the periosteum, waits for Gilmore to make a few holes, and then carefully peels away the unwanted part. There is a quiet whirring sound: the small saw gently passes between the holes, leaving only one untouched – at this point the bone flap they peeled off earlier will be connected to the skull through the periosteum that has not yet been removed.
Every movement, every millimeter, every next step is fine-tuned; the precision with which Gilmore performs the trepanation gives Emily's back goose bumps.
And the doctor is amused.
– I've reached…" Riley begins.
– …bottom," Dylan finishes for him.
– Fuck you. Cutting through the hard shell… Great. That's it, you're out.
What Clark does next remains a mystery to Emily: she sees two thin wires on large handles bouncing back and forth inside the patient's head; she hears unfamiliar words and Gilmore's approving exclamations:
– Oh, how glorious… I see you had a great morning!
– What makes you think that? – Clark throws a clip in the cuvette and immediately puts a new one in.
– So Moss is on the night shift today.
– Moss has been going to a lot of nights. Who lets him in there anyway?
– He's his own boss. – Riley shrugs. – Give us a zoom on square four…
– Well," Clark puts the instrument aside, "that's his choice. After all, you and I aren't in the waiting room to complain.
– Neither is he in the waiting room at night. – The surgeon pushes the tissue aside. – I don't see any tumors yet, which is what I needed to prove.
– Let him do what he wants. As long as he doesn't show up here," Clark grimaced.
– Exactly," Riley agreed. – Davis, by the way, asked for Saturday off. Daughter's ballet dancing.
– That's good, too. – Clark picks up the thin metal wires again. – Maybe I should take the day off, too, eh, Rye? – Sigh. – Go to the opera house, see the world around me… Oh, here's a cut-out," the neurosurgeon announces. – It's a shitty cut," she adds. – It needs to be cleaned.
– No necrosis? – Riley himself brings a small tube-extractor to the area.
– I can't see it yet. – Clark stares at the monitor while her hands move. – But I can see inflammation, third quadrant; it's spread to the fourth, going diagonal. We can treat it, or we can cut it out. What do you think?
– Cut it already," the surgeon waved his hand. – If it's gone.
– Well, wake up, then.
Dylan hums contentedly. Buttons click; numbers flicker on the screen, there is a beep; anesthesiologist begins counting: ten, nine …
Clark brings the microscope to her eyes – the same one she calibrated – and puts the optics back over her eyes.
– Four, three, two…
Emily jumps up from her chair; one of the nurses lifts the blue curtain covering the main part of the patient's body. Johnson sees the girl open her dry lips and let out a strange, thin, "Ahhhh" as she exhales.
– We're breathing, we're fine," says Dylan. – Now, miss, come on, your right arm up a little… Good! Now the left one… Now bend your leg, that's it, good girl…! Your nurse will speak to you now, so try to answer all her questions, okay? Good. – He's rubbing his hands together. – She's all yours! Keep your oxygen mask on.
– Take the plots at twenty-five," Clark commands. – Rye, get ready… You're good to go, Johnson.
Emily instantly forgets everything she's been trying to think about for so long, and gives out a shameful:
– How's it going?
If Clark could stop her instrument, she'd do it right away; but it's too late; so she just hisses something resembling "brainless girl" through her teeth and shuts up.
– It's okay," comes the patient's faint voice. – I don't feel anything.
– That's good," Emily smiled. – Do not move.
Another silly thing: the girl's head is fixed so tightly that even if the bed starts to rodeo, nothing in her skull will tremble.
Through the endless beeps of tension, Emily asks questions: what color the sky is; how she feels now; where they are; and asks for her name and approximate time. Clark and Gilmore work quickly, almost without speaking; instruments clatter; a microscope barely buzzes.
Finally, there's a hiss-that's Clark literally welding the damaged tissue together.
– That's it, let's go to sleep. We have a mild lesion on the cortical terminal of the frontal oblique bundle. No lesions on the occipital lobe. The visual crossover is probably intact, but I can't get to it. Graciole's radius is badly damaged, as if someone chopped it up in the middle. I don't see anything else. No tumors, no abnormalities, no hematomas. No response to low frequencies… That's it, I've taken the data," Clark finally exhales. – Damn!" The instrument falls to the floor with a thud. – Give me a new tap. Kate, did you fall asleep in there? Kate…?
Emily takes a step, but not in time – the same nurse who was fussing at the surgical table, quietly slips down the glass partition; either from the sight of blood, or from the heat her eyes roll back, and she faints. Johnson stares at the body on the floor for a split second, and then takes Collin's corndog from the tray against the wall and hands it to Clark.
Her actions take no more than three seconds – as if in a dance: step, turn, step back; Clark quickly clutches the right cloth, Gilmore snorts disapprovingly.
– Let it lie. – Dylan taps the keys. – Then we'll get the janitors to clean it up.
– Damn nurses," Clark gritted through his teeth. – It's trouble. Why can't I get another surgeon?
– Because we don't have any?
– Crohn's to me! – Neurosurgeon commands. – Let's put her back together. What are we talking about? Oh, here we go. We could get someone to do some moonlighting. And this one," she points the needle at Kate, "how did she get in here in the first place?
– You forgot to mention how she made it through half the surgery… Okay, I'm closing.
– I'll think about it later. – Clark rolls his eyes.
– After the surgery?
– After she was fired. Johnson, what are you digging into?
*
Emily walks down the corridor, and everything inside of her is bubbling. Her fingers clutch the envelope: fresh X-rays, looking like a subway map, to take to Higgins, and then give some more folders to Mel and maybe go back to the usual routine.
Routine.
When did she start calling her regular job a chore? Probably the moment she first entered the operating room, smelled sterility, metal, and the subtle, subtle scent of Dr. Gilmore's perfume.
Mel always said: you can't straighten your back here, the walls are narrow, the ceiling is low; if you want to get up, you'll just smash your forehead; forget about surgeries, name forms, surgical help: this is not our department, not my concern, not your future. Just prop up the ceiling with your forehead, and go to work, bent over.
They're all the same – the girls who didn't go to school; they dropped out, abandoned, couldn't get to the higher caste, to the next rung. They couldn't become surgical nurses, they couldn't turn into interns, they couldn't work their way up to the senior ranks. All your life you have to carry patients, give them injections, put them on drips, and don't even think about anything else.
There's snow all around, and the roads are blocked. There's no way to get there.
And now Emily's in surgery.
It's like taking the sun out of the sky and putting it in your pocket: it warms and burns and shines, and there's no hiding or escape. Let it be a mere passing of tools from hand to hand, let it be; it is important, too; Rebecca would die of envy!..!
But she will not tell: the suns in her pockets are not told; they are cherished and kept, not allowed to get dusty. It is only hers, deserved; and it will be a reminder of this day.
And of her own importance.
Emily strides confidently down the hall, and the sun warms her pocket.
*
– Listen, Laurie. – Riley Gilmore holds the neurosurgeon by the sleeve. – I'll tell you something's not right here.
– It's just a fainting spell," Clark waves off. – Let's find another one.
– She's Moss!
– Jesus, Riley. – The woman laughs. – Do you see everything as a universal conspiracy? She's just a little girl not used to the sight of blood. Moss is a bastard, of course, but not that bad.
– I don't like it," Gilmore says. – It shouldn't have happened.
– But it did. – She stops abruptly at the coffee machine. – Got any change?
Riley rummages through her jeans pockets and pulls out a few coins, and the round silver pounds disappear into Clark's hands faster than cards from a magician.
– You're like my wife," he mutters. – You take all the money, too.
– You're divorced! – Coins fall into the machine with a clinking sound.
– That's why I'm divorced. – Gilmore leans his shoulder against the wall. – Will you go to Ray for a replacement?
– Pow! – Clark takes out a plastic cup. – No, I'd rather pick one up myself.
– You know the whole staff. – Riley can barely contain herself from a quip. – Ask Harmon, and he'll send you someone… normal.
The woman snorts.
– I'm not crazy to ask James for something like that. His interns are nothing but trouble. No," she stirs her coffee thoughtfully, "you need someone else. More… fresh? Without all those fancy letters after the name, you know what I mean. And someone we know.
– There's no such thing. – Gilmore pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his inside pocket, looks at it sadly, and hides it back. – You love the letters.
Clark is silent for a minute, then says thoughtfully:
– Look, I think I know.
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.
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?
No, I'm not scared. It's empty. Only darkness is with me.
…The forest, closed behind me, stands a wall.
It's too late to cope. There's no use fussing.
I'm nothing
No one can save me.
Clark looked nothing like the woman Emily met in the hallway twenty-four hours ago. Dark circles under her eyes, hollow cheekbones revealing sharp cheekbones. Instead of a tight shirt, she wore a T-shirt slightly revealing one shoulder, instead of black jeans, she wore the bottoms of surgical uniforms and oversized pants with an elastic band. And, of course, no pumps. Instead, they were worn sneakers with grayed-out laces.
Emily studied her profile, the graceful, careless gesture of an artist; mussed hair, dry lips, long blond lashes. Clark is tired from the crazy night, Emily understands that without any more words; and she's also frozen: rare raindrops are still falling from the sky, and the pre-dawn frost leaves the feeling of ice on her skin.
The neurosurgeon, of course, with no outerwear, stands looking at Emily, and her gaze is brighter than any stars. Staring, but too jaded, not clinging to detail.
Human.
– No, thank you," Emily answers belatedly. – I don't smoke.
Clark shrugs his shoulders – his T-shirt slides even lower – and takes a drag. The intoxicating smell of menthol hangs in the air.
Emily takes another tentative step toward the exit, as if in contemplation, and then, with a subtle shake of her head, she turns to the surgeon and pulls off her coat.
– Put it on. – She awkwardly throws the heavy fabric over someone else's shoulders. – You'll catch cold.
The wind immediately dives under her knitted sweater, but Emily heroically endures, just as she endures Clark's gaze, which for a moment became a herald of the near end of the world.
Also in the nurse's head is the thought that if the neurosurgeon, after all, decides to give the coat back, drops it in the dirt, Emily will bite her head off.
Yes, yes, she would!
But Clark only shrugs a little, letting the fabric settle in comfortably, and brings the cigarette to her lips again. Emily shifts from foot to foot, and then stands silently beside him, squinting into the endless gray sky.
Clark breaks the silence first:
– Music?
Emily is lost, not knowing what to answer, but she nods faster than she can ask back. The neurosurgeon pats himself in his pants pockets, pulls on a white wire, and pulls out a black iPod – a tiny square with a display. Barely holding her coat over her shoulders, her hand clutching a cigarette, she holds out the earpiece to Emily.
And someone with a very melodious low voice starts singing about how it's all over, but he keeps falling harder in love anyway; and Emily – starting to freeze like hell, still clutching the stupid bag to herself, Emily stands next to Clark and can't (won't) budge.
And Clark is smiling with her eyes closed, and her cigarette is already burning to the filter; but she doesn't care – she just pulls out another one and flips the lid of the metal lighter off.
Everything that's happening seems like a dream to Emily – good or bad, she hasn't decided yet, but something like this just can't happen in reality.
Not between her and Clark.
The song ends – and starts playing again, in a loop; Emily wants to say that Clark must have pressed the "repeat" key, but the words freeze in her mouth, never coming off her lips.
When the song plays for the fourth time, Clark turns the player off, but doesn't take her headphones away; they stand there, listening to the same silence, until Emily's teeth start to tap out from the cold.
But even if her spine were turned into an icy needle, she wouldn't take a single step.
But it ends-the earpiece falls out, the coat rustles, the barely audible hiss of an extinguished cigarette; and their gazes meet. For a few seconds, the silver of the surgeon's eyes mingles with the gold of the nurse's, creating a frantic flash in Emily's mind that makes her hand involuntarily release the roll of her robe.
Clark blinks, and all the magic of the moment evaporates in an instant. Cursing and cursing herself with the last words, Emily leans over and presses the package harder against her chest.
– What is it?
