Impuls

Aster

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.