Impuls

Aster

Emily loses count of how many times today her cheeks have burned with shame.

– I… I just…

Clark pulls out another cigarette.

– I just always thought that if you did a good job, you got a lot of money," Emily explains on an exhale. – But when I met you, I realized that I wasn't… I mean… I mean, I was wrong. I just kept…

– Dramatizing," Clark helpfully suggests.

– Yeah, I guess so. – Emily shifts from foot to foot. – You know, it's just so hard to walk," she admits. – It's only been two days since I've been back, and it makes me want to break in half. It feels like I'll never get anywhere," she adds in a whisper.

– Drama again," Clark croaks. – You don't get anywhere by standing still. And you're stuck in your snotty, self-pitying self again. How do you even do that? I guess it's hard as hell to lie on the couch, hoping the world will understand you. The world, Johnson, will never understand anybody. It can't understand at all.

– Don't tell me you've never felt sorry for yourself," Emily mutters.

– Do you think I've ever had time for that? – Clark grins sadly. – There was a brother standing behind me the whole time that I had to have my back.

– Did you have your brother's back in the office yesterday, too?

Emily realizes too late what a silly thing she just said, the words crumbling like broken glass at her feet.

– Oh, Johnson, your nobility is as deceitful as you are. – Clark is covered in ice in a second. – In fact, it's the only thing I've ever…

Before she can finish, Emily covers her mouth with her palm, pressing her hand down as hard as she can, getting ready to grab onto Clark at any moment.

Just to hold her.

Not let her get away.

And the water beneath the bridges is black over blue, and the sky seems colder than before; and it becomes so scary that another second and the moment will be lost, another done-said foolishness will break everything.

A wave of frost runs down my back, leaving chunks of ice on my skin, growing into my spine.

Emily looks into Clark's eyes – gold and platinum – and shakes her head, silently whispering incoherent ramblings with her lips alone, turned into one continuous "ne'er-do-well."

She's scared – and that fear is coursing through her veins, making her heart pound so loudly that it can probably be heard from hundreds of miles away, standing under the bridge, hidden from prying eyes.

Clark was warm, almost hot; Emily had forgotten that she'd looked sick this morning, and now she was standing in the wind, though hidden from the icy gusts, in her bloody long coat, which didn't look reliable at all.

In the daylight, her skin seems glassy – smooth, smooth, with occasional glints of light; only the corners of her eyes hide wrinkles, not from age – from fatigue; and her eyelashes tremble barely noticeably.

She doesn't even try to pull away, only blinks slowly and slowly, still unaware of what is happening.

– Don't, please. – She looks pleadingly at the neurosurgeon. – I say stupid things, all the time, yes, but don't, please. Don't go. Don't. Please…

They are so close, so damn close, that the fabrics of their coats touch – coarse gray wool and delicate black cashmere; Emily feels Clark's measured breath caught in her palm.

– Please," Emily whispers, "listen, I just… I do a lot of stupid things, I talk a lot of nonsense, but I care, I care so much that you noticed me. Of all of them, you noticed me, and that's priceless, you know? I've been invisible all my life, even if I feel sorry for myself, even if I seem pathetic and dramatic again, but I'm sincere, you know? You noticed me in the crowd, you've done more for me these days than anyone in my whole life. I… I just don't know how to say thank you in a way that you can understand. You gave me a chance, you know, not your brother, but you, you, you. It was you. You found me in front of the house, you left work on purpose, I know that, James told me you'd been gone for hours. I know I'm nothing but trouble, I know I annoy you with every bit of me, I know how hard it is for you to make any contact with me, but I promise, I promise I'll get better. So you won't regret choosing me. Just don't go now, please. I just… I wasn't thinking. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.

Clark probably thinks she's crazy. A sick girl who's obsessed with a neurosurgeon – not even the best one on the planet.

Not even the best in the hospital.

Bones on hinges, plastic body, total lack of intelligence – that's exactly what Emily thinks Clark thinks she is.

Useless. Unimaginative. Clueless.

– Please…

Her breath beats like a bird in the palm of her hand, leaving barely visible purple feathers on her skin. She just can't say anything else-she can't, she's only capable of the stitches that hide behind the elastic bandage on her arm.

They're so damn straight and even, it makes her sick to her stomach.

It's as if the only thing she can do is mend someone else's wounds.

When Emily finally removes her hand, Clark doesn't move.

Then she throws away her long-extinct cigarette and, smiling, says:

– I'm cold. How about some punch?

* * *

Please go away, Emily prays, cradling her pillow.

Get out of my damn head.

Dissolve.

Let go.

I can't stand you in it.

But Lorraine is already inside – sitting with her leg up, smoking menthol cigarettes, watching with her heavenly gray eyes, squinting, tilting her head sideways, parting her dry lips.

Johnson has in her backpack a stolen check from the bar and two punch glasses, one with a print of purple lipstick on it; her own little secrets that she will hide in a big box in the morning and pull out to remember the day.

Emily gets chills, and the floor merges with the ceiling when she finally falls asleep.

Chapter 15

I remember the constellations of your moles.

They showed me the way:

Do-re-mi-la-si-do-mi;

You'll know someday.

Lorraine Clark has many little foibles in her life: she loves blueberries with whipped cream, hot baths with aromatic oils, the smell of mint and perfume.

Quinine, coriander, wormwood – bitter to the gnashing of teeth, to the sensation of poison on the tongue, to the shivers in the shoulder blades, not leaving a trail, covering with the head, hitting under the breath, knocking out the rest of the oxygen.