– My former robe," Johnson mutters. – I know it should have gone to the recycling bin," she adds quickly, swallowing the words. – But I don't have another one. – Clark continues to stare questioningly, so Emily, with a sigh, continues, "While we were waiting for the operating room, we had to get all the shrapnel out of the patient. There was no time to change, so Dr. Higgins and I worked as hard as we could.
– Did you get it out?
– I was sewing," Emily replied, a little surprised. – It's been a strange night. I think I can stitch with my eyes closed now.
Clark rubs his eyes and smiles for some reason, shaking his head:
– Whatever it is, it won't come off.
– Uh-huh. – Another sigh. – But I won't have time to buy a new one: I have a class at the learning center this afternoon. I'll try to borrow one from Melissa, see if she has a spare. – And, Dr. Clark… I'm so sorry for your loss. I can't imagine what it's like to lose someone like Professor Ray, but…
– Don't imagine," the neurosurgeon interrupts her wearily. – It's all right, Johnson.
– I'm sorry. – Emily lowers her gaze. – I have to go. I'm sorry," she says again, turning around.
She doesn't see Clark staring after her, glaring back at her, nor does she see the neurosurgeon squaring his warmed shoulders and opening his lips, about to call out to her.
But she gives up and trudges back into the icy cold of the hospital.
The smell of menthol smoke wafts up her nose and tickles her throat.
Here we go, Emily thinks, leaning against the cool glass of the bus.
Now her coat smells like Clark cigarettes.
* * *
How Emily gets through the next week, she doesn't know. The world turns into a solid lack of sleep, diluted with flashes of events and tons of practice. Emily learns the classification of substances, and the names make her dizzy. Aerran, Plasma-Lite, Rocuronium, Voluven… When anesthesia drugs are added to the solutions, Emily is ready to cut her hair like a nun – there are ten types of Propofol in her lectures, and there are also Arduan, Sevoflurane, and Nimbex, and each differs from the other in its active composition. One good thing is that they go through the topic of preparing a surgeon for surgery in a couple of hours on the first day, work with papers in another hour, and spend the rest of the time in the practice rooms, where, with masks covering their faces, they learn disinfection all over again.
But what Emily likes best is the instrument lectures. And even though they learned it in more than one class at St. George's College, the accelerated course now gave her more knowledge than her previous place of study. Some of it, of course, she knew; but the instruments of neuro- and cardiac-surgery made her feel childlike – extra-light, made of special alloys, fitting perfectly in the palm of her hand, all those needles and clamps and corneas allowed her to close her eyes for a split second and imagine herself a real surgeon in the operating room.
They laughed – often, loudly, noisily; all seventeen of their group, surrounded by an elderly professor with a sharp tongue, teased and taunted each other; learned to identify instruments with closed eyes, by feel; drank hot tea from plastic cups, confused names, then repeated them again, tied numerous gowns, memorized knot names and sterilization rules, honed sequences of preparation for operations until the pulse dropped.
Melissa does give her a robe – old and smelly with mothballs, three sizes big, with sleeves always falling down and without one button, but Emily is happy about it: the junior staff is not supposed to issue overalls, unless it concerns operations. So she secures the sleeves with pins, ties the belt tighter, and sews on a button during the tiny lunch break. The smell of mothballs wears off on its own – being in the disinfector room all the time definitely has its perks; and if it weren't for the fabric yellowing in places from old age, Emily would even say it looks quite tolerable.
The courses started at noon, ended at eight, and right after, Emily would run to her patients: the prospect of being without a week's pay this month relieved fatigue in an instant.
And then there was Clark.
The smell of menthol cigarettes still lingers on her coat, as if it had found its place among the wool fibers; and every time she opens her locker, Emily can imagine them standing in the yard listening to music again.
The song settles into her old push-button phone, sounds through her cheap, bad-sounding headphones, echoes in her head as she hums it to herself as she rubs through a mountain of instruments.
In a life filled with loneliness and a couple or three casual acquaintances, such a bright, ice-cold Clark has taken a pedestal of honor and now looks on from there, sometimes raising an eyebrow. What are you, Johnson, a complete idiot?
Emily smiles at her thoughts, silently doing her chores.
I should take Clark out for ice cream, she thinks. Chocolate and mint or coffee, and have cinnamon straws sticking out of the vase; except what kind of ice cream – it's about to get sub-zero outside, and the damn rain just stopped its week-long assault on the city yesterday.
I wonder which one Clark likes…?
No one even speaks to her properly; each time Emily comes to the room, takes readings, gives evening shots, takes her to procedures, until one night her fragile internal system fails.
The day before her exam and certification, Emily prepares the blind girl for discharge – tomorrow she is to be taken to an assisted living center where she can get temporary housing and the skills she needs for society; so Emily, with notes turning over in her head, doesn't even think that anything bad could happen.
But it does happen.
When the monitors explode with squeaks and the thud of a body hitting the floor from behind, Emily is already out of the room, so she has less than a second to react and support a falling patient, and no miracle happens, of course – no miracles happen in medicine, you should have remembered by now. Her head bangs against the foot of the bed, there's a pathetic, barely audible cry, and something bangs loudly against the tile, drowning out the screeching monitor.
Emily elbows the staff call button, laying the convulsing girl back down. It's another lesson learned, experience-enforced sequence of lowering the headboard, shoving off the bedside table, throwing off the blanket and pillow, and pressing her shoulders against the cool sheets.
Instead of the nurse on duty, Clark flies into the room – and her appearance here is even more unexpected than if an angel had flown in through the window.
– She's up, she's down, she's having a seizure! – Emily yells out, afraid that one more violent spasm and she just can't hold it.
– On the side of her," immediately commands the neurosurgeon, switching places with the nurse. – Ten cc's of Pherocipam! Why did you even let her get up?
– They're prepping her for discharge. – Emily breaks off the ampoule and fills the syringe. – Where is everybody?
– I have no idea… Oh, shit!
The drug is administered immediately, without failing, only instead of strengthening the process of inhibition in the central nervous system, it works exactly the opposite. There is a crunch, the patient bends her whole body – and falls down, falling over. Emily sees blood trickling from her mouth, and another trickle of blood trickling from under the bandages on her head that hadn't been completely removed.
Clark palms the call buttons at the head of the neighboring beds, and they go off instantly, filling the room with a bright red glow; somewhere in the back of Emily's mind, she flashes the thought that it never happened the first time – the button must not have worked – but it slips away too quickly.
Emily sees everything that happens from the outside – here comes the resuscitation team rushing in, here is Clark, shouting, pushing the gurney with everyone else, and here is herself – white as a sheet, with only one thought – what if she did something wrong…?
– There could be anything. – They rush into the elevator. – Let's get her to the O.R. We'll take it from there. Johnson, you're dismissed.
Emily can only stand and watch as the heavy elevator doors slowly close, cutting off her face Clark, on which – Emily would have sworn – written in panic.
In her gut, she knows something has gone wrong.
Instead of the nurse on duty, Clark flies into the room – and her appearance here is even more unexpected than if an angel had flown in through the window.
– She's up, she's down, she's having a seizure! – Emily yells out, afraid that one more violent spasm and she just can't hold it.
– On the side of her," immediately commands the neurosurgeon, switching places with the nurse. – Ten cc's of Pherocipam! Why did you even let her get up?
– They're prepping her for discharge. – Emily breaks off the ampoule and fills the syringe. – Where is everybody?
– I have no idea… Oh, shit!
The drug is administered immediately, without failing, only instead of strengthening the process of inhibition in the central nervous system, it works exactly the opposite. There is a crunch, the patient bends her whole body – and falls down, falling over. Emily sees a thin stream of blood pouring from her mouth; another trickle trickles from under the bandages not completely removed from her head.
Clark palms the call buttons at the head of the neighboring beds, and they go off instantly, filling the room with a bright red glow; somewhere in the back of Emily's mind, she flashes the thought that it never happened the first time – the button must not have worked – but it slips away too quickly.
Emily sees everything that happens from the outside – here comes the resuscitation team rushing in, here is Clark, shouting, pushing the gurney with everyone else, and here is herself – white as a sheet, with only one thought – what if she did something wrong…?
– There could be anything. – They rush into the elevator. – Let's get her to the O.R. We'll take it from there. Johnson, you're dismissed.
Emily can only stand and watch as the heavy elevator doors slowly close, cutting off her face Clark, on which – Emily would have sworn – written in panic.
In her gut, she knows something has gone wrong.
* * *
The sleepless night before the exam, the chronic lack of sleep and malnutrition of recent days, the inhuman regime brings dizziness, weakness and nausea into Emily's life; she gets carsick on the bus so bad that she has to get off two stops early and walk, wading through the crowds of people rushing to the subway.
Emily tries to count the number of cups of coffee she's had in the last two days, and she loses it at ten. Her stomach rumbles pitifully: she doesn't have time to cook, and she can't eat enough sandwiches from small shops.
And Emily doesn't have much money, but she'll get a big raise if she passes her exams.
If only she could survive the day, the nurse thought, and her fingers touched the wooden cross on her breast.
As she enters, Olivia shouts at her:
– Johnson, Dr. Moss is looking for you, urgently. Told me to come see him as soon as you got here.
Emily looks at her watch: the exam is a little less than half an hour away. Maybe she can make it to neurology in time, except…
– I told her not to change," Olivia adds guiltily. – I'm sorry, I don't know what's wrong with him.
The nurse shrugs her shoulders – after all, there are locker rooms in the study block too, though not as spacious, but if anything, she will change there very quickly; or still have time to run to her department.
But Moss?
What could a neurologist possibly need from a simple nurse he'd seen once in his life?
Andrew Moss has dark hair, expensive-rimmed glasses, and a watch that screams more value than the house Emily lives in. In his perfectly clean red-and-white office, the neurologist seems like the Red Queen, waiting to have her head blown off her shoulders.
In the chair in front of him sits a frowning Clark – purple chiffon blouse, navy blue jeans, timeless pumps; behind her stands Melissa, and her heavy gaze does not bode well.
Mentally, Emily pulls out some reflective foil and wraps herself in it from head to toe.
The electronic clock on the wall reads twenty-ten-it's a little over a quarter of an hour until the exam.
– Miss Johnson," Moss folded the fingers of both hands in a triangle, "we won't keep you long, don't worry. I suppose you're wondering why you're here? – Nod. – Since Professor Ray's death, I'm temporarily acting his duties until a new chief physician is appointed.
Clark barely twitches.
* * *
The sleepless night before the exam, the chronic lack of sleep and malnutrition of the last few days, and the inhuman regimen of the last two days bring dizziness, weakness, and nausea into Emily's life; she gets so sick on the bus that she has to get off two stops early and walk, wading through the crowds of people rushing to the subway.
Emily tries to count the number of cups of coffee she's had in the last two days, and she loses it at ten. Her stomach rumbles pitifully: she doesn't have time to cook, and she can't eat enough sandwiches from small shops.
And Emily doesn't have much money, but she'll get a big raise if she passes her exams.
If only she could survive the day, the nurse thought, and her fingers touched the wooden cross on her breast.
As she enters, Olivia shouts at her:
– Johnson, Dr. Moss is looking for you, urgently. Told me to come see him as soon as you got here.
Emily looks at her watch: the exam is a little less than half an hour away. Maybe she can make it to neurology in time, except…
– I told her not to change," Olivia adds guiltily. – I'm sorry, I don't know what's wrong with him.
The nurse shrugs her shoulders – after all, there are locker rooms in the study block too, though not as spacious, but if anything, she will change there very quickly; or still have time to run to her department.
But Moss?
What could a neurologist possibly need from a simple nurse he'd seen once in his life?
Andrew Moss has dark hair, expensive-rimmed glasses, and a watch that screams more value than the house Emily lives in. In his perfectly clean red-and-white office, the neurologist seems like the Red Queen, waiting to have her head blown off her shoulders.
In the chair in front of him sits a frowning Clark – purple chiffon blouse, navy blue jeans, timeless pumps; behind her stands Melissa, and her heavy gaze does not bode well.
Mentally, Emily pulls out some reflective foil and wraps herself in it from head to toe.
The electronic clock on the wall reads twenty-ten-it's a little over a quarter of an hour until the exam.
