Jex shakes her head. “Yeah, anyways. Let’s go. We’ll follow you.”
* * *
An hour later, Jex is sitting in an exam room with Eugene, both wearing surgical masks. Molly is being examined separately in another room down the hall. Q has been forced to sit out in the waiting room, to her endless consternation.
Eugene shakes his head at Jex. “Yeah, ’cause we wouldn’t have already given it to you if we have it.”
Jex chuckles. “Just a precaution.”
Eugene shrugs. “It can’t hurt I guess.” He looks down at the mark on his forearm. “So, what, this thing is supposed to turn red or something if I have TB?”
Jex nods her head, looking down at the mark on her own forearm. “Yes and no. This is the Mantoux tuberculin skin test. They inject this thing, a purified protein derivative under the top layer of your skin. If it turns not just red, but also forms a big, firm bump, you probably have it. It’s a pretty common way of detecting whether you have TB. But it won’t tell you whether you have active or latent TB.”
“What’s the difference?” Eugene asks coughing strongly and looking less well than perhaps he did just a couple of hours ago.
Jex smirks. “I’m pretty sure you have the active kind. Latent TB infection is actually totally common. Like, a third of the population has it.”
“For real?” Eugene asks incredulously.
“Yeah, but most of the time it never becomes active. And if it’s not active, it has no symptoms and it isn’t contagious.”
“So, if this dot turns redder, it means I’m active?”
“Well,” Jex clarifies, “no. If it is red and a firm bump, that just means that you have the underlying infection. It shows that there is mycobacterium tuberculosis in your system. That’s what the infection is called itself. For short it’s called M. tuberculosis.”
Eugene shakes his head and coughs roughly. “Man, Jex. M. tuberculosis. It feels almost as bad as M. Ward sounds.”
Jex chuckles and nods her head in agreement, studying the mark on her forearm. “So, just because you have M. tuberculosis in your system, that doesn’t mean you have active tuberculosis. It might just be latent. Those chest x-rays they took, they should be a bitter indicator, you know?”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I read about this, like, a year ago or something. The x-ray is a posterior-anterior chest radiograph. It’s looking for abnormalities like lesions in your chest. They can be all kinds of sizes, but if they are there, it’s a good sign that you have active TB. And they pretty much cause all the coughing and stuff you have. Then they’ll take your loogie and check it for what’s called acid-fast bacilli, I think. It’s pretty easy to do with a kit but they’ll send it out for a culture, too, to confirm.”
“But you think I got it?”
Jex shrugs, not showing any cards. “We’ll see.”
“Shit, Jexy, if I got this, I’m super sorry I exposed you to it. I feel just terrible.”
She just shrugs again. “Don’t worry about it. I love sickness.” She laughs. “I mean, it fascinates me. If I get it, it will just be something I can use to learn.”
Eugene shakes his head. “I love your positivity, Jexy. For real. That’s the kind of positive vibes I try to emanate, you know what I mean?”
Jex laughs. “You are a thousand times more positive than me. I’m a born misanthrope. Hopelessly cynical.”
Eugene laughs back. “No way, Jex. You’re an inspiration. I hope you’ll spend more time with Molly. She can use a positive role model. Hell, we all can.”
“Whatever, you’re my role model for sure.”
“Yeah,” Eugene says with a shrug. “I’m not no one’s role model for sure, but this is a learning experience for me, Jex, that’s for sure. I am going to educate people about the disparity of this disease between Native Americans and whites. People need to know that. It’s a disparity that is pervasive, man. Pervasive. Suicide. Alcoholism. HIV. TB. Shit, even I didn’t know about TB.”
“Yeah,” Jex says. “It’s not very common, even in Native Americans. So, it’s not too surprising that it’s not any anyone’s radar. But the ratio is fucked, that’s for sure.”
Eugene shakes his head. “It’s unjust. Just unjust.”
Jex nods her head in agreement.
“So,” Eugene continues. “This treatment. You say it’s long term, yo?”
Jex shakes her head. “It’s long, but it’s not long term, really. Like around six months or so. Maybe up to a year for the infection to die.”
“Shit, man,” Eugen marvels. “That’s a hella strong bug.”
