Impuls

Aster

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.