– Miss Johnson," Moss folded the fingers of both hands in a triangle, "we won't keep you long, don't worry. I suppose you're wondering why you're here? – Nod. – Since Professor Ray's death, I'm temporarily acting his duties until a new chief physician is appointed.
Clark barely twitches.
– So," Moss takes the chart from his desk and lazily flips through it, "yesterday our patient almost died from a blood clot caused by taking the wrong drug, and the police, our valiant police, are very interested in the case.
He speaks so quietly that Emily hears the red-hot lights humming in the hallway. Neither Clark nor the head nurse make a sound, staring at one point in front of them; Emily just stands there, her gaze lowered to the floor, her heavy coat pulling her hands away.
– They already questioned us a few days ago," the neurologist continues. – Three unnamed patients, all with the same diagnosis, but with different causes that we were never able to identify…
– Andrew," Clark voices, "get to the point.
Moss stands up, resting his palms on the glass tabletop, and, looking furtively, asks a direct question:
– So you injected her with pherocipam, Dr. Clark. Why?
Emily flinches, and the coat at the bend of her elbow suddenly becomes heavier than lead.
The picture, hitherto blurred, hidden in the very corner of her brain, becomes brighter and clearer: Clark, asking for a syringe of pherocipam; her panicked face; the patient's seizure. And Emily, who can't figure out where they went wrong, who looks helplessly at the closing elevator doors.
– We have two medications for cases like this, Dr. Clark. Klonozepam and pherocipam. Both in ampoules, right next to each other. Shall I tell you their differences?
The neurosurgeon is silent, so Moss turns his gaze to Emily.
Homo homini lupus est, she remembers her Latin lessons, man to man is a wolf. Moss's gaze scratches like a crater abrasive – she sees bits of boiling lava in it. Somewhere in her head, her mother admonishes, in a tone of moralizing, a little shrill, that she must be able to relate to everyone.
But no one taught her to decipher the wolf's howl.
– Please, Miss Johnson, tell us the difference.
– Depressing and stimulating," Emily replies, barely audible.
On the chair in front of him sits a frowning Clark – purple chiffon blouse, navy blue jeans, timeless pumps; behind her stands Melissa, and her heavy gaze does not bode well.
Mentally, Emily pulls out some reflective foil and wraps herself in it from head to toe.
The electronic clock on the wall reads twenty-ten-it's a little over a quarter of an hour until the exam.
– Miss Johnson," Moss folded the fingers of both hands in a triangle, "we won't keep you long, don't worry. I suppose you're wondering why you're here? – Nod. – Since Professor Ray's death, I'm temporarily acting his duties until a new chief physician is appointed.
Clark barely twitches.
– So," Moss takes the chart from his desk and lazily flips through it, "yesterday our patient almost died from a blood clot caused by taking the wrong drug, and the police, our valiant police, are very interested in the case.
He speaks so quietly that Emily hears the red-hot lights humming in the hallway. Neither Clark nor the head nurse make a sound, staring at one point in front of them; Emily just stands there, her gaze lowered to the floor, her heavy coat pulling her hands away.
– They already questioned us a few days ago," the neurologist continues. – Three unnamed patients, all with the same diagnosis, but with different causes that we were never able to identify…
– Andrew," Clark voices, "get to the point.
Moss stands up, resting his palms on the glass tabletop, and, looking furtively, asks a direct question:
– So you injected her with pherocipam, Dr. Clark. Why?
Emily flinches, and the coat at the bend of her elbow suddenly becomes heavier than lead.
The picture, hitherto blurred, hidden in the very corner of her brain, becomes brighter and clearer: Clark, asking for a syringe of pherocipam; her panicked face; the patient's seizure. And Emily, who can't figure out where they went wrong, who looks helplessly at the closing elevator doors.
– We have two medications for cases like this, Dr. Clark. Klonozepam and pherocipam. Both in ampoules, right next to each other. Shall I tell you their differences?
The neurosurgeon is silent, so Moss turns his gaze to Emily.
Homo homini lupus est, she remembers her Latin lessons, man to man is a wolf. Moss's gaze scratches like a crater abrasive – she sees bits of boiling lava in it. Somewhere in her head, her mother admonishes, in a tone of moralizing, a little shrill, that she must be able to relate to everyone.
But no one taught her to decipher the wolf's howl.
– Please, Miss Johnson, tell us the difference.
– Depressing and stimulating," Emily replies, barely audible.
– Dr. Clark, which letter of the drug causes a depressant effect? – Moss asks in a pallid voice. – I'll give you a hint. The same letter that begins your last name.
Clark still silently drills him with his gaze, and red spots appear on his cheeks, either from shame or anger. Emily sees her fingertips begin to tremble subtly.
– I know. – The neurosurgeon's voice rings with anger. – There's no need to…
– So what the hell?! – Moss explodes. – Why the hell are you, doctor, prescribing a patient a drug that is incompatible with her life?! Don't you know how to read labels? Maybe you should take a leave of absence. We'll find you a great substitute! – He's still screaming. – You almost killed her, Clark! And just because you pulled that clot out doesn't mean anything! If it hadn't been for your negligence, none of this would have happened!
Clark looks at him the way she once looked at Emily, who crashed into her in the hallway – as if she's looking at a crushed cockroach that needs to be bypassed, or better yet, wrapped in newspaper and put out of sight. The neurosurgeon pursed her lips, but remained silent; she only breathed a little harder than usual – Emily could see the fabric of her blouse rising and falling in time with her breathing.
There is nothing to breathe in the room – as if the smoke has begun to encircle Emily's legs, pulling at her bones, climbing into her lungs and itching there. It seems that if she looks down, she'll see tongues of flame.
If Clark is to blame for this, all is not well.
– Dr. Moss," Melissa, who had been silent until then, spoke up. – "The thing is, the staff call button in Thirteen didn't work…
– I don't want to hear anything! – cuts off the neurologist. – You didn't even act with your own hands, you asked the nurse to do it! – He slams his hand on the table. – This is worse than if you had just stood there and watched!
Seven minutes. If she manages to escape from here now, she'll make it to the academic building in time for the service stairs. The hell with her clothes. She could borrow them from the people who had already handed them in. The main thing is to check in…
– I'm suspending you from work for a month. You'll be working at the clinic at their rate of pay.
– We have two drugs for such cases, Dr. Clark. Klonozepam and pherocipam. Both in ampoules, right next to each other. Shall I tell you the differences?
The neurosurgeon is silent, so Moss turns his gaze to Emily.
Homo homini lupus est, she remembers her Latin lessons, man to man is a wolf. Moss's gaze scratches like a crater abrasive – she sees bits of boiling lava in it. Somewhere in her head, her mother admonishes, in a tone of moralizing, a little shrill, that she must be able to relate to everyone.
But no one taught her to decipher the wolf's howl.
– Please, Miss Johnson, tell us the difference.
– Depressing and stimulating," Emily replies, barely audible.
– Dr. Clark, which letter of the drug causes a depressant effect? – Moss asks in a pallid voice. – I'll give you a hint. The same letter that begins your last name.
Clark still silently drills him with his gaze, and red spots appear on his cheeks, either from shame or anger. Emily sees her fingertips begin to tremble subtly.
– I know. – The neurosurgeon's voice rings with anger. – There's no need to…
– So what the hell?! – Moss explodes. – Why the hell are you, doctor, prescribing a patient a drug that is incompatible with her life?! Don't you know how to read labels? Maybe you should take a leave of absence. We'll find you a great substitute! – He's still screaming. – You almost killed her, Clark! And just because you pulled that clot out doesn't mean anything! If it hadn't been for your negligence, none of this would have happened!
Clark looks at him the way she once looked at Emily, who crashed into her in the hallway – as if she's looking at a crushed cockroach that needs to be bypassed, or better yet, wrapped in newspaper and put out of sight. The neurosurgeon pursed her lips, but remained silent; she breathed a little harder than usual – Emily could see the fabric of her blouse rising and falling in time with her breathing.
There is nothing to breathe in the room – as if the smoke has begun to encircle Emily's legs, pulling at her bones, climbing into her lungs and itching there. It seems that if she looks down, she'll see tongues of flame.
If Clark is to blame for this, all is not well.
– Dr. Moss," Melissa, who had been silent until then, spoke up. – "The thing is, the staff call button in Thirteen didn't work…
– I don't want to hear anything! – cuts off the neurologist. – You didn't even act with your own hands, you asked the nurse to do it! – He slams his hand on the table. – This is worse than if you had just stood there and watched!
Seven minutes. If she manages to escape from here now, she'll make it to the academic building in time for the service stairs. The hell with her clothes. She could borrow them from the people who had already handed them in. The main thing is to check in…
– I'm suspending you from work for a month. You'll be working at the clinic at their rate of pay.
That's not so bad, Emily thinks. What's the clinic rate, less than a thousand pounds? That's all right, she lives on a quarter of that; after all, it's not such a big price to pay for a near-fatal mistake.
And Clark does not calm down: turns the embers around so that the flames hit almost in the face; with a sharp movement he gets up from the chair, pulls on the impeccably ironed fabric of his blouse and, almost shaking with anger, in an icy voice states:
– Look for a great replacement for me, Andrew. You did it once. What was that show for, would you tell me? Self-assertion? – She raises an eyebrow. – You're nothing but drama. – Clark neatly unhooks his nametag and puts it on his desk. – The play is over. Everyone is dismissed.
Five minutes. Gotta run, all the more reason to let go; only five minutes…
There'll be more Clarks like this in life, won't there?
They won't.
– Wait! Emily steps forward. – Wait a minute. Wait! That's not her. It's me. I got confused.
Melissa, who was leaving the office first, turns around.
– Emily…
– Johnson," Clark hisses warningly.
– I mixed up the meds," Emily says in a curt voice, and her own knees are shaking so badly she can barely stand up. – I've had an overtime week, and I've been taking classes and working with patients, and I got them mixed up. Dr. Clark said it right. I wasn't paying enough attention to hear it. It's so loud in there…
Melissa looks at her like she's crazy.
– Miss Johnson. – Moss sits back in her chair and leans back. – Clarify for us, please. Did you mix up the drugs on purpose?
It's three minutes to three minutes.
– No, I just didn't hear it," said Emily, as if she'd been wound up, tuned to one wave. – I didn't hear the name. I put the wrong one in the chart. Dr. Clark called the team and fixed it. It was my own fault. I thought I could handle it.
– You didn't know what you were doing, so… – Moss looks at her. – And you didn't confess right away because…
– I was scared. I didn't think it would get this far.
She's scared. She's scared as hell – the ground is falling out from under her feet, the sky outside the window is going black and collapsing on her head. Emily realizes that something is now breaking, grinding, shredding. Something inside her explodes and sweeps away everything in its path, including her hopes. The clock reads ten; there is no way she can be late, but maybe she will at least be allowed to retake it…?
May a miracle happen, she prays. Let anything happen. She would believe anything, do anything, just let it happen, let a miracle happen.
But the paper airplane mentally falls down, never making it to the glass.
– You are fired.
Too predictable, Emily thinks. Let him say that with tomorrow, let him, let him.
– Yesterday.
Not the courses, not the courses…
– And, of course, all scores at the learning center will be canceled. The hospital cannot allow anyone whose competence we question.
Emily burns in the jaws of fire that engulf her body; it's like trying to appear grown up and stronger, taking the weight of the earth on her shoulders, but failing to endure and sinking to the very core of the earth.
She cannot take a breath.
Inexplicable ways, she thinks, leaving the office, somewhere two more lines will cross – her and Clark, all will be rewarded, or maybe it has already been rewarded and the neurosurgeon will save someone's life tonight. And the vanguard doesn't hurt that much; it's scary as hell, but it doesn't hurt. That's why there's only black, molasses-stretching fear inside her.
And no more wishful thinking about tomorrow, no more dreams, no more music – gathering her things from her locker, through a veil of tears Emily drops the phone on the shiny tile, and a crack of spider legs scatters across the screen.
You are bright, all-powerful, with words hitting your temples, shooting to kill; who needed you like this, who needed this heroism, why did you even bother to save anyone?