“Yeah,” Jex agrees. “And you have to take a bunch of drugs, not just one.”
“Oh yeah,” Eugene responds, his eyebrows lifted.
“Yeah. The doctor can tell you. I’m not one hundred percent sure. But, it’s on regiments, you know, like a series of different drugs in a batch. They figured out which ones work best.” Jex clenches her eyes tightly and thinks. “Let’s see,” she says, counting on her fingers. “There’s Isoniazid. Rifampin. Ethambutol. And … Pyrazinamide. I think those are some of the big ones – they’re called first-line anti-TB agents.”
“No shit. Like they’re the guys out in the trenches.”
Jex smiles. “Exactly. But it’s a pretty precise concoction. So if you don’t take it exactly like they say, I’m going to drive out to the desert and kick your stoner ass. You better comply, for realz.”
Eugene laughs his big laugh. “I promise, I will. I will.” And then he gets deadly serious. “And if Molly has it, you can make goddamn sure she will be compliant. No joking around. We are blessed to have you, Jex.”
“Ha, ha,” Jex laughs. Let me tell you something about … “
Jex doesn’t have a chance to finish her sentence. The door opens up and a doctor walks in. He is about fifty years old, and is clearly of Native American descent.
“Well, hello there,” the doctor says with a smile, looking at Eugene and Jex and then back at Eugene. “I’m Doctor Williams. Let me guess,” pointing at Eugene. “You’re Eugene.”
* * *
It is three days later and Jex is on the floor of her living room. Alone. Flat on her back on the oriental rug, as chill as the Dude listening to past bowling matches. Her iPhone rings and she lets it go to voicemail. When the tone goes off, indicating a message, Jex sighs and grabs the phone. She dials voicemail and listens.
“Ms. Blackwell, this is Doctor Williams, from West Desert Hospital. I am calling to check up on your TB test. You were supposed to come in this morning and we didn’t see you. I’d be really grateful if you could call me back so we could chat. Oh, and Ms. Blackwell. I understand that it was you that identified the initial symptoms of TB in Eugene and Molly. And that Eugene was scheduled to attend a rally with over a hundred people the night you brought him in. You could have prevented quite an epidemic there. Job very well done.” There is a pause. “Please call me back, Ms. Blackwell. I’d just like to talk and make sure your test came out OK.”
Jex smiles and stares up at her forearm, which she has raised lazily above her head. The area where the TB test was taken is completely clean and free from redness and swelling. No red; no bumps; No TB – and Jex knows it. She smiles her easy smile. She raises her torsos and sits cross-legged. She grabs her lighter and the purple bong with the Pat the Bunny sticker. She takes a hit, then another. She releases the second hit and then pulls the headphones on. She presses play. Jex looks up at her ceiling and into nothing, visions of infections and bacterium floating around her head. Pat the Bunny’s “A Song for Jenny” begins to play, and wraps itself around her visions. The music drifts on, into the chaos, and helps Jex pretend that tomorrow will never exist.
* * *
Bawdy DySmurfia
Jex runs south down Seventh Street, Broadway behind her. Her gait is a desperate but intentional one. The moon is bright and the street lights, too. Jex’s mood is as dark as they come. The inches seem like yards and
the yards seem like miles. Molly’s squat is about two miles away from the alley off Grand Street where Jex had been tagging. Jex runs at full speed the entire way. Even if Q had the quickness of wit to have immediately run after Jex, she never would have had the stamina to keep up.
Jex is on the front stoop of the squat, a dilapidated old place down the street from an abandoned warehouse, and in through a front window, silent as a mouse. She is smart enough to not have tried to knock first, because who knows who would answer, or what mood they are in. Or what they might be hiding. Or who they might think you are.
Unfortunately for Jex, she does not know where in the squat Molly is flopping or, frankly, whether she is even flopping there tonight. Her schedule is not traditional, to say the least. And even if Jex finds her, she doesn’t know whether she will find her alone, or with someone else. Or what condition she might be in. That last one, that’s the one that worries Jex the most.
