Impuls

Aster

Moss walks away, leaving Clark with a folder and a dozen more papers on top.

– Johnson," Lorraine exhales. – Where's the robe?

She still can't move, just squints and shakes her head rapidly; the touch of the fabric against her skin is so pleasant, too pleasant; and Clark, standing an inch away from her, has infinitely gray eyes with black eyeliner; long, stretching lashes to the sky; and ashy-pink lips that speak almost syllables:

– Are you not listening to me again?

– I'm sorry, I… I never bought it. I'm sorry.

The red-hot air subsides, his heart calms, his breathing becomes easier – Clark takes a step back and turns again to the open closet.

– You're lucky he doesn't have a name. – She points to the breast pocket of her robe. – Otherwise, Moss would have taken three skins off you.

– Excuse me.

Clark winks away in surprise:

– Drop it.

Here we go again.

Again.

It's impossible to breathe with Clark, as if the neurosurgeon needs to take all the oxygen from the world in order to breathe.

She changes moods, jumps from "you" to "you", gets angry – and then smiles a minute later; and Emily can't keep up with her, afraid, worried, but feeling the pull.

Clark is an ever-changing shell with an unbending inner core.

And fire.

She just has to say something, so Emily does the unauthorized, the wrong thing – she touches the neurosurgeon's shoulder with her fingertips and says nothing:

– I'm not worth it.

Clark smiles:

– I didn't say that.

* * *

She shouldn't.

She can't.

She doesn't know how.

But she stands in the locker room, inhaling the smell, burying her nose in the white medical gown Clark so kindly lent her for the rest of the day.

So Moss doesn't kill you.

The hirsute suit, unpacked, already on, smells wrong. The chemical, sterilized smell hits her nose, interrupts the lemon and lavender, and makes Emily want to strip naked and wrap herself up, wrap herself in the snow-white fabric.

She is flattering herself: just because it is power, it is fashionable, prestigious, rich; but inside, the first sparks of a fire have already been kindled.

That's just the affection she lacked; that damn admiration for someone, the idolatry, the awe. Clark is just a doctor.

She's just a nurse.

Her nurse.

The surgery is minutes away-the third operating room has been cleaned to a shine, and the instruments spread out on the tables have left a pleasant heaviness in her palms.

And now she's afraid. Scared. Ashamed.

And so she clings to her white coat, unable to control her emotions.

In a straight line.

Not to the bottom.

She locks the robe in her locker and walks out into the pre-op space, where Sarah helps her with her clothes and gloves.

Clark is already here, behind the glass – washing her hands, chatting intermittently with Gilmore standing next to her.

Emily knows the sequence by heart: rubbing her palms together, rubbing the back of her left hand with her right, then the interdigital spaces and inner surfaces, hands in lockstep, thumbs, rotating rubs, circular motions. Long fingers slide over soapy skin – up and down, back and forth.

Gilmore finishes early, wiping his hands, working his nails, applying antiseptic to his hands and forearms, rubbing, telling jokes.

Clark doesn't even smile, just nods, thinking to himself: frowning eyebrows, confident movements.

The whole procedure of putting on a sterile gown, tying it, and pulling on gloves takes no more than thirty seconds. Emily and Sara are in sync: pull it up there, tie it there. Johnson smiles inwardly: She remembers that Clark likes to tie the sash on the side, so she very quickly slips one piece of fabric into the other. All she gets in response is a snort.

Sarah clips on the optics: binocular magnifying glasses with flashlights; Emily adjusts-checks the masks and hats; Kemp fidgets nonchalantly in her chair, whistling a tune. Harmon bustles about – urgently pulled from his department, delighted by the news of his promotion, he runs around with a huge spread-out form, recording the data.

There's a woman on the operating table; the shaved area of her head is marked with lines – a perpendicular line from the bridge of her nose to the base of her skull and a line connecting her ears. The whole space is squared, so it's easier to work with a scalpel.

– I forgot," said Dylan. – Are we going to wake her up?

– You're out of your mind," he replies.

– I was joking.

Emily takes one last look at Mayo's table – the sterile surface is lined with instruments; this time there's nothing superfluous, everything's in strict order. Gilmore has one just like it, only with recesses for electrical instruments. Dylan pushes the buttons; the screens flash, showing an image; Clark finishes calibrating.

– Tumor in quadrant six, fits like a fuse, preparing for additional bone resection.

The Leica buzzes, Sarah takes her place at Gilmore's, Emily becomes a few centimeters away from Clark.

Harmon looms behind them, muttering to himself about some fascias and squares.

Slowly, slowly, the screen renders a grid; Clark tilts her head sideways and – Emily is sure – with her lips slightly open, lets out a short exhale.

– Here we go.