She slams her palm against the locker in a rage, and the metal responds with a sob as pathetic as herself.
It's time to wake up.
She is, of course, standing behind her – the way angels stand behind their wards – and the robe, snow-white and lemon-scented, almost burns with its whiteness.
Emily doesn't turn around – there's not much stuff, but it's bulky, hard to pack, and she has half an hour to get it all together, then her pass is revoked. She'd have to stop by Higgins, only he probably already knows.
The sacrifice had cost her all her inner strength; she hadn't had time to think about the consequences.
– It wasn't worth it," Clark said. – I wouldn't have left, for God's sake, Johnson, he wouldn't have dared fire me.
Emily is silent, and her numb back shoots pain under her skin.
What a fool she is. Of course, who would let someone like Clark leave? She's the one everyone here prays to, she recalls with a crazy smile. The savior of brains, lord of stem cells; any other hospital would have given her a red carpet welcome.
Stupid, stupid Johnson!
– Andrew just wanted to feel power. An arrogant, spoiled brat.
The nurse is still silent, trying to wipe away her tears with the sleeve of her stretched sweater. Clark speaks next, something about freedom and class, but Emily doesn't listen to her.
It was all for nothing.
She took a risk, put her whole self on the line – and lost.
The black crocs sink into the bag, tossed into the box standing next to it. The old robe remains lonely in the locker – Emily just doesn't want to meet anyone to give it away – and Johnson, realizing she's got it all together, freezes in place.
And she feels a warm touch on her wrist. The bare skin explodes with sparks and melts and sizzles; and no amount of fine acrylic ligature can save the heat on Clark's fingertips.
Somewhere in her ribs an exhalation reverberates – a pinchingly warm watercolor splash; a vivid color; a velvet; and Emily is afraid to move.
It lasts a moment – their fingers are almost touching, just a little more, and she can take Clark's hand, and it hits, hits the dry current all over her body.
– You can't ignore me.
Clark so easily jumps from formal conversation to a simple tone, as if they were friends or colleagues; so easily switches from the role of an icy neurosurgeon to an ordinary person, that Emily turns to her, obeying the slight, unobtrusive movement of her hand – and looks into her eyes, trying to see something there.
Some answer to the thousand questions that have arisen.
But things always turn out differently.
– Dr. Clark. – She gently releases her hand. – Please. It's all right. Better me than you. After all… It's just a mistake.
The door slams shut.
All that's left is fire.
and the truth is, it doesn't matter now. you became yesterday. you became paper.
and I, touching the tops of the towers,
losing my memory
from the heights.
In order not to finally burn out in the silence of the uncomfortable room, Emily climbs into the bathtub. Under the pressure of the icy water, her sobs are almost inaudible-first loud and desperate, and then internal, convulsive, turning into hoarse moans.
By noon the next day, distraught by the silence and her own tearful voice, Emily decides it's time to stop burning. I'm a soldier, she tries to impress upon herself, a fighter, nothing to be afraid of, what's the big deal, work; as it collapses, so it builds…
But she is not impressed.
Bare branches of early autumn veins bloom in the sky, and Emily swings open the window – as if the fire is afraid of the cold air – sits on a chair and tries to breathe.
After half an hour, the thought crosses her mind that dying of tuberculosis, pneumonia, or the flu would not be very productive.
The window is slammed shut.
The kettle is put on, boiled, cooled, put back on; the bedding is changed twice a day; dust disappears from the windowsill, settles on the floor; creaky wood is washed, blinds are wiped, cleaning products are smelled.
Emily is dreaming.
Legions of shadows, a cloud thickening in the silence of the hospital corridors, whispering and beckoning after them – to the wards, to the tiny personal Underworlds, where the leaden fog of pharmacon strikes the sick head.
Hands are tied with a thin needle crudely thrust into a vein; tubes and fluid envelope the body. The hinges on the doors creak.
Clark dances – barefoot, with flowers embedded in the empty ovals of her eye sockets, smiling, moving, approaching Emily, and a wry mockery distorts her face.
What have you become, Johnson?
I wouldn't leave anyway.
Emily jerks her body up in bed – there's still a gray monochrome square of sky outside the window – and, rising to her feet in a split second, goes to put the kettle on.
It's starting to rain.
She has nothing to do – no work to look for, and she is frankly afraid to spend money; so once again she climbs under the covers and sinks into a half-slumber. There, in her head, she has another life, imagined, perfect – a white coat, a restaurant for Friday night, a personal secretary.
She imagines it all so vividly that she even moves her hands, imagining she is holding a scalpel. A conductor without an orchestra. A violinist without a violin.
Clark is added to another life, too. Thoughts bounce, bounce, bounce; how about dinner together, Lorraine? My treat. Let's celebrate the operation, we did a great job. Why don't we bring Charlie? He's a smart guy, isn't he? Why don't I give you a ride home, since your Cooper's in the shop? Let's go for a drive around London in the evening. Another cup of coffee, and then we'll be off.
The warm touch of a spider's long fingers on my wrist.
You can't ignore me.
Loneliness is eating me alive.
* * *
Nothing in the world would outweigh her importance on the scale.
Emily walks in circles around Royal London Hospital; the familiar, jagged, automated route, the planes on the windows, Mr. Connors in the reflections, the tinkling bells and yellow lights.
She doesn't know why she's doing this, but at seven in the morning she stands outside the coffee shop and waits.
It's been an hour. Or maybe two.
Lorraine swaps her parka for a long coat; Charlie swaps her glasses for lenses; Lorraine purses her lips, ordering black; Charlie asks for more syrup in her milk.
Emily presses the back of her head against the glass and closes her eyes, imagining that now she too will order her coffee and run to work afterwards.
They're so close you can hear them talking: the neurosurgeon curses the bitter cold, Charlie complains about the traffic downtown; he says it's nice to live on Queen Anne, it's always quiet and peaceful; and Lorraine purses her lips: Oswin is nice, too, and it's obviously closer; or do you want to live like Moss, in Belgravia? And have thirty women bring you breakfast in bed?
And take half your paycheck, Charlie laughs.
Clark smiles.
Emily counts her steps.
* * *
Believes: magic has already happened once, so why shouldn't it happen again; yes, she has forbidden it, renounced it, cursed it; but who knows, maybe at least one more time a miracle will happen…?
So every day she walks in circles around the damn hospital, afraid to go inside; every time she leans her forehead against the cold glass in the coffee shop; and every three days she buys the cheapest coffee – just to sit there for a few hours, at the end of which another airplane of hope takes off.
Sometimes she buys a newspaper with job ads – and pokes around like a blind kitten, calling, asking; rejection, rejection, rejection. It is as if she has been blacklisted, branded, cut out of life; it is as if she has become invisible again, and her foil reflecting the light has grown into her skin; and Emily does not have the courage to go to work in another direction, even if the coffee shop on her street corner has an opening for a waitress.
She doesn't know how to do otherwise.
It gets harder every day; the money she has left runs out too quickly, and she begins to live on four pounds a day; half of which is coffee, the rest for travel and some food.
Soon she will go to zero, run out, cease to exist. The twentieth, the day of the rent payment, is approaching; there is less and less money on the card – three hundred pounds she will certainly not scrape together.
In the evening, Emily turns off the lights in the apartment, pulls out a bottle of whiskey she's been saving for a rainy day, and lies on her bed, leaning her head back. She tries to convince herself that everything will be okay, but it doesn't work; Clark still looms before her eyes.
I wouldn't leave anyway.
The whiskey is bitter and nasty, bringing nothing but nausea and a burning sensation in her stomach; she can't and can't drink; and all the romantic clichés of getting drunk and calling someone she needs turn out to be just beautiful shimmers in a color movie.
Half an hour later, the phone rings deafeningly, and the mother declares in a shrill, high-pitched, vowel-pulling voice:
– It's because you're not married! If you had a rich, strong, strong man by your side, you wouldn't get fired!
– What is the connection? – Emily asks aloofly.
– You would have someone to support you! Someone to help you! Gave you money! Wouldn't have had to pay your rent! And I told you," said Mrs. Johnson, indignantly, "I told you, I told you, medicine, sunshine, is not your thing; it's not a girl's thing. It's where you want men who can take care of other people and not just themselves!
Emily chuckles as Clark, in her head, dances off toward the exit, adjusting his long, toe-length, gray beard.
– Listen, darling. Come on, listen to us. Come to us, you're welcome. Give up London, it's all grayness and disappointment; you don't need it, a city with nothing. Where did you say you lived on Triti? How do you live there? There's nothing there but mud and rain, and it's warm and dry here. You go help…
– Mama.
– What about Mom? – The cup bangs on the saucer. – Mama's the only one who cares about you. Daddy doesn't care, does he? All day long in his newspapers. It's no use. Even in the garden I manage by myself.
– Mother.
– If only you'd been patient and stayed with David…
Emily shudders.
– I have to go. I'll call you later. When… when things get better.
She definitely needs to get some air.
* * *
When you meet an angel – on the subway, in a bakery, in a coffee shop – the constellations do not fall down; the enamel of the sky does not crack; there is no tickle in your chest; and the cold London wind does not tremble under its huge open wings.
Only a voice ringing with crystal:
– Miss Johnson, have you decided to freeze to death?
And the clock frightenedly freezes, stumbling on the edge of the division.
– Your lips are already blue.
When you meet an angel, you hardly notice the difference: a passerby with an umbrella, a woman with a child, Clark in a black long coat.
– I… I just…
Angel has dark purple lipstick on his lips, a long, almost floor-length cape, his eyes always clinging to everything; and on the embankment of the Regent's Canal, the wind flutters his hair, and the unfamiliar silence. The Art House of Illustrations, a three-story museum standing by the water itself, burns with yellow lights.
It smells of salt and hot dogs and craft beer; Emily wraps her scarf around herself, pulls back her coat with its buttons crooked, and fears to meet Clark's gaze.
What is she doing in one of the poorest and dullest neighborhoods in London…?
Clark stops next to Emily and leans on the parapet – heavy and stone, with carved iron inlays in the shape of steam engines; he smokes, filling everything around him with the sharp menthol; and Emily sinks in a cloud of strong smoke, feeling her coat saturated with smell again.
Clark's cigarettes.
The neurosurgeon smokes so beautifully that Emily involuntarily admires her thin fingers around the cigarette, which shows a thin purple rim of lipstick on the filter; a wide, heavy ring with a black stone reflects the darkening sky. With her other hand she holds a large, almost half-liter glass. Faintly visible steam is coming from a tiny hole in the lid.
– Have you been drinking?
Clark asks it as simply as if he were talking about the weather, and Emily is embarrassed by such directness:
– I tried. I didn't like it.
Clark shakes off the ash.
– I don't like drinking either," she says. – It's bitter. Better to drown your sorrows in chocolate than in whiskey, don't you think?
Emily nods.
She could stare at Clark forever and still not see all the details: three rows of earrings in her ear, a thin scar on her temple, a large mole on her cheek, traces of crumbled mascara in this weather, a thin neck without a scarf, but with a rubber cord (I wonder what kind of pendant it is? ); in her head, Emily was sure, a thousand devils, framed by angelic-white disheveled hair; and a thin bracelet that shone silver, hiding back in its sleeve as Clark put a cigarette to his lips once more.
London is cramped and moody, but it's the one that brings them together again and again.
Again and again.
Round and round.
– Miss Clark, can I ask you a question?
– Dr. Clark," the neurosurgeon immediately corrects her. – "Calling me 'Miss' makes me feel like a Victorian loser. And may I ask you a question?
Emily decides she has nothing to lose:
– What kind of ice cream do you like?
– What?" Clark laughs. – Is there a catch here?
– Please answer! – Emily folds her palms in a pleading gesture.
– Anything out of the ordinary," Clark considers. – Caramel and salt, perhaps. Green tea with lemon. Mango sherbet.
– Surely these are the flavors of ice cream?
– It would be boring if I liked vanilla or chocolate. – Clark lights a new cigarette. – 'I don't really like sweets,' she admits. – I can't even stand bitter chocolate.
