Impuls

Aster

– 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?

Chapter 10

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.