Impuls

Aster

– 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.