They stand, almost touching elbows, wool coat and taslan coat, and Emily lets go: in steps, minute by minute, by minute, but she lets go; and her head feels better. The cold climbs up her collar, crawls up her back like an icy snake, bites her heels.
She's always freezing next to Clark.
– I'm cold to look at you," Lorraine says, pursing her lips as if contemplating what she can do. – Take my coffee. – She holds out her glass. – As long as it's hot.
– But…
– Or I'll leave," Clark declares. – You don't want me to go, do you? So drink.
Unexpectedly, Emily awkwardly takes the painted glass – R&H, spicy mocha, cinnamon on top – and smiles gratefully.
– That's better," the neurosurgeon nods contentedly. – There were winds all the time where I grew up," she says suddenly. – The people who came here said you could fly to Ireland on them.
– You're not from London? – Surprised Emily.
– No," Clark shakes his head. – I'm from Southport. It's a tiny little town in the West, where it rains all the time and the wind knocks you off your feet. It's dull and gray, but it's not much different from London.
– It must be insanely far away!
– Not really. Six hours by car on the toll roads. On the free roads, ten.
– Then, yes, it really isn't," Emily agrees.
– Well," Clark takes a comfortable grip on his cigarette, "and where are you from, Miss Johnson?
– From the other side of the island," the nurse smiles. – 'Thurso, Scotland. It's a sort of settlement in the northernmost part. It's awfully dull there, too! But from the windows of my house you could see the floating lighthouses of the island of Hoy-you have no idea how many there are, probably more than two dozen! When I was a kid, I thought they were wandering lights, and I made a wish every time they came on.
– And what did you wish for, Miss Johnson?
Clark looks at her with a strange look – lively and warm, leaving no trace of cynicism or ice; in those gray eyes – the autumn sky.
– To become a doctor, of course. – Emily sighs sadly. – You probably know what it's like to dream of something more than just working in a supermarket at a gas station. I so wanted to be… useful, or something. Even though my mother kept telling me that I should go on with her and my father. But that probably didn't matter.
– So," Clark runs a hand through his hair, trying to smooth out the disheveled strands, "your parents wanted you to be an entrepreneur?
– Mm-hmm." Emily jerked her head and the unruly strands of brown hair parted over her shoulders, "and yours?
– I have no idea. – Neurosurgeon shrugs. – I grew up in an orphanage.
Emily feels silly, awkwardly adjusts her coat, circles the plastic lid on her coffee with her frozen fingers, and, looking down, gibbering:
– I'm sorry, I didn't know, I really, really…
– Oh my God! – Clark presses his index finger to her lips. – Silence!
It's getting hot – scalding-sparkling, and Clark's hands are infinitely warm, gentle, affectionate; and even if it lasts a second – the smell of menthol, the silk of her fingertips – Emily's eyes flash in salutes in front of her.
– Stop apologizing all the time, it's annoying.
Emily nods:
– I'm sorry… Ow!
Clark rolls his eyes.
– You know what, Johnson?
The nurse looks at her frightened, expecting a catch.
– Figure it out. – Clark turns to lean on the parapet with his back to her. – Sort yourself out. In your head, in your chest, in your all these perspectives, wishful thinking and plans. To go not to the bottom, but in a straight line, you know? You don't look like a man who knows what he wants in life. No, no," she puts her hands forward, "don't argue. Don't even think about it. You don't know, Johnson, because now you're standing there feeling sorry for yourself, saying that my self-sacrifice was not appreciated; but in fact, in fact, Johnson, you're so caught up in this pity that you've become pathetic yourself.
– Sort it out," Clark repeated, and her eyes flashed, "sort out the mess in your head. All your 'impossible' stuff is bullshit. Bullshit if it makes it easier. Nothing is impossible. Because when you want to – not if, but when, mind you – even the water will flow back, you know? You don't have time to lie down and howl, get up off your knees-sofa-floors, get up – and go ahead. How long can we stay in this drama? I've had enough of Moss up to my neck, and now you; you reek of this regret. Don't you realize you won't be paid for everything in this world?
– Figure it out," the neurosurgeon flicks his lighter again, "what you want, set yourself a goal, go to it – go headlong, over your heads. Fall down? Get up. You broke your legs, not your head. Crawl if you can't walk. Cling to the ground with your teeth. But don't feel sorry for yourself, don't pretend you're invisible, because I can see you, Johnson. Because I can see you a mile away.
– You know our profession, you didn't just walk into it. If it hurts, you're alive. That's what makes you alive," she pads her fingers on her coat around her heart, "that's it. Not the suffering that's in your head. If you like to walk on the edge, go to surgery; they'll tear your kind off with your hands and feet. Get it over with, Johnson. You've played the game, that's enough.
Emily is afraid to breathe, greedily catching every word, letting them leave wounds-scarring inside, forging the metal plates that support her spine; and Clark is so close – you don't even have to reach out; and Emily grabs her by the fabric of her cape – thin and slightly rough, and looks into her face, asking, repeating only one thing:
– Why are you telling me this, why me, why you, why?
Clark looks at her as if all the words flew by and cobbled into the river.
– Well, you were so eager to get paid for what you did.
Emily frowns, shakes her head, puts her face to the wind:
– I'm sorry. You're right. I have suffered too much.
– Dramatizing," Clark corrects her, gently releasing the cloak from the nurse's fingers. – Stop doing that and life will be different.
She takes a step, a second, a third; turns around for some reason, looks at Emily with a long look, as if doubting, moves in time with the wind, curves her lips with purple lipstick, and then sighs, turns her back and throws over her shoulder:
– I expect you at my place tomorrow at seven. And, Johnson, for God's sake, buy yourself a robe to fit, will you?
the century shrinks to a chamber-like "half hour.
pain changes gait, patronymic and design.
The heart will stop and a tear will run.
The author of the miracle will not give himself away like a partisan.
look, it's you who is turning into a miracle.
or they're turning into you
pre-trans-cha-
or are they turning into you
– I'd like to see the look on his face! – Gilmore laughs. – Is that what you told him? "My personal nurse"?
– Well, I must have at least something personal," grinned Lorraine. – Johnson, didn't you buy yourself a robe? Maybe I should give you mine.
Emily shamefully shifts from foot to foot.
There are three people in the office – Clark-which-woman, Gilmore, sitting on her desk and putting his feet in colored socks on the chair, and Emily herself. The clock read eight in the morning, the hospital was buzzing with life, and the unfamiliar London sun was shining outside the window.
It smells like morning: coffee, clean clothes, and nighttime dust; Gilmore is wearing a bright red T-shirt with yellow streaks, just like dawn; Clark is all in black, from the T-shirt to the regular pumps, and only the white skin is visible through the cut of his jeans just below the knee.
They hate Emily – those other people from the squad; you can see it in every gesture, in every look; and the worst part is that they all notice her now.
Olivia, her lips pressed together, silently issuing her pass; Melissa, asking to find another locker room; Moss, pressing her into the wall with one look; the other nurses, whispering in the back and pointing a finger at her.
Only Harmon puts a heavy palm on her shoulder and says something like congratulations on her return.
They know.
Of course they know, Emily scolds herself; only the truth, the other truth that Moss told them – she almost killed the patient, mixed up the drugs, was afraid to confess.
But she silently clenches her teeth, nods hello to Olivia, apologizes to Melissa, lowers her eyes to Moss, and doesn't turn around when she hears the laughter.
To go not to the bottom, but in a straight line.
If she could, she would write that phrase on herself.
– Drop it, Laurie. – Gilmore's loud voice pulls her from her thoughts. – Have you seen how much a good robe costs? A hundred pounds, no less. And it's more expensive to buy synthetics you can't work in.
Lorraine raises an eyebrow:
– I say, shall I give you mine?
An argument ensues in which Emily doesn't participate, only crumples up the fabric of a sizeless swamp turtleneck and examines her dusty black Crocs, noting that her next purchase will be jeans like Clark wears: black, with a high waist, so she can tuck her shirt in, too.
Yeah, except she wouldn't have the money or the time to be like Clark; Emily was afraid to even imagine how much the clothes she was wearing or that wide black stone ring cost.
Stop.
Why is she even thinking about that?
Because it's impossible not to think about Clark – there she is, right in front of her: sitting there, touching her fingers to her sharp cheekbones, smiling, curving her lips, arguing zealously, proving something; the round neckline of her T-shirt exposes her fragile shoulders with wings of collarbones; the thin chain of her bracelet glimmers with silver lights.
Gilmore laughs loudly, jumps off the table, picks up his robe, pats Emily on the shoulder, and, whistling a song, leaves the office; Clark looks questioningly at the nurse.
– …Documents.
Apparently, the neurosurgeon realizes that she hasn't been listening to much, so she repeats:
– I need to process you through the paperwork. Reinstatement, transfer and all that. Riley will talk to Dr. Harmon, he'll be your supervisor for a while. Harmon, not Riley, of course. We'll set you up as a teller, get you a pass, the right uniform, and even a cafe card.
– But the learning center…" Emily stuttered.
– The training center has nothing to do with our department," Clark cut her off. – If you knew that, Miss Johnson, you'd realize that Moss is just trying to scare you. You're late for your exam, of course, but you can at least count on an unnecessary piece of paper that you've taken the course. And if you're good," she grinned, "Harmon will make you retake the exam in winter.
The ball bounces up when it hits the ground.
He'll give you a retake.
A pass, a uniform, and a card.
That's not how it works, Emily tells herself, yesterday to cry and feel sorry for herself, and today to stand in front of Clark and feel the sun that has already cooled down.
She knows it is scary to trust in an autumn like this, it is dark and cold all around, and there are no miracles, but she wants to believe that all these last chances, all these magical moments are not given to the brave and strong, but to people like her: the frightened, the overcrowded, the overglued.
Factory breakdown.
An off the assembly line defect.
– Johnson? Are you in the clouds again?
– Why? – Emily bursts out.
Clark looks at her with a strange look – the same look she got in the locker room when she grabbed her arm.
You can't ignore me.
Yeah, that's not how it works: here comes Clark, tearing apart her goals and aspirations, sending her postulates to hell; rescuing her from her inner personal abyss, collapsing the timeline, pulling her out of her usual mode. Here's your card, form and pass, now you are who you wanted to be, so what are you unhappy about, Johnson…?
And it feels like Emily has hit the movies and now her drama is going to end, giving way to a smooth plot twist – now the that-something-wonder that the audience has been waiting for is going to happen.
But something isn't right. She feels it: there is no magic without real sacrifice, without tantrums and sobs and thoughts of bad things; there is no smoke without fire, her father used to say.
Clark doesn't take his eyes off her.
Emily moves blindly, groping in the darkness, unaware that the light at the end of the hallway will eat her up.
She's about to ask her, right now, and all the words get stuck in her throat, because to say something against it is to show herself to be an ungrateful, insensitive creature.
But she's wrong.
– Because I don't like you," Clark replies in a completely serious tone. – You irritate me, Johnson. That's why you're the one who's going to be next to me. Someone has to be, right?
– But…
– I'm not going to be the fairy godmother," the neurosurgeon cut him off. – I'm not going to mess with you, teach you, do your job. You want to throw yourself on the grenade? Go ahead. But if you screw up, Johnson, remember, this isn't a place to start over.
– But…
– Try to understand one thing. – Clark flips open his laptop. – To become someone, you have to do something.
She plunges into the computer, letting it be known that she's finished; and Emily keeps standing there looking at her, nervously tugging at the already annoying fabric of her turtleneck.
Go in a straight line, not to the bottom.
Figure out what you want.
She gathers more air in her chest.
– Dr. Clark…
The neurosurgeon turns his gaze to her.
– I want to work with you.
* * *
– The department has seven operating rooms. – Harmon's marching orders. – With two general surgeons, Davis and Gilmore, and two neurosurgeons, Clark and Neal, remember? We have two teams here, yes, but you should only care about yours. Remember: two surgeons, two neurosurgeons, and one chief. The chief is Moss, who's our neurologist, so.