Jex is in the living room and, half-crouched, she looks around through the darkness. She seems intentional but calm, giving her eyes a moment to adjust to the house, which takes time even though it is dark outside. Once she is able to see more than a few inches in front of her eyes, enough to know she is not immediately about to trip over something – or someone – she moves purposefully through the room, from one side to the next. She finds no one and nothing to really suggest anyone is even there. She pulls out her iPhone and turns on its flashlight. She points it down towards the ground and only a little bit in front of her. This minimizes but does not eliminate the risk that someone will see her before she sees them.
Jex is down another hallway and in the kitchen. There is nothing of interest to see here and she doesn’t meander long; just long enough to confirm there is nothing of interest to see here. She flashes her light quickly into an adjacent room, which has a table in it with a bunch of dishes but nothing else, other than an old Smiths poster on the wall.
Deliberately, Jex moves on to the next room. She opens a door carefully but it’s just a closet with a bunch of bowling pins stacked on shelves. They nearly fall when she opens the door but Jex gets lucky and they don’t. She lets out a short, steep breath and closes the door quietly. She backtracks through the front hallway until she comes to a flight of wooden stairs. She does not hesitate and begins to climb them. The first one squeaks pretty badly, though, and stops her in her tracks. Damn old wooden stairs.
Jex takes a moment on that first stair, contemplating perhaps how to best distribute her weight and minimize the pressure on the steps. It is not, to say the least, a very scientific way of moving forward, but Jex doesn’t have time for precise calculations. In any event, she isn’t feeling particularly scientific at the moment. She just feels scared. Scared for Molly.
With Molly in her mind, Jex does not hesitate long. She tip toes as delicately as possible, taking each step carefully, deliberately. Though the trip is not without its squeaks and creaks, Jex manages to make it to the top of the stairs with just a little bit of noise. She keeps her light pointed down low, desperate to find Molly and still cognizant that she doesn’t quite know exactly where she is, but she knows for sure she isn’t supposed to be there. She has no idea how welcome or unwelcome she will be if she runs into a dweller she doesn’t know.
Slowly, Jex finds her way down the hallway. She sees two closed doors on one side of the hallway, and a third closed door on the other side of the hallway, which turns left and into pitch black just a little bit past the farthest door. Shit. This is not good. Each step is an exercise in faith, with no way to know whether the next step would be met with someone or something that would radically change the temperament of the hallway. Jex creeps down the hallway and comes to the first door. She stands as quietly as possible and just listens for a moment. Is anyone there? Is anyone awake? Shit.
And in that tense dark hallway, a voice that is just inches from Jex pierces the silence, whispering shrilly but clearly, “hey!” Jex can’t help but yelp out in response; something indecipherable but strong, all reflex and no intent at all. As if she is suddenly fighting a knife fight with nothing but her voice.
* * *
“Jex,” she hears the other voice continue. “Is that you?” Out of sorts and in a sudden defensive posture, Jex struggles to gather her thoughts. Who is saying her name? Where are they? Who are they?
Instead of asking one of these quite fair questions, a sound something like “argh,” is all Jex musters through her uncertainty and confused defensiveness.
“Jex? Jex? It’s me, Sarah.”
Jex collects her senses enough to focus on the dim figure in the room and after a moment she recognizes her, Molly’s friend Sarah. They had met a couple times before, probably at this squat, now that Jex thinks on it.
“Sarah, holy shit, you scared me.”
“Jex, oh my god,” Sarah continues, and Jex notices her tone is a manic one. Her eyes seem to bulge behind her blond bangs. ”I am so glad you’re here. You’re like a guardian angel. I’m so glad you’re here,” she repeats.
“What do you mean? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Molly, Jex. I can’t wake her up. Follow me. Please. Please.”
Without another second passing and without waiting for a response, Sarah turns and bolts past Jex and the three visible doors, down the hallway and takes a left turn into darkness. Jex does not hesitate in following her. The two move so quickly that neither of them see or hear the door on the left open as they pass it.
Jex walks firmly into the darkness and spends a moment in a darkness that is complete. Her heart skips a beat, as though she might be in a trap or something, but she does not falter. The moment lasts for minutes but is really just a moment before a door opens and allows just enough moonlight in so that Jex can focus on where she is headed. She sees Sarah walk through the doorway. Instinctively, she follows. The smell of mold hangs in the air. Old laundry. Unwashed dishes.
