Chapter Four: Responsible
"I, Jesse Bruce Pinkman, name the following individual as my agent to make health-care decisions for me: Walter White," Saul jerks his head in Walt's direction as he adds, "- that's you – blah, blah, blah, and you already know your address and phone number."
"So that means," Skyler begins, "That Walt can choose Jesse Pinkman's treatment? All of it?" She leans in, questioning and concerned. It's almost like finding out that Walt had some kind of illegitimate child that she never knew about.
"That's what it says here," Saul replies, poking the paper and beginning to read off, "He has authority to 'consent or refuse any care, treatment, service or procedure to maintain, diagnose or otherwise affect a physical or mental condition, select or discharge health-care providers and institutions; approve or disapprove diagnostic tests, surgical procedures, programs of medication and orders not to resuscitate; and direct the provision, withholding or withdrawal of artificial nutrition and hydration and all other forms of health care. If I revoke my agent's authority or if my agent is not willing, able or reasonably available to make a health-care decision for me, I designate as my first alternate agent…' Andrea Cantillo, at blah-blah-blah Street… And the second alternate is, I'm sorry to say, no longer among the living."
"Andrea?" Walt exclaims, ignoring the latter information and latching on to offense, "Is that that girlfriend of his?" His head rings with the memory of Jesse telling him about the girl he'd talked to, the one who had told him about her brother… Her brother Tomas… "Or a new one?"
"No, same girlfriend," Saul supplies.
"He barely knows that girl! I've never even met her! What the hell is he thinking?" Walt rages indignantly. The lawyer holds up his hands, and Skyler takes a moment to stare at him.
"Guess it's good that you're 'able and willing', then, right?" Saul retorts. He reaches out and hands Walt the folder before patting him hard on the back. "My job here is done. The rest is up to you."
And just like that, Saul leaves (just walks out the door, ready for business, business elsewhere), and Walt is responsible for Jesse – officially, now, responsible in a way he'd always tried to be surreptitiously. Why had Jesse done this, laid this on him? How would he explain this to Skyler? Damn that Pinkman, that reckless…
"We should sit down," Skyler tells him, slowly sitting in a square black leather chair. They remind her of the kind that align airport waiting rooms; they are blocky and uncomfortable, awkward and if people had been sitting on either side of them they would have been crushed up against them. However, no one is around, and Skyler gestures for Walt to take the chair next to her. "Have you heard anything, other than that he's critical? How badly is he hurt?"
"I don't know," Walt replies; he wishes there was a numerical equation he could toss out – "he lost 25% of his blood but he has an 80% survival rate" or something – but all he can add is, "He wasn't conscious. They came out of nowhere. He was pinned. They cut the car away." The words are said calmly because if Walt lets up he knows he will break down, right here right now and then the cat's out of the bag for good.
"I'm staying here with you." It's not a question; Skyler doesn't ask questions, not in times like these, she makes demands, she takes control.
"What about Holly? Junior?"
"They're with Hank and Marie," Skyler replies, before adding quickly, "They don't know anything about this. I dropped them off before I figured out what was going on." The accusation in her voice lingers almost gently. "I'll just tell Marie… something." Some other half-or-quarter-truth.
A doctor emerges, (he's young, looking more like a resident than someone they can trust with Jesse's life, and he's got curly brown hair that makes him look even younger) and Skyler nearly pounces on him, a lioness pinning her prey.
"How is he?" she barks. "What's his condition?" The doctor's eyes widen.
"And you are?"
"This is my wife, Skyler," Walt replies, rising out of the seat. "And I don't know if you need this documentation." He extends the living will paperwork, hoping the doctor will say that they don't need it, that Jesse is going to be just fine.
"Thank you, Mr. -" the doctor begins.
"White."
"Mr. White. I'm Dr. Hendrickson."
Suddenly, Walt does not want to be called that by anyone other than a much less worse-for-wear Jesse, so he replies, "Walter is fine."
"Walter, then. Mr. Pinkman has lost a lot of blood, his leg was crushed, and he has some severe head trauma from hitting the ground." The doctor looks surprised when it's Walt who lets out a strangled gasp and Skyler who steps forward to grab his hand. "We're not sure what his prognosis is at this point. He needs a blood transfusion and from there…" He looks at the couple sadly. "It's going to be very touch-and-go from there, I'm afraid."
"Blood?" Walt inquires, latching upon something he can do, some way to get this situation back under his control. "What's Jesse's blood type?"
"A Negative," Dr. Hendrickson replies.
"I'm O Negative – I'll donate," Walt begins.
"No, you won't," Skyler retorts. "I'm A Negative and I will donate. My husband," she looks at him, "is a cancer patient and in no shape to donate…"
"Skyler…"
"Where do I go?" Skyler cuts him off, rolling up her arm. Walt doesn't have time to respond as she follows the doctor out of the room.