– To go into surgery, you have to go through Powell or Higgins first. – He walks swiftly through the corridors of the department. – Then the neurologists. Yeah, let's go again: first the generalists, then the neurologists and finally the neurosurgeons, remember? This one's planned, it'll go in the plan, so you'll write it down in the chart and prepare it. You know how to prepare, right? You learned it, didn't you? If everything's good, you turn on the UV light for about -20 minutes, that's it, and you go and do the clothes. If you feel something's wrong, you tell the nurses to go. The orderlies, then, you take – or you call Mel, yes, Mel will always answer – and they have to do everything. By themselves, yes…
The corridors change to an operating room – glass doors, the smell of disinfectants, silence, a big sign with the surgeon's name and the number of the operating room.
She seems to be taking a good chance this time, or maybe it's just Charlie dropping in without knocking, bringing in more magic; but Clark, taken aback by the insolence, just nods and switches to her brother.
It's like hitting the jackpot.
Winning the lottery.
This time Emily is smart enough not to elaborate on why the answer is exactly that, and a quarter of an hour later she's already tailing Harmon, barely able to remember so much information.
– Clark has two nurses on the team: Sarah and you, yes; also Demp, the anesthesiologist, and the surgeon, who is Gilmore; and that's it, she's had enough – two nurses, Demp and Gilmore, remembered…? The second team, yes, Neal has the first.
He shows the sterile area through the clear glass: cabinets with sterilizers, a drying oven with envelopes, a safe with chemicals, a huge autoclave; you can also see the next room, the pre-op room: two sinks with elbow taps, dispensers, an iron safe. He tells us: this is all a super-clean operating room, where sterile air is constantly pressurized with a laminar flow through a bacterial filter.
– The cleaning of the operating room is all on the orderlies," Harmon repeats. – You only turn on the U.V. flashbulb, okay? Sarah and you have tools on, yes, processing; and paperwork. Lots of paper. Nothing extra, don't get your hopes up, at best she'll let you hold the drainage, at worst you'll be counting tampons afterwards, yeah, like a nurse. And what did you want, Johnson, you're not a surgical assistant, no, just a nurse, yeah. With a lot of new responsibilities.
– How long have they been working together? – Emily asks, while Harmon rummages through her closet, looking for clothes. – The whole crew.
– Nah," the resident shakes his head, going through hundreds of bags. – Demp didn't come in till January before last, and Sarah was right behind him; but the surgeon and he had been together for over three years, even before Moss…
– How long ago did Moss come?
– I wouldn't say," says Harmon, astonished, as he takes out a black hirsute suit. – Maybe two years ago, maybe three. Three, right? This is for you.
The dense black cotton pulls nicely on his hands; it smells sterile and new fabric. A simple, basic uniform: two sets of T-shirts and pants with an elastic band, but Emily holds the package in her hands in awe, afraid to move.
She's never been this close to a dream before.
– You have stars in your eyes, yes, stars," Harmon smiles.
She flashes, biting her lips, but she can't stop glowing; and the sun in her pocket, long forgotten, almost petrified, shines brighter than usual.
Harmon takes care of her – unexpectedly and pleasantly – once again briefly recounting all kinds of materials, from sutures to dressings, makes her practice on him by tying and untying her robe, gives her a smack when Emily mislays her optics, and laughs with her afterward.
– Let's do it again, come on, yes, do it again.
– Hands," says Emily, "hands to standard, dress herself, cover with Mayo covers, dress the others, treat the field, then incise film…
A smack.
– Ow! What for?!
– What tape," Harmon shakes his head, "you're not transplanting a kidney, so you won't have a field there, others will do it for you, yes, and Sarah helps you dress, yes, and then you help her, remember, so no tape, Sarah does.
Emily rolls her eyes.
– Okay, got it. Next up, stand to the right of Clark…
She successfully dodges the next smack.
– From the chief surgeon," Johnson corrects herself. – I remember: instruments, swabs, absorbent cotton, drainage…
After a couple of hours, she begins to feel dizzy from hunger, worry, and information; Harmon is a real resident – he beats the crap out of her intelligently, with a little effort, sometimes laughing, sometimes shouting; and Emily pauses between sequences to get a closer look at him: high cheekbones, wide chin, narrow lips with several scars, short dark hair the color of his eyes-the same brown-black hair; a tattoo can be seen from under his robe-a part of the pattern, not covered by his shirt, covers his neck. The same scar on his right cheek, the same tiny round glasses that made him look like an outlandish bird.
She didn't think he could be easy: Harmon seemed aloof to her, intimidating; but his laugh was infectious as hell, and you got used to the way he spoke, and he spoke as if he were repeating important points on purpose, which you wouldn't want to understand and remember.
James explains: change in the same place as always; locker is the same, key coming soon. Laughs: the previous one never did. The entrance to neurology is different, not through the main one, and should be forgotten about – and not to be seen by Olivia, because Moss is sleeping with her, and it doesn't matter what they talk about there. He's not going to let Moss see her either, and if she does, she's going to run like hell; Harmon repeats that Moss can't fire her, because she's in the Clark crew, and only the neurosurgeon herself is contracted to move her team; but she can make a lot of trouble for her life.
Stay out of anyone's sight, Emily just remembers.
– You'll get just over fifteen hundred pounds a month in a lump sum," Harmon informs her.
Emily coughs, catching air in her mouth.
£1,500.
That's the most money she's ever touched in her life!
– How much?
– Sometimes it'll be as much as two," the resident went on, "if Clark puts you on duty with another brigade; and it probably will be-you need more experience, yes. With the other brigade, then; and then you'll come back. While you stand by her and watch, do all the basic, stand and watch, remember? Don't go anywhere, so no-here; then maybe something more serious, if she so chooses, of course, yes.
And then comes the moment she's been trying to avoid for so long.
– You need to buy a robe. No synthetics, cotton and polyester, you can have linen; but best of all, of course, satori or extraflex, remember, yes, satori, you can have linen, a robe, so.
– And what is Dr. Clark's robe made of? It's so beautiful. – Emily makes puppy dog eyes.
– Cotton, silk, polyester," the resident grins. – Liked it, too, didn't she? She takes it to the cleaners every two or three days, yeah, I've seen it myself, so it's a lot of trouble, yeah. But it's nice, though. And it costs a lot," Harmon grumbled.
– I'm afraid I can't even afford synthetics right now," Emily sighs.
Harmon raises an eyebrow – his glasses slide off his face funny – and shakes his head: he thinks a doctor without a gown is a doctor without hands.
– It has to be now," he says. – Yes, now, not tomorrow, now, because Clark already wants to talk to you after lunch, yes, and we still have to collect the papers, so we need a robe… What to do, yes, what to do… Okay, I will think, maybe Clark will think of something, yes…
He leads her down confusing corridors for a long time, until the "Employee Medical Center" sign appears in front of them. A couple more doors, a cold metal corridor, and Harmon literally pushes her into a narrow room.
They take blood, swabs, tests of some kind; they do not speak to her-an elderly nurse only ticks and signs endless vials, stamps the forms, phones the lab, dictates Johnson's data.
From the medical center, they run to the makeshift Human Resources Department, where Harmon has a long and florid conversation with a young girl, making eyes at her, shoving Emily to the side to nod and smile, and then finally getting the coveted file.
– Sweetheart," says the resident, "you are my treasure, you know, yes, my treasure. I owe you your favorite coffee, yes, I still remember what you like. Coffee, then.
And, picking Emily up under her elbow again, he dashes onward – the finance and legal departments are located one floor above.
Emily had never been in this part of the building before-Melissa had checked her out, and there was nothing else for her to do here. The sterile, lofty ambiance of the hospital was nowhere to be seen: the walls were wood-paneled, the floor was dark purple parquet. Instead of blinds, the windows have thin curtains, water coolers on every corner, flowers, and soft couches. No signage – without Harmon, she'd never have figured out where anything was.
Four floors of hospital governing bodies – lawyers, boards of directors, the chief medical officer and his secretaries, financial departments, human resources, waiting rooms, boardrooms… Emily swiftly passes one sliding door after another, out of the corner of her eye sees a dozen people sitting behind a huge table, recognizes one of them as Moss, and pulls her head into her shoulders.
– Dr. Clark has arranged for you to get two work cards in your hands," Harmon says in an unexpectedly even voice, and Emily flinches – so alien his intonation seems without the eternal repetition. – One you'll be on the record, the other you won't.
– Do you have a deal? – Emily barely keeps up with him.
Two working cards, she exults; she doesn't care about her seniority, as long as she gets to be a teller without any record of competency!
Harmon leaves her question unanswered-just takes the two laminated, A5 cards. Her own work history: hired – fired with a note, hired – employed to date.
She still can't believe what's happening, even when her fingers touch the cold pavement, even when the girl secretary smiles at her, even when Harmon claps her on the shoulder again.
It doesn't work that way.
She knows.
But it still flies high.
* * *
She hits the ground half an hour later-when Clark silently slams the office door in her face without explaining much; Harmon runs off to lunch, promising to bring her the whole package of papers afterwards, and Johnson herself has no idea what she should do now.
She has never had the means to buy lunch in the hospital cafeteria – a single cup of coffee costs more than ten pounds, and she does not even think about the cost of hot meals; so Emily, deciding that she will have to do it sometime anyway, goes to explore the work building.
Except that her feet take her to another block – a huge, green-glowing "P" and a hundred signs below it. The Psychology and Psychiatry Department is easily accessible through the seventh floor: an elevator, two corridors, a huge glass vault with awards and photographs, and a small staircase. A few more doors and brightly colored signs on the wall, and Emily enters the main part of Block P.
They're darned different – neurology and psychiatry. While Emily's ward is lined with loft bricks and illuminated with neon lights, here it's more like a botanical garden: dark green panel walls, carpeting, flowers and fountains everywhere. The corridor is solid, with no branches or windows; only at its very end stands a glass wall leading to the main staircases, wards, and platforms.
Here the psychiatrist's and psychologist's offices blend into one another, and toward the end of the corridor the door signs say "narcologist," "psychiatrist on duty," "lead psychotherapist"; and Emily is lost between dozens of names, trying to spot the right one.
Charlie Clark's office is decorated not only with a gilded plaque, but also with the insignia of a six-pointed star. Emily searches her memory – these seem to be hung for members of charitable foundations.
Somehow she has no doubts or fears – even if Dr. Clark is busy, there's nothing wrong with that, so Emily raises her hand and knocks.
Suddenly a woman's voice says "Come in," and Emily swings the door open.
She's not in Charlie's office, no; she's in front of his waiting room: there's a pretty girl behind a big glass desk, panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows, a soothingly gurgling fountain, and even a humming, colorful coffee machine.
– Are you here for the reception?
Emily shakes her head frightened: she was expecting anything but her own secretary.
– I… I…
The door to her right slides open in a Japanese fashion-paper finish with calligraphy, fine wood, intricate patterns-and Charlie's head flashes open: a shower of blond hair, barely noticeable freckles, and gray eyes like her sister's.
– Miss Johnson! – He smiles as if he sees her as an old friend. – Come in, please. I thought you were having lunch.
– I'm not eating. – Emily says it as if she's been on a strict diet all her life.
Charlie's office is half the size of his waiting room, but a dozen times more substantial and chaotic: photos and diplomas clutter the walls, a Japanese garden with a windmill and waterwheel on a big square table, and no desk as such – a long glass tabletop nailed along the wall that serves everything at once: two working laptops, speakers, piles of papers, and a cup of coffee. Two armchairs-soft, with cushions in colored pillowcases, with retractable footstools; between them is that very garden table, a little further away another with a solitary cup. Improvised crystal garlands of colored glass dangled from the small chandelier, giving the place a special charm; the city was visible through the loose curtains-the windows faced south, so Emily could see the outline of the London Eye in the distance.
– You're lucky," Charlie smiled. – One patient couldn't make it, and it freed up my time. You say you don't eat lunch? Coffee, then?
He doesn't wait for an answer, opens the door, says something like, 'Two cups for us, please,' and then he's right next to Emily again.
Charlie is wearing a long, almost floor-length kimono cardigan, embroidered with colored patterns, with huge sleeves; light jeans and a plain black T-shirt; there is no question of a white coat – the psychiatrist has attached his nametag directly to the pocket, and now it hangs around his knees, threatening to come off at any moment.
