Jex Blackwell Saves the World

by P. William Grimm

  Blake waves him off. “She’s not dying, this kid is just emo. And we can’t have cops in here.”

  “They’re not cops,” Jex screams. “They’re paramedics and Molly will die without help, goddammit. I don’t have a car here and I can’t bring her myself.”

  “Blake,” another one of the dark figures urges. “We can’t have no little girl dying in here.”

  “And it’s not right, either. That’s not what we’re about,” says another dark figure.

  “Whatever,” Blake says in frustration. “We can’t let no cops in here.”

  “Paramedics,” Jex states again, more firmly. “Paramedics, not cops.”

  “Yeah,” Blake says, “but with this shit, the cops will come anyways. You’re a dumb kid, but you’re not that dumb, right?”

  Jex does not back down. Her voice is loud and hoarse; not desperate but determined. “She needs a doctor now or she is going to die. End of thought.”

  “Blake,” says one of the dark figures in a quiet voice. Blake holds up his hand and the quiet voice quickly trails off.

  “OK,” he says. “OK. We can take her to the hospital in my truck. We’ll drop her off.”

  “No,” Jex protests. “I just got her airways stabilized. We have to keep her neck immobilized and…”

  “Listen, girl,” Blake interrupts. “We can take her to the hospital and get her a doctor right now, or we can keep arguing about bringing cops to this house. You are not going to win that argument, though, so how do you want to play this?”

  There is a long pause as Blake and Jex trade fearsome glares. Sarah’s sobs don’t relent. A dog begins to bark somewhere.

  “Shit,” Jex says, looking at Molly, weighing the limited options. “Shit,” she says again, and then hesitates no more. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?”

  Jex sits in the small examination room in L.A.’s downtown hospital, her legs curled up close to her body and her head laying delicately on her knees. She wants to be anywhere but here. The sun is beginning to shine outside, but all Jex wants to do is climb into some dark hole, disappear into nothingness.

  The person doing the yelling is Dr. Cohen. His English accent is not so charming during a rant. He is ruthless in his criticism.

  “Of all people to know this, Ms. Blackwell, you all of all people should know that. You hover around these hallways endlessly enough. A person who presents with these sort of symptoms” — he angrily shakes the folio of paper in his hand — “must get referred to an emergency room immediately. Immediately. Without delay. Without exceptions. And you … you give her drinking instructions? Are you a loon?”

  Jex doesn’t respond to this, which is probably for the best as it does not seem to be the type of question that is intended to elicit a response. The silence is awkward. Jex picks at her fingernail, her face contorted into a protective scowl; it seems almost second nature to her.

  “Not to mention,” Dr. Cohen continues, “that you moved a person with an obvious head injury. That wouldn’t seem bright even to a plumber, for goodness sake. Have you heard of 911, Ms. Blackwell?”

  “She was in a squat,” Jex explains in a meek whisper, as though this might cause Dr. Cohen to relent. It does not.

  “In a squat,” Dr. Cohen repeats with exasperation, his hands making quotation marks around the word “squat.” “In a squat,” he seethes through his teeth again, shaking his head. “Well, that is just lovely, isn’t it? What exactly are you doing in a squat in any event? You are fifteen years old.”

  Jex shrugs. “I went in to help Molly. She’s only fourteen.”

  Dr. Cohen shakes his head. “Well, I never …”

  “Perhaps, that is the problem, Dr. Cohen. That you never.”

  Dr. Cohen turns around abruptly to find Dr. Stephens standing behind him, her brow furrowed; her hands on her hips.

  Dr. Cohen sighs at the site of Dr. Stephens and shakes his head. As he speaks, the tone of resignation in his voice is as clear as the condescension in the shake of his head. “Well, if it isn’t Dr. Stephens, the ward’s most popular enabler-in-chief.”

  “Well,” Dr. Stephens retorts with lightning speed. “If it isn’t the ward’s most reviled Monday Morning Quarterbacker.”

  “You are too easy on the girl,” Dr. Cohen cracked back, just as quickly.

  Dr. Stephens shakes her head in anger. “And you, our favorite armchair general.”

  “It doesn’t take a general to recognize what went wrong here, a pint-sized detective who fancies herself a doctor.”

