Hell on Earth

September 11, 2001

8:31 a.m.

I finish the Chapter titled “The Peloponnesian War” in my social studies book and stand up. Mommy told me to read and she’d give me a quiz on it. I stand up and give a swift pet to my cat, Ramen. Then I head down the stairs of our apartment. 

My parents work in a deli, and we live in an apartment directly above it. I can see the Twin Towers from my bedroom window. It’s a warm September’s day, 2001. “Mom!” I call. “I’m ready to help with the sandwiches!” 

“Alright, Teresa!” I hear her yell back from the deli kitchen. “You know the rules! Hairnet, gloves, apron!”

“Yes, I know Mom!” I shout, slightly annoyed. I mean, I’ve been working here for free since I was 7. That’s 4 years! 

I put on some fresh gear. A white apron, a disposable hairnet, and some plastic gloves. Before I put my long chestnut hair into the hairnet, I pin it on the top of my head and slide the hairnet over it. 

A young woman comes up to the counter. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school, young lady?” she gives me a disapproving look as she says this. 

“I’m homeschooled. Besides, my mom says I’m smart and if it weren’t the law she wouldn’t have to teach me much.” I say back, determined to protect my name.

The woman looks slightly annoyed, but thankfully I haven’t scared her off. My parents and I have had to have the ‘Don’t scare off customers talk’ before. 

The woman is average sized, but I am almost as tall as her. “I’ll have the sausage and egg sandwich to go, please.” she says, taking out a black leather wallet from her leopard print handbag. I hope it’s not a real leopard. Probably not. 

I make her the sandwich and wrap it up in some paper. Then I put it in a brown paper bag and hand it to the lady. “That’ll be $4.50. Will that be all?” I say. Mom has drilled the ‘Talking to customers politely’ speech into me.

I glance at the clock. It’s 8:39 a.m. Mom said she’d give me the test at 9:00. She is very punctual. 

“Yes. That’ll be all.” The woman says. 

“Have a nice day.” 

The cashier at the other end of the counter, Melissa, takes the order of a couple that can barely stop kissing long enough to take the order. Melissa looks like she might vomit. I’m not sure why until I see that they’re slobbering all over each other. 

Suddenly people start pointing at the sky outside. I can’t hear their muffled voices, but something seems wrong. I take off my apron, hairnet, and gloves, and say to Melissa “I’m going to check what’s going on. Probably one of those planes with messages, only this one says something weird.” 

I step outside, and ask the nearest person what’s going on. He says “That airplane is flying really low. We’re trying to figure out why.” 

I look up at the plane. It is flying really low for a plane. “Why do you think it’s doing that?” I ask, even though I know he probably won’t be able to find an answer. 

“I don’t know . . . That’s pretty weird.” the man replies. 

Suddenly the people watching the plane start screaming, and a few other curious shopkeepers step onto the street. I scream too, squeezing the man’s arm. 

The plane has just crashed into one of the Twin Towers. 

September 11, 2001

8:47 a.m.

The man and I scream and I let go of his arm. I’ve left little half moon shaped marks on his tan skin. “Sorry.” I mumble. His face drains of color and I stumble inside my parents' deli. The shop has no customers and I put the closed sign on. 

“Turn on the news!” I screech, so loud that Melissa covers her ears. She picks up the remote and changes to channel from a sports game on the TV in the deli to the news. 

BREAKING NEWS! The screen blares. “Mommy!” I cry, tears welling up in my eyes. 

My parents rush out from the back of the shop. “What is it-” Mom says, and stops when she sees the TV. 

“Shh.” My dad says, holding a finger up to his lips. 

The distressed news anchor says “A plane has crashed into one of the Twin Towers. Officials don’t know who struck them. Several rescue operations have been launched, to locate people trapped inside the skyscraper.” 

I begin sobbing as does Melissa. Melissa is sobbing louder than me. “My mom works in the World Trade Center!” She wails. My dad takes her into the kitchen. 

I open my mouth to say something to my mom when people outside scream again. “Oh Jesus what now?” Mom moans.

We rush outside, and my friend from earlier runs up to us and screams “The other Tower’s been hit!” 

I look up at the Twin Towers. They’re smoking, dark as night. Fire blooms and I squeeze my eyes shut. I know what me and my mother have to do. 

“Mommy?” I say.

“I know. I know. Let’s go.” She replies, her voice laced with sobs. 

We head inside and pack up a rolling cooler with sandwiches and bottles of water. Me and my mother are going to get as close to the Twin Towers as we can. 

People are rushing towards the tower, arms full of food or medical gear. Ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars screech as they rush down the street. 

The police have put caution tape at the end of our street, and rescue workers are trying to get inside the hell on Earth.

I don’t want to hear what they’re saying, but sometimes ears hear even when you don’t want to know. “Staircases blocked, building might collapse, hope seems bleak.” I hear one EMT say to another. 

A woman comes out of the building in the arms of a paramedic. She doesn’t need much medical attention and he puts her down near me, then rushes back into the building. Mom has disappeared with the cooler. 