– I've been waiting for you, Emily. – He sits gently in his chair. – We have a lot to talk about.
At that moment, Johnson sees for the first time the resemblance between his brother and sister: they lean their heads slightly sideways and open their dry lips in the same way, hovering like statues; they fold their palms in a triangle so that their fingertips touch; and they look long, piercing, expectant.
Charlie doesn't look eighteen anymore, there's nothing left of a college student in him; and even the seemingly ridiculous clothes make him look much older.
How much of an age difference do they have?
– Almost five years. – It was as if Charlie could read her mind. – I'm twenty-three, in case you were wondering. Sit down; there's no need to stand.
One part of the window – the top one – is ajar, and, if you listen carefully, you can hear the sound of the street; the colored glass shines peacefully, swaying in the wind.
Emily hesitates and sits down on the tip of the chair, but the soft leather prevents her from sitting down, and she literally falls backward, shrieking in surprise. Charlie laughs-apparently she's not the only one who's fallen for it.
Now they're both half lying there, warm and soft, and Emily, with her head back on the pillow, decides to get her own psychiatrist when she becomes a great doctor.
Or hire Charlie Clark for a job.
– How can you have all that at twenty-three? – bursts out of Emily's mouth.
She immediately bites her tongue – she must have said something like that!
But Charlie just smiles.
– I hear that question from every patient," he says. – I have no idea, to be honest. It just sort of worked itself out.
I wish it had, too," sighs Johnson.
They get two small glass cups of coffee, and Charlie pours the espresso into the milk pot and then back into the cup.
Emily, desperate for milk, swallows her words in surprise, staring at the machination.
Charlie catches her gaze and defiantly adds four sugars.
There's a momentary pause, and then the air shakes with general laughter.
The assistant brings another small pitcher, and Emily enjoys inhaling the smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm milk.
– So, tell me, how does it feel to be back here? – Charlie almost gulps down the contents of his cup.
– Oh!" Emily flashes back at once. – Thank you," she says. – She says thank you from the bottom of her heart. – I don't know what I would have done without you, to be honest. I still can't believe Dr. Clark decided to bring me back. – She laughs. – I didn't even think she remembered me; and then suddenly we happened to meet on the boardwalk near my house, and she said so many things to me. It was important to me.
– What kind of things? – Clarke clarifies.
– She guided me… straight," Emily replies quietly. – Not to the bottom.
Charlie suddenly smiles – and it looks so sincere that her lips stretch into a smile, too. After a long questioning look from the nurse, Charlie does speak:
– 'Laurie told me that all my life,' he sighs, 'until I got on my feet and actually walked that very straight line.
– Really? – Emily catches her breath.
Charlie nods.
He feels her – there's a reason Charlie Clarke chose this path. Johnson knows that she is now an open book for a psychiatrist, as she has always been. And the whole atmosphere–the blind trust, the talk, the colored glass–the whole atmosphere is as if it were made for her.
It's as if he's been waiting and preparing for her.
Charlie looks relaxed, but his eyes are sharp, just like Lorraine's, missing only the scalpel in his hand and the biting lips.
– Dr. Clark said you grew up in an orphanage," Emily said cautiously.
She doesn't hope for anything – you can't come and say hello and learn the whole life story of people she will never be on the same step with; but some shards, scraps of phrases, bits and pieces of past or present can be collected.
To cherish.
But it's time she got used to it-the world is always against her, even if there are occasional exceptions, but that's more to confirm the rule.
– We all have our own story, Emily," the psychiatrist says softly. – If you want to hear mine, you'll probably have to tell me yours.
Emily looks at him in surprise:
– What could possibly be interesting about my life?
– You can start at the end, if the beginning isn't interesting," Charlie smiles. – For instance, tell me about your dream. You must have a dream. We all do," he adds.
– I would like to be a doctor," Emily answers after a while.
– But you're already a doctor," Clark says with surprise.
– Well…" Emily crumples her pillow, "yes. But not like this. I want to be different. Not that kind," she repeats.
– Like what?
– Like your sister or you," the nurse exhales. – Successful, rich, so you can have dinner with your family at night, and not think in the morning that you could be fired at any moment for the slightest mistake.
Charlie Clark's face turns into one big question mark.
– You have a strange way of thinking about doctors, Emily," he says after a moment. – It's strange that in all that list you didn't mention such qualities as professionalism, understanding, knowledge.
Johnson's cheeks blush.
– Why such a desire to become successful in the field of medicine? Why not business, not law?
And again, those palms triangle, the stare and Clark-which-brainwalker.
Emily shrugs her shoulders:
– I've wanted to since I was a kid.
– И?..
– And that's it.
Charlie raises his hands:
– Okay, my turn. – He sits back and makes himself comfortable. – You know, I went into medicine because I wanted to give people hope. That sounds romantic as hell. – He laughs. – I wanted to be for others what Laurie was for me – she was the one who turned a troubled teenager into a human being. But I still don't have enough! – He raises his finger.
– So that is why I am here! – Emily exclaims. – That's why you gave me the chance, isn't it?
Charlie nods:
– Exactly. A year ago my assistant was a student with a lot of debt, and she came in for a job interview as a joke, and now, look – now I'm without her. I even know what time my workday starts, and I used to come every time at a different time. If you can, why not help? Everybody needs a little bit of magic sometimes. Especially in our town. – He winks.
Adding up two plus two, Emily has no time: in the pockets of her jeans crackles-ringing old, still broken phone. After apologizing, she presses the call button, but before she can even say "Yes?" the phone explodes and cuts into familiar notes:
– Johnson, to my office, now!
Emily jumps up from her seat; spilling her coffee, setting it right on the sand in the Japanese garden, muttering:
– Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me! – and storms out, miraculously not blowing down the paper door.
Charlie Clark looks sadly at the ungodly ruined composition, at the coffee stains sprawling across the carpet, and, taking out his phone, quickly dials a message:
Catch a bird.
Just wait. In the black coat of mist,
For yourself, for others who are not,
The black dot floats stubbornly to the goal.
I'll get there, and we'll light the dawn.
Riley laughs and pats Dylan on the shoulder; there are stray, lively sparks in his green eyes; just the same in his bright ruby hair. The white robe is lost against the surgeon's dyed-up, yellow T-shirt, blue-blue jeans, green sneakers; Riley is the living embodiment of the rainbow, a blob of energy and light.
Under the wide sleeves of her robe, she sees a dozen tattoos, from constellations to portraits, from hieroglyphs to runes, and the anesthesiologist Kemp, sitting nearby, pokes fun at them, saying, "What's the point of your pictures?
– I," he says proudly, "have a mermaid on my shoulder. Because I love the sea and women! And who's that, Queen Elizabeth?
Dylan is swarthy, tall, whipping; he hides dark curls under a bandana, now and then touches a scar on his lower lip, as if he is not used to it; thin eyebrows, protruding cheekbones – an anesthesiologist looks like a pirate who just came ashore; and black hirsute suit, worn contrary to all rules of sterility, only adds resemblance to this image.
In front of Clark sits Sara – a senior operating room nurse: Asian appearance, haughty look even a neurosurgeon would envy; black hair gathered in a high ponytail, leopard-rimmed glasses, thin fingers tapping impatiently on her knee. Sarah yawns into a tiny fist, waves her long eyelashes, and gracefully throws her leg over her leg, exposing a thin strip of snow-white skin beneath her short skirt.
The varnish of her high-heeled shoes reflects the light for a second as Emily enters the office.
Four people in white coats stare at the nurse as one – still the same stretchy turtleneck, still the same oversized jeans; no hint of belonging to their society.
Clark – now out of habit – grimaces disapprovingly, and the comparison to the squashed cockroach reappears in Emily's mind.
She slipped sideways behind the counter just outside the entrance, trying to hide between the closet and the wall, but she got confused in her own feet, almost fell on her side, and, holding the still unpacked hirsute suit against her, she pressed her shoulder blades against the door.
Clark raises an eyebrow.
Emily's palms are sweating.
The portable negatoscope, a screen on a tripod, flashes up; Clark rises from his seat and, moving it slightly to the middle of the room, points to six images in two rows in turn.
– Let's call these patients X, Y and Z," she begins. – The bottom is before, the top is after. One of them we recently operated on, another is on the waiting list for a planned, and this one," she points to the darkest one, "even tried to discharged. So that's three people. – Clark steps aside. – Who's to say what they have in common?
Riley squints, looking closely; Emily takes a tiny step forward, too, trying to remember where she's seen this before, but the surgeon beats her to it:
– This isn't the trio with no brain, is it?
Clark nods contentedly.
– Like three monkeys," Sarah adds. – Can't see. Can't hear. And won't say anything to anyone.
– All of our alphabetists opened up bleeding a few hours ago. – Clark points to the upper scans. – See, this one's clean, and this one's ruptured. Three aneurysms, all in different places, but at almost the same time. We've done both CT scans and MRIs and glucose before; they took readings in half an hour and everything was fine.
– It doesn't work that way. – Dylan gets up from his seat and walks over to the negatoscope. – Maybe we missed something?
– Arteriosclerosis? AH? Something hereditary? – Riley rubs the bridge of his nose.
– Fingers to the sky. – Clark presses his lips together. – No one remembers anything. But everyone knows we screwed up, because right here," she points to the lower right picture, "we opened up her skull to look at the contents, and we didn't really find anything.
– Yeah, because everything in her head has already been checked.
– Maybe the anesthesia had something to do with it. – Kemp gets close to the scans. – Damn, why is it so hard to see…?
– Three at a time? – Clark shakes his head. – On one, yes. The others weren't even touched.
– That's weird. They have no brains, and their… What do they do with them, by the way?
– They keep them on drips," Clark shrugged. – The one you can see from behind Dylan is getting treatments. They've got another one being prepared for discharge, but it's a long story.
– Stress? – Riley suggests right away. – We couldn't have screwed up before the surgery. Maybe Higgins got it wrong. Didn't take into account the risk factors…
– Too many factors," Dylan snorts. – Three arteries burst at the same time in almost the same place. Something triggered it. Something that was performed at the same time. Some kind of laser correction? What do we all have people do in surgery?
– Appendicitis? Plasty? Accident?
– Negative," cuts off the anesthesiologist. – You can't connect appendicitis to the brain. Except theoretically.
– That's what Moss thinks," Clark replies thoughtfully. – He thinks it's just a coincidence.
– Is he furious? – Sara, who has been silent up to now, snorts.
– Lucky for us, it's parliamentary convention in Belgravia today," replies the neurosurgeon grimly. – Otherwise he would have been here by now. In the meantime, he demands that we find the cause ourselves.
– He's dumping the diagnosticians' work on us? – Dylan slumps back onto the couch. – Fuck him. What's there to find out? Confirm the biohours match. Let him prove otherwise.
– Tell him yourself.
– I'm not even going to talk…
Dylan slaps his palm against his palm and goes back to the couch, Riley jumps up from his seat, points to Sarah; Clark silently crosses his arms over his chest, listening and not interfering.
Emily frowns.
The projection spins in her head: here's the brain, here's the part of it that's been removed, here's the aneurysm, the hemorrhage.
The blood runs through the arteries, making a circle – over and over and over again.
Emily walks in a straight line.
Fingers touch the scans – cold thermoplastic, blurry images – leading the widest part, bumping into obstructions. Silent here, unable to hear here, unable to see here.
He remembers, spins in his head the few days he spent with his patients: CT scans, MRIs, neurotomography, general blood tests.
Something eludes her.
The memory tosses: work in nephrology, IVs, ultrasounds, glass vials; give-and-take-no-messages; two on dialysis, three on transplants, seven hundred and forty-nine on the list; and everyone needs help, but no one does; only Higgins runs around with his patients, back and forth, muttering that he should hand out head pills, because…
– …we have to check the kidneys.
She says it so softly that her vocal cords don't even strain, but the office is almost ominously silent in a second.
– What?
