Impuls

Aster

– …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.