I run to the woman, who is sobbing. She is wearing a ripped and scorched red dress with what’s left of a blazer on it. Her hair is a bird’s nest, and her feet are bare. I heard that the rescuers were telling women to kick off their high heels. 

“Shh. It’s okay.” I say, sitting down next to her. I’ve never seen someone so fragile. She’s like a bird. She was just going to work, never being able to anticipate the volcano inside the building. 

I put my arms around her as she sobs. “M-my b-best f-friend is s-still at her d-desk. I n-need to f-find her.” She wails, barely understandable because of her tears. 

“It’s okay. Shh. You’ll find your best friend. Are you hurt?” 

“No! My best friend is still in there! We need to help her! She has a 19 year old daughter and a family! She can’t die!” She cries, struggling against me. 

“She’ll be okay. My name is Teresa. Tell me your name.” I say, trying to stay calm as ice flows through my veins. Melissa’s mother is trapped in the World Trade Center. 

September 11, 2001

9:21 a.m.

“My name is Lisa.” The woman goes slack in my arms. 

“That’s a pretty name. I’m going to bring you to my parents' deli, okay? Can you walk? I think your best friend’s daughter is there.” 

Lisa nods and lifts up her arms to be carried. I oblige. This is insane. This is a 35 year old woman being carried by an 11 year old girl. I truly understand what it must be like in there to make her so upset. 

I carry her through the streets. People are rushing past screaming, ambulances roaring. I glance at my watch. It’s 9:46. It’s hard to believe that this all happened before most kids have made it into second period at school.

My dad lets me into the deli and I lay Lisa on a table. She sits up and my dad wipes off her sooty face. I take Lisa’s face in my hands. Her forehead and cheeks are hot. I wipe some cool water onto her face. “Go to sleep, Lisa. It’ll be okay when you wake up.” 

Melissa is still crying, but softly. “Did you see my mom?” she asks me. “That’s her best friend.” 

“Lisa was very upset. She had to evacuate and was convinced your mom was still inside.” 

Melissa puts her face into her hands. “I’m going to go back out and bring Mom back.” I say. 

I rush out into the streets. “Mommy! Mommy!”

I hear a faint “Teresa!” coming from the throng of people. 

I spot my mom’s hairnet and rush into her arms. “Mommy! C’mon, we have to go. The cops are saying that the building is going to collapse!” I say. 

“I know.” she replies. The cooler is gone but she doesn’t care. 

“Did they find Melissa’s mom?” 

“Yeah. She’s hurt though. She’s going to the ER.” 

We start running back to the deli when I hear a deafening crash. “Oh no.” I say. 

We duck into the nearest shop, which happens to be a T-shirt shop. Several other people run in too. One of the Twin Towers comes down with a noise like a jet engine. 

The whole street is coated in glass and steel. A few people that covered their heads on the street stand up, shell-shocked. They have several small scratches on their arms. 

“Mommy let’s go!” I say, my throat coated in plaster dust. 

Mom looks up. “I love you Teresa.” 

“You too.” I reply. We both ran into the street. It’s like bizarre snow. A surrealist born and raised Miami’s depiction of winter. 

“The other might fall too Mommy! We need to get to the deli shop!” I cry.

We run home, where I immediately say to Melissa “Your mom’s in the ER. One of the Towers fell.” 

I gulp down a water bottle and look at Lisa. 

She’s sitting up, pale and sweaty. “I had a bad dream.” she says faintly. 

September 21, 2002

Three weeks after September 11, 2001 and I was in public school. I quickly made friends. We had sleepovers and for my birthday in February we watched all of the Lord of the Rings movies. 

Melissa, her mother, and Lisa all come over for dinner every Sunday. Sometimes I still find myself gawking at the long, jagged, sickly looking scar on Melissa’s mom’s arm. 

Lisa and I have a special bond. I know that she’s grateful to me and she’s always telling me how lucky she was that I was so kind to her, a complete stranger. 

It still upsets me when I hear about her latest nightmares. Smoke, fire, crashing planes and bodies fill her nights. I think I know what I’m going to do when I grow up. 

October 19, 2015

I glance around my office in the building where I work. The walls are covered in degrees. I’m a physiatrist. I help people that are traumatized. A few of my patients are New York citizens that survived 9/11.

I have a family and I still visit Lisa whenever I can. She is what made me want to dedicate my life to helping people’s nightmares. 

A war veteran, house fire victim, kidnapped teen. These are just some of my patients. But I don’t think of them as patients. I try to understand them. When they are hesitant to tell me something, afraid I will be too afraid, I assure them that this is my job and that they are the important ones. 

I am a psychiatrist, an author, and an excellent sandwich maker. Some people that I know try not to think about that day. But I do. I tell people and even now my mom has to tell me not to scare her customers away with my vivid recalling of that day. 

Some things never change, like one’s personality or the way my mom makes sandwiches, but other things do change, like airport security and age. And we just have to change with them.  

The End