  Dr. Stephens sneers defensively. “All the hindsight in the world won’t change what happened here.”

  “Au contraire,” says Dr. Cohen, every bit as defensive, his voice gaining in pitch and volume. “Perhaps some hindsight in one of the hundred other circumstances in which Ms. Blackwell comes storming into our institution with some ragamuffin or another that she has decided to save.” He again uses hand quotations marks, this time to emphasize the word “save.” “Perhaps,” he continues, “if we — or more precisely you — would have nipped this little phenomenon in the bud earlier, young Ms. Blackwell would have done the right thing,” he raises his voice and pivots his glare to directly address Jex, “and simply called an ambulance when she heard of this young girl’s symptoms.” Jex looks away, out into nothing.

  Dr. Stephens does not relent. “Yes, Dr. Cohen,” Dr. Stephens chides in a tone that forces Dr. Cohen to return his gaze to her, “I am quite sure you would have rushed a diabetic to the hospital after initial complaints of a headache and thirst. That is quite by the book, isn’t it?”

  For the first time in the conversation, Dr. Cohen stammers. “Well . . I . .” and a word that sounds awfully similar to “harrumph,” and then, “I will tell you, Dr. Stephens …” His words are still somehow caught in his throat as Dr. Stephens jumps in, her words slicing with the sharpness of a switchblade.

  “That’s quite enough,” Dr. Stephens declares. “If there’s some basis to admit a thirst patient into the emergency room, I would be pleased to hear it.”

  “Well,” Dr. Cohen yells back, finding his words. “I can tell you that whatever I would have done, it would not be counseling a fourteen year old diabetic on the strategies of drink!”

  “And that fourteen-year-old diabetic had a zero point zero blood alcohol content upon admission, Dr. Cohen. I am quite sure you would have seen that in her chart.”

  “Well, yes,” Dr. Cohen ekes out, stammering again. “But . . .”

  “But what are the chances,” Dr. Stephens interrupts, overtaking Dr. Cohen’s response and changing its direction. “what are the chances that this child would have survived the night if Ms. Blackwell had not quickly put the pieces together – based on additional data the patient had not disclosed upon initial assessment – and broke into that squat” – she messily puts air quotation marks around the word “squat,” mocking Dr. Cohen’s prior gesture – “where exactly do you think the patient would be at the moment?”

  “Well, uh, Dr. Stephens, you know that’s not the point at . . .”

  “Dead,” Dr. Stephens declares, her words punching the air. “That is precisely where she would be, dead. Instead of lying safely post-surgery in a hospital bed, comfortable in an induced coma, not a natural one, with a promising likelihood of full recovery. Life, not death.”

  Jex’s face grows paler and paler as the quarrel between the two senior doctors escalates. She is crawling into herself, and has been since Dr. Cohen commenced his yelling session at her. But the words “dead” and “death” and the thoughts of her friend lying in a hospital bed in an induced, post-surgical coma, become too much for her. Without a sound or a whimper she jumps up from her seat and bolts out of the room, so quickly it causes both doctors to stop their words in mid-sentence.

  “Jex,” Dr. Stephens calls out to her but it is too late. She is down the hallway and into a stairwell before either of the doctors can even
open the door.

  “Well,” Dr. Stephens says, turning back to Dr. Cohen, who seems suddenly meek and unsure. “That’s just great. We may never see her in this hospital again. I hope that makes you happy.”

  Dr. Cohen rubs his forehead with his hand. “That’s not what I want at all, Doctor. You know that. She just needs more discipline or she will never …”

  “Never what,” Dr. Stephens demands. “Succeed? Thrive? Survive? She has a passion for medicine and amazing talents that could exceed both yours and mine if they are just properly…”

  “Properly what,” Dr. Cohen shoots back. “Coddled? Hugged? She needs to know how to improve…”

  “Her friend is nearly dead. Is this the right time to be yelling at screaming at her? Amazing talent or not, she is young and scared and alone.”

  “I never meant …”

  “Oh, Dr. Cohen, you never mean anything you do. Maybe it’s time that you grew up a little bit, not her.” With that, Dr. Stephens turns on her heel and walks angrily down the hallway. Dr. Cohen begins to call out to her but apparently thinks better of it. Instead, he simply stands in the hallway, watching Dr. Stephens as she turns a corner and disappears.

