Impuls

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.

– I'm not eating. – Emily says it as if she's been on a strict diet all her life.

Charlie's office is half the size of his waiting room, but a dozen times more substantial and chaotic: photos and diplomas clutter the walls, a Japanese garden with a windmill and waterwheel on a big square table, and no desk as such – a long glass tabletop nailed along the wall that serves everything at once: two working laptops, speakers, piles of papers, and a cup of coffee. Two armchairs-soft, with cushions in colored pillowcases, with retractable footstools; between them is that very garden table, a little further away another with a solitary cup. Improvised crystal garlands of colored glass dangled from the small chandelier, giving the place a special charm; the city was visible through the loose curtains-the windows faced south, so Emily could see the outline of the London Eye in the distance.

– You're lucky," Charlie smiled. – One patient couldn't make it, and it freed up my time. You say you don't eat lunch? Coffee, then?

He doesn't wait for an answer, opens the door, says something like, 'Two cups for us, please,' and then he's right next to Emily again.

Charlie is wearing a long, almost floor-length kimono cardigan, embroidered with colored patterns, with huge sleeves; light jeans and a plain black T-shirt; there is no question of a white coat – the psychiatrist has attached his nametag directly to the pocket, and now it hangs around his knees, threatening to come off at any moment.

– I've been waiting for you, Emily. – He sits gently in his chair. – We have a lot to talk about.

At that moment, Johnson sees for the first time the resemblance between his brother and sister: they lean their heads slightly sideways and open their dry lips in the same way, hovering like statues; they fold their palms in a triangle so that their fingertips touch; and they look long, piercing, expectant.

Charlie doesn't look eighteen anymore, there's nothing left of a college student in him; and even the seemingly ridiculous clothes make him look much older.

How much of an age difference do they have?

– Almost five years. – It was as if Charlie could read her mind. – I'm twenty-three, in case you were wondering. Sit down; there's no need to stand.

One part of the window – the top one – is ajar, and, if you listen carefully, you can hear the sound of the street; the colored glass shines peacefully, swaying in the wind.

Emily hesitates and sits down on the tip of the chair, but the soft leather prevents her from sitting down, and she literally falls backward, shrieking in surprise. Charlie laughs-apparently she's not the only one who's fallen for it.

Now they're both half lying there, warm and soft, and Emily, with her head back on the pillow, decides to get her own psychiatrist when she becomes a great doctor.

Or hire Charlie Clark for a job.

– How can you have all that at twenty-three? – bursts out of Emily's mouth.

She immediately bites her tongue – she must have said something like that!

But Charlie just smiles.

– I hear that question from every patient," he says. – I have no idea, to be honest. It just sort of worked itself out.

I wish it had, too," sighs Johnson.

They get two small glass cups of coffee, and Charlie pours the espresso into the milk pot and then back into the cup.

Emily, desperate for milk, swallows her words in surprise, staring at the machination.

Charlie catches her gaze and defiantly adds four sugars.

There's a momentary pause, and then the air shakes with general laughter.

The assistant brings another small pitcher, and Emily enjoys inhaling the smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm milk.

– So, tell me, how does it feel to be back here? – Charlie almost gulps down the contents of his cup.

– Oh!" Emily flashes back at once. – Thank you," she says. – She says thank you from the bottom of her heart. – I don't know what I would have done without you, to be honest. I still can't believe Dr. Clark decided to bring me back. – She laughs. – I didn't even think she remembered me; and then suddenly we happened to meet on the boardwalk near my house, and she said so many things to me. It was important to me.

– What kind of things? – Clarke clarifies.

– She guided me… straight," Emily replies quietly. – Not to the bottom.

Charlie suddenly smiles – and it looks so sincere that her lips stretch into a smile, too. After a long questioning look from the nurse, Charlie does speak:

– 'Laurie told me that all my life,' he sighs, 'until I got on my feet and actually walked that very straight line.