– We have to check the kidneys," Emily repeats with a little more confidence. – We only looked at the head, right? And the back of the other one, I remember. They might have ADPBP," she explains. – Renal failure, but with extrarenal manifestations. Large numbers of cysts increase the risks, right? After all, the kidneys are directly connected to critical arteries. The cyst bursts, all the crap from it gets into the bloodstream, goes to the surgically weakened brain and sticks somewhere. The artery says "yuck, yuck, yuck" – and gets inflamed, trying to reject it. We need to look at the kidneys and clean the blood. If it's confirmed, send in a cut. And three at the same time-" Emily thinks for a moment, but the answer comes to herself: "And if they have not two kidneys, but one…?
She flashes an embarrassed look to the floor, as if she's hoping there's a hole underneath her to fall through.
Because Clark has already opened her mouth to blow her theory to smithereens.
Damn, damn, damn, why did she say that?
– Not bad," Lorraine says suddenly. – I'll send out an inquiry; I'll let you know when I get the results.
Emily forgets how to breathe.
– "Really?
Riley shrugs it off: this is no place for praise or laurels, she said the right thing – it's great, maybe saved someone's life, but otherwise – who needs this desire to stand out?
Here they sit, the four best of them, talking; bouncing from topic to topic: Gilmore had three with gunshot wounds, Demp was anesthetizing, Davis was operating; who knows what, says Riley, why are they taking them from central to us, they could have taken them to London Bridge, the world would not have collapsed, they have a pond of surgeons there, but I what, Gilmore beat his chest, like I was hired as Haron, from one realm to another.
– And my second anesthesiologist's gone," complained Demp. – I'll take Harmon, it's high time he changed his place, he's been sitting too long, let him be a resuscitator now; they can do without him in perfusion, it's no big loss. What is AIC? It's a ten-button design, you just sit there and push it; no, Harmon's not stupid enough to push buttons. We'll have it, won't you, Laurie?
Lorraine shakes her head, smiling:
– I like James. – His eyes flash with warmth. – Lure him over to us, statute says there should be five, and there are four of us, we'll formalize the anesthesiologist rate, still higher than what we have now.
Dylan glows.
– Moss was talking about some conference," Sarah pursed her lips. – Handing out pamphlets a couple of days ago.
– Yeah, I heard. – Clark sits back in his chair and swings open his laptop. – Ottawa, right? – She clicks the mouse. – Transatlantic. – Crooked. – I hope they send the first one. I don't want to bounce eight hours over the ocean for a couple of days whining about how badly we're doing our job.
– What's that? – Dylan asks.
– Anything," laconic answers neurosurgeon. – Neil will go, he has less problems than we do. Without us, everyone here would die. – She snorts.
They are alone.
Clark takes off his robe, deftly tosses it on the coat rack next to the door, runs a hand through his hair, taps his heel on the parquet, and dives headlong into his laptop.
The printer rustles softly, spits out sheets; the wind rages outside the window, the rain breaks against the tinted glass; on the black nightstand without a speck of dust lie three maps – those X, Y, and Z; crumpled cushions on the couch, an unsteady chair, papers scattered across Clark's desk.
And Lorraine – for the second time that day, she's got everyone's attention. She straightened, squared her shoulders, stretched her arms, waving her wrists; the thin chain of her bracelet jingled, and Emily's chest whimpered.
– We need to prepare the third," Clark says suddenly, not taking his eyes off the monitor. – In an hour and a half, there's an elective to remove the tumor. Get me a list of the days ahead of time, I need somewhere to put Cameron, there's a stage two. Get on it.
Emily thinks fast – nods, takes her phone out of her pocket, sends directions in text messages to herself: stage three, hour and a half, list, Cameron.
– Mark's birthday is Sunday. – Clark rubs his temples. – Needs a gift. Moss needs to send the stats from last month.
– Stats on what? – Emily clarifies.
– Your lack of intelligence, Johnson," Clark snaps back. – Use your brain. Mortality, of course.
Emily shuts up.
– Help Sarah with the paperwork, she's about to die under the folders. We need to fill them out and bring them to me to sign.
She rises from her chair, stretching – her T-shirt is pulled up, exposing her skin; her ribs protrude heavily forward; Emily sees the outline of her lingerie: lace, she never doubted – as if Clark could wear cheap cotton.
Lorraine walks over to the closet, opens the left flap, and pulls out another folder:
– After the surgery…
The door swings open, banging the handle loudly against the wall, and Emily drops the phone in fright.
Again.
She can almost see the keys shattering, the display hanging from thin wires, the center button flying off into the corner. With a silent owl, she yanks herself behind the cabinet, which is what saves her from the wrath of the interim head of the neurologist.
Andrew flies into the office, and the air around him is saturated with the sweetness of perfume; the white robe is draped imposingly over his shoulders, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to his elbows, exposing the large dial on his left hand.
A file falls on the table with a clatter.
Clark stares silently at the neurologist.
A minute passes.
Only then does he notice Emily.
– Johnson, not wearing a robe again," he says in a low voice. – What, you forget where you work? With your history, I'm not surprised. How about…
Clark pulls the white cloth off the rack in one motion and throws it over his nurse's shoulders.
Emily takes a deep breath.
Her heart begins to beat desperately; it feels like it's about to burst through her chest, bursting out, falling to the floor as a bloody heap.
The robe still retained the warmth of Lorraine's body, even through the thin turtleneck. Emily pulls it down with her fingertips, letting it slip freely over her shoulders the way all adults do.
And it doesn't go away – it's still there, it's pulsating, it's jumpering; Lorraine says something to Moss, who looks at Emily angrily once more, but turns away; and she still stands there, the white neurosurgeon's robe, touch it, feel it, smell it – quinine, coffee, lemon. Tension, disruption, an uneven rhythm, dry lips in an instant.
Moss walks away, leaving Clark with a folder and a dozen more papers on top.
– Johnson," Lorraine exhales. – Where's the robe?
She still can't move, just squints and shakes her head rapidly; the touch of the fabric against her skin is so pleasant, too pleasant; and Clark, standing an inch away from her, has infinitely gray eyes with black eyeliner; long, stretching lashes to the sky; and ashy-pink lips that speak almost syllables:
– Are you not listening to me again?
– I'm sorry, I… I never bought it. I'm sorry.
The red-hot air subsides, his heart calms, his breathing becomes easier – Clark takes a step back and turns again to the open closet.
– You're lucky he doesn't have a name. – She points to the breast pocket of her robe. – Otherwise, Moss would have taken three skins off you.
– Excuse me.
Clark winks away in surprise:
– Drop it.
Here we go again.
Again.
It's impossible to breathe with Clark, as if the neurosurgeon needs to take all the oxygen from the world in order to breathe.
She changes moods, jumps from "you" to "you", gets angry – and then smiles a minute later; and Emily can't keep up with her, afraid, worried, but feeling the pull.
Clark is an ever-changing shell with an unbending inner core.
And fire.
She just has to say something, so Emily does the unauthorized, the wrong thing – she touches the neurosurgeon's shoulder with her fingertips and says nothing:
– I'm not worth it.
Clark smiles:
– I didn't say that.
* * *
She shouldn't.
She can't.
She doesn't know how.
But she stands in the locker room, inhaling the smell, burying her nose in the white medical gown Clark so kindly lent her for the rest of the day.
So Moss doesn't kill you.
The hirsute suit, unpacked, already on, smells wrong. The chemical, sterilized smell hits her nose, interrupts the lemon and lavender, and makes Emily want to strip naked and wrap herself up, wrap herself in the snow-white fabric.
She is flattering herself: just because it is power, it is fashionable, prestigious, rich; but inside, the first sparks of a fire have already been kindled.
That's just the affection she lacked; that damn admiration for someone, the idolatry, the awe. Clark is just a doctor.
She's just a nurse.
Her nurse.
The surgery is minutes away-the third operating room has been cleaned to a shine, and the instruments spread out on the tables have left a pleasant heaviness in her palms.
And now she's afraid. Scared. Ashamed.
And so she clings to her white coat, unable to control her emotions.
In a straight line.
Not to the bottom.
She locks the robe in her locker and walks out into the pre-op space, where Sarah helps her with her clothes and gloves.
Clark is already here, behind the glass – washing her hands, chatting intermittently with Gilmore standing next to her.
Emily knows the sequence by heart: rubbing her palms together, rubbing the back of her left hand with her right, then the interdigital spaces and inner surfaces, hands in lockstep, thumbs, rotating rubs, circular motions. Long fingers slide over soapy skin – up and down, back and forth.
Gilmore finishes early, wiping his hands, working his nails, applying antiseptic to his hands and forearms, rubbing, telling jokes.
Clark doesn't even smile, just nods, thinking to himself: frowning eyebrows, confident movements.
The whole procedure of putting on a sterile gown, tying it, and pulling on gloves takes no more than thirty seconds. Emily and Sara are in sync: pull it up there, tie it there. Johnson smiles inwardly: She remembers that Clark likes to tie the sash on the side, so she very quickly slips one piece of fabric into the other. All she gets in response is a snort.
Sarah clips on the optics: binocular magnifying glasses with flashlights; Emily adjusts-checks the masks and hats; Kemp fidgets nonchalantly in her chair, whistling a tune. Harmon bustles about – urgently pulled from his department, delighted by the news of his promotion, he runs around with a huge spread-out form, recording the data.
There's a woman on the operating table; the shaved area of her head is marked with lines – a perpendicular line from the bridge of her nose to the base of her skull and a line connecting her ears. The whole space is squared, so it's easier to work with a scalpel.
– I forgot," said Dylan. – Are we going to wake her up?
– You're out of your mind," he replies.
– I was joking.
Emily takes one last look at Mayo's table – the sterile surface is lined with instruments; this time there's nothing superfluous, everything's in strict order. Gilmore has one just like it, only with recesses for electrical instruments. Dylan pushes the buttons; the screens flash, showing an image; Clark finishes calibrating.
– Tumor in quadrant six, fits like a fuse, preparing for additional bone resection.
The Leica buzzes, Sarah takes her place at Gilmore's, Emily becomes a few centimeters away from Clark.
Harmon looms behind them, muttering to himself about some fascias and squares.
Slowly, slowly, the screen renders a grid; Clark tilts her head sideways and – Emily is sure – with her lips slightly open, lets out a short exhale.
– Here we go.
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.
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?
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.
I remember the constellations of your moles.
They showed me the way:
Do-re-mi-la-si-do-mi;
You'll know someday.
Lorraine Clark has many little foibles in her life: she loves blueberries with whipped cream, hot baths with aromatic oils, the smell of mint and perfume.
Quinine, coriander, wormwood – bitter to the gnashing of teeth, to the sensation of poison on the tongue, to the shivers in the shoulder blades, not leaving a trail, covering with the head, hitting under the breath, knocking out the rest of the oxygen.
That's why she has a bottle of Serge Noire, a rough, balsamic scent that almost corrodes her skin, on her perfectly black lacquered dressing table every morning before work.
Charlie hates them so desperately – every time he comes to visit, he opens the wide windows of her house on Queen Anne Street and lets the cold wind take over the apartment.
The wind scatters the flat stacks of papers, lifts the edge of the light blue blanket, just barely clings the black mugs hanging on the thin hooks, and makes the plaid scarf hug the carved hanger.
Clark is not angry – on the contrary, she sits in a chair in the windiest place, as if defying nature itself, throws her leg over her and smokes menthol Lucky Strike, which is completely out of her style.
Lorraine is always well-groomed: styling, makeup, clean clothes-as is her apartment. One hundred squares of light parquet flooring and dark walls in the most blatant minimalist style-there is hardly any furniture except for the bare essentials.
And one more detail that does not fit into the dark gray interior of the apartment.
Behind a small snow-white partition lurked dry mahogany with carved gold "Clark & Co." letters; the piano's polished, once glossy surface had worn away in places, revealing the dark wood.
Charlie has never touched the instrument, though he no longer remembers how he knows its entire structure by heart, from the whirling board to the platter frame; and he often strikes himself on the knuckle with a tuning fork, trying to hear echoes of his past in the sound of the "A" note.
He doesn't know what he hates more: the bitter perfume or this damn instrument that reminds him of who he really is.