Other than chatter between the paramedics, everyone was silent until Mrs. Hakim was loaded into the ambulance. Then the cute paramedic told Cornelia and Admeta to put their book bags on the small counter and strap themselves into seat belts on a small bench on the other side of it. Cornelia thought that must have been where the paramedics sat on their way to emergencies. She had never been in an ambulance before. Admeta was told she could release the pressure she was applying so the paramedics could clean and dress the wound.
Cornelia looked at Admeta. She was covered in blood and clutching Mrs. Hakim’s hijab, yet she remained very calm.
Mrs. Hakim began to speak, but the cute paramedic cut her off. “Ma’am it’s better if you just stay as still and as quiet as possible.”
“That’s all well and good, young man,” Mrs. Hakim answered, “but if you are to treat me, there are a few things you need to know.”
She took a deep breath, but the paramedic did not protest further. “I’m going to tell you what this young lady already knows,” she said, pointing to Admeta, “and I am assuming this young lady knows as well or she would not be here.” Cornelia saw Mrs. Hakim pointing in her direction.
“She doesn’t know, Mrs. H.,” Admeta protested. “She just saw…”
“I--I saw the wig,” Cornelia finished for Admeta who was obviously flustered.
“Wig?” The older paramedic asked.
“Yes, you see?” Mrs. Hakim said as she pulled off her wig. Cornelia was shocked to see a nearly bald scalp peeking out from underneath the wig that now rested under Mrs. Hakim’s head. There was a tear in the wig where Mrs. Hakim must have hit her head. Admeta had been covering it up with the hijab. Cornelia tried not to gasp. She had known something was going on when she saw Mrs. Hakim’s hair move back in the classroom, but she had no idea about this. She was also disgusted by the wound underneath the wig. It was bleeding less profusely than before, but blood was still trickling down Mrs. Hakim’s head. Even still, Cornelia thought Mrs. Hakim looked almost serene. She was very proud despite her hair loss and gaping wound.
“I have stage three breast cancer, gentlemen. I passed out because I did not eat much today. Chemotherapy does not give you much of an appetite, you see.” Cornelia’s heart sank. Lying in front of her was a woman she once despised, whom she just found out was suffering from the same disease that had killed her grandmother the summer before. Cornelia’s grandmother also wore a wig to cover her head. She also fainted from fatigue during her chemo. Cornelia tried to fight back the tears, but soon they were streaming down her face in spite of herself. She was embarrassed and ashamed. Admeta was sitting so stoic it made Cornelia feel like a child.
“I am sorry you had to find out this way, child,” Mrs. Hakim said to Cornelia. “I did not want anyone to know, you see. Admeta found out by accident over the summer and I swore her to secrecy. I am sure she knew you would figure it out on your own. That is why she asked you to come. I must ask that you keep my secret, Cornelia.” Cornelia nodded her head, but said nothing. The realization that Mrs. Hakim was already suffering with cancer when Cornelia wrote those horrible words on the wall of the school made her sick to her stomach. Her hands gripped at her midsection.
“Samantha, this is something they should have told the 911 operator,” the cute paramedic said.
“Yes, but as I said I do not want anyone to know and Admeta honored my wishes,” Mrs. Hakim replied, matter-of-factly. She smiled at the frustrated paramedic and continued, “Now, if what you say is true about me lying still and conserving my breath, I shall let you…how do you say? Get down to business?” Admeta chuckled a little and Mrs. Hakim smiled at her, then closed her eyes. Cornelia wondered how the two of them could be so upbeat about such a horrible topic.
The cute paramedic looked from Mrs. Hakim to the two teenagers in his rig. One was covered in blood, the other in tears. He decided not to push the subject any further. “Come on Stan, let’s start an IV and get some dressing on this wound,” he said to the older paramedic.
The girls remained silent as the paramedics cleaned the wound with gauze and a clear liquid that Cornelia thought smelled like alcohol. Mrs. Hakim