Inside the dark room, Molly lies in bed, motionless, her skin pale under the dim moonlight. Jex runs to her. Sarah stays slightly behind and starts to cry, holding her left hand to her face, covering her mouth. Jex moves quickly. The seconds tick like hours as she struggles to find a pulse; first in Molly’s wrist (“Radial, arrhythmic”); and then under her elbow (“brachial, faint”); and then to her neck (“carotid, thready … at best”). “Thready,” Jex murmurs to herself. “At best,” she continues, again to herself, barely speaking at all.
“Is she OK, Jex? Jex, tell me she’s going to be OK.” Sarah’s tone is a desperate one.
“She’s alive, but just barely. She has a traumatic head injury. She’s going in and out. Molly, can you hear me? Molly? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.” Jex has Molly on her back, inspecting her ears and mouth, pulling up her eyelid, checking her eyes. She pinches her arm. “Molly, can you feel that?”
Sarah emits a low, gurgle, and her crying gets louder.
“Sarah, you really do have to shut up. I need to focus here.”
Sarah cries louder. “I don’t know what to do.”
Jex’s tone is firm and clear. “Sarah, I will tell you exactly what to do. Pull out your cellphone and call 911. Nine-one-one, not nine-eleven. Nine-one-one. Tell them there is a fourteen year old girl here with a traumatic brain injury, thready pulse, and unconscious. We need an ambulance and paramedics immediately. Do that now.”
“No,” booms a loud and gruff voice from behind Sarah, which causes both Sarah and Jex to jump back with a start. “No one’s calling the cops.”
Stunned, Sarah pulls her hand out of her pocket, where it had previously been reaching for her cellphone. There is a long pause of silence as Jex takes in what is being said. She collects herself and responds.
“Not the cops, I didn’t tell her to call the cops. We need to call the paramedics. Molly is hurt really badly.”
The dark figure, who the moonlight is just beginning to identify – a skinny guy maybe in his late twenties, dark shirt, torn shorts, scruffy hair – responds. “Pa
ramedics, cops, they’ll all be here. No one’s calling 911. Can’t have pigs here. And besides,” he says, looking over at Molly. “She’s fine. She’s just sleeping something off.”
“Traumatic brain injury,” Sarah blurts out. “Do you really think so? She was fine two hours ago? This isn’t because of her falling down the stairs is it? She said she was fine.”
Jex lashes back. “Does she look fine? Does she? Yes, I am very sure it’s because of the fall down the stairs. There’s often a delayed reaction and she has all the symptoms of it, and has all day. I missed it because she’s diabetic and so I screwed up identifying what’s wrong with her, but there’s no doubt this is what she has. A traumatic brain injury.”
The dark figure scoffs. “Ha, you confused diabetes for a head injury. Can I call you Doctor Stupid?”
Jex stands up and goes toe-to-toe with the dark figure, who is at least a foot taller than the diminutive Jex. Three other people – two girls and a guy – fall in line behind the dark figure, each of them clearly just awoken by the noise.
“Call me doctor whatever you want,” Jex shoots. “I’m not a doctor at all, and yeah I confused them. But I know I’m right at this stage, and for sure it’s because of that goddamn fall on the stairs. If I knew about it yesterday, she’d already be in the hospital. Here, try and wake her up,” Jex continues, pointing at Molly. “You won’t be able to do it, and she’s not sleeping something off. She’s dying right now.”
“Says you,” the dark figure says.
“Yeah,” Jex says. “Says me and says science.”
“You’re just a kid,” the dark figure retorts.
“Yeah, so is Molly. She’s fourteen. And she’s going to die here if we don’t get her to a hospital. That’s for sure. How’s your shit going to go if you got a fourteen year old dead girl in your squat?”
“Oh, god,” moans Sarah. “Somebody do something.”
One of the other dark figures pulls on the first dark figure’s sleeve. “Blake, we can’t let her just die in here.”
Jex Blackwell Saves the World Page 17