  * * *

  It is hard to say how much time has passed since Jex stormed out of the hospital in despair. One hours? Three? Maybe more or maybe less. She wouldn’t know if you asked her, her thoughts clouded by panic and shame and uncertainty and fear and sadness; so much sadness. She is curled up in the basement of the public library, trying not to let her tears break into an audible crying. It is a common theme in her life, she thinks to herself, but she’s a tough girl. And she is not a frightened girl. But she doesn’t feel tough and she doesn’t feel not frightened. She only feels despair. Helpless. Hopeless.

  “And what, Ms. Blackwell do you think you are doing? Another basement nap on library time?” Ms. Tubman’s words pierce the air, jolting Jex out of her thoughts. Jex looks up at her and the look on her face jolts Ms. Tubman every bit as much as her words jolted Jex. She sees tears in Jex’s eyes, something she had never seen in the two years since Jex starting working at the library. Jex erratically folds and unfolds a letter sized envelope in her hands, nervously creasing the edges and fingering the handwritten print on its front. She is pale in a way that Ms. Tubman had never seen before. And, when Jex speaks, she speaks with a quiver in her voice that was never there before.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Tubman,” Jex says with a complete lack of sarcasm or pretense. “I didn’t know where to go.”

  With a grace and fluidity that she does not often reveal, Ms. Tubman glides down and sits next to Jex; not a common gesture for the normally staid Ms. Tubman.

  “What is it, Ms. Blackwell?” All of the disdain and chastising that had always made up Ms. Tubman’s personality are gone. There is only sudden and uncompromising compassion. Perhaps it is all that Jex needs at the moment.

  In a manner that is completely counter to any element of her personality previously disclosed to Ms. Tubman, Jex jumps into a stream-of-consciousness statement summarizing the last twenty four hours, which started the previous morning with Ms. Tubman stiffly guiding Molly to Jex’s secret basement hiding place. She folds and unfolds the envelope with increasing urgency as she speaks. Ms. Tubman does not interrupt a single time. On two occasions, when Jex seemed to be getting emotional with the story, Ms. Tubman gently placed her fingers on Jex’s arm, the slightest of touches; it soothes Jex in a way that, if she were to reflect upon the moment later, would have seemed foreign and strange, but endlessly reassuring.

  Jex talks about Molly’s symptoms and about her crush on the squat kid. She talks about drinking, and how she understood how not drinking could be isolating and difficult for a young kid at a cool party. She talks about tagging with Q and how she hadn’t known about Molly’s fall and hitting her head; and how if she had thought to ask about that, she would have immediately brought Molly to a hospital. She wonders aloud about whether those few hours would have made it easier for Molly. She talks about how frail and pale Molly looked when she found her in the squat. She talks about the older guy Blake (without dropping his name, no snitch) who didn’t want to do anything at the squat at all, thought that Molly was just high or something. She talks about how she insisted, and how another squat girl helped her. She talks about the hours waiting through Molly’s surgery, and looking up traumatic brain injuries and induced comas in Kumar & Clark.

  And then, for a long time, she talks about Dr. Cohen’s diatribe. How it hurts Jex, and how Jex knows, though, that he is right; that she was in over her head. She doesn’t cry at all, like in the sniffly, chokey way, but tears well up in her eyes and flow down her cheeks as she talks.

  Through it all, Ms. Tubman listens quietly.

  “I don’t know, Ms. Tubman,” Jex says after she gets through the story, with its squats and surgeries; panic and fear. “I think I’m just a fake. I think I’m so smart, but I don’t know anything. I just don’t know anything. I’m a waster of space.”

  “Well,” sniffs Ms. Tubman haughtily. “I don’t know about any of that, but I do know this. You will run into Dr. Cohen types all your life. And even the smart ones, even the brilliant ones, will try to talk you down. It has happened to me my whole life.”

  Jex sniffles in a way that is quite uncharacteristic. It has a sense of innocence to it that should be commonplace in a sixteen-year-old; but is typically quite absent in Jex. One might even say it was refreshing, if it weren’t for the sadness behind the hope in her eyes. “Really?” she asks in a tepid whisper.

  “Really,” Ms. Tubman confirms, her words an unspoken guarantee. “You are an incredibly bright young person, Jex. There will be plenty of old people like Dr. Cohen that try to tear you down, because you are growing in a way that is foreign and scary to them.”

  Jex stares at her feet as Ms. Tubman speaks, but it is easily apparent that she is listening carefully to each word. Ms. Tubman continues. “They grew up in a different time and, trust me, the people that were there before didn’t think too much of their ways. Because they can’t see it. They’ve worked so hard to make their own way, they forget there are other ways to do things; new ways; better ways.”

  “Ms. Blackwell,” Ms. Tubman sighs. “I know you are not one for trusting. And when I was your age, I certainly trusted no one. Still don’t, as a matter of fact.” She winks out of the corner of her eye as she says this, and Jex just glimpses the gesture out of the corner of hers. Despite the darkness, Jex can’t help but smile.

  “But, please, I think I haven’t lied to you ever, I’m very sure I haven’t. Please trust me on this. You are doing the right thing. You have found your path and you are following it. Take your time. Learn from the things life offers you. They will improve you and you will share the things you learn with many others. You are going to do great things, Ms. Blackwell.” She pauses and then continues in a much lower voice, almost out of the side of her mouth. “Don’t let these douche bags get you down.”

  Jex can’t help but chuckle and Ms. Tubman chuckles back just slightly, almost a guffaw. Ms. Tubman has said her piece and Jex doesn’t respond. The two sit there for a long moment, contemplating. Ms. Tubman, looks down at the envelope that Jex is folding and unfolding. “What do you have there?”

  “Oh,” Jex says, looking at the well-folded envelope as though seeing it for the first time. “Heh,” Jex murmurs in a false laugh. “Well, I’ve been applying to colleges, mostly because Ms. Gretel over at student counseling is making me. I filled out all the stupid forms but I’ve been procrastinating the essay. Ms. Gretel has been all up my a … all over me to finish it up. But, I don’t know. I just wasn’t really able to say anything I thought they wanted to hear.”

  “Ah,” Ms. Tubman says knowingly. “And that’s the finished project that you are delaying giving to Ms. Gretel.”

  “Worse,” Jex chuckles. “That time has passed. She texted me, telling me if it’s not postmarked by tomorrow, Stanford won’t cons
ider me.”

  “I see. And Stanford is where you want to go to college.”

  Jex laughs a laugh somewhere between incredulous and defeated. “I don’t even think I want to go to college.”

  Ms. Tubman laughs back the same laugh and then says again, “I see.” And then she says, “and I suppose Ms. Gretel told you that if you just sent it in and were accepted, you could decide then whether to go, but if you don’t send it in, your decision is made for me.”

  Jex laughs back. “Yeah,” she nods. “Pretty much. But it’s not that the decision is made for me, you know. I’ve made the decision. No one made it for me.”

  “Yes,” Ms. Tubman nods back. “And you’re sure it’s the right decision, right?”

  Jex pauses and then shrugs. “The future … well, the future. I don’t know. It doesn’t really mean anything to me, so why bother. But . . .”

  “But Stanford sounds cool, right?”

  ‘Yeah,” Jex laughs quietly. “I guess so.” There is a long pause. “It’s not for me, though, I want to just tear it up.”

  “Hmmm,” Ms. Tubman says. There is another long pause. Jex folds and unfold the envelope. After more silence, the intercom emits three quiet beeps. Ms. Tubman is being paged.

  “Well,” she says. “I have to see to that.” She stands awkwardly and slowly, straightens her dress. “Thank you for speaking to me, Ms. Blackwell. You are a smart girl and I don’t think you need any of my advice. I trust in you to do the right thing, just try to do the right thing for you; not what you think others think is the right thing for you.”

  “Thank you for listening, Ms. Tubman. I really appreciate it.”

  “Not at all. And, here,” she says, reaching her hand out. “Why don’t you let me hold onto that letter for a day, so you don’t tear it up or send it out and regret it. You have until close of business tomorrow. I will hold it. If you want to send it out, let me know and I will put it in tomorrow’s post. If not …” she just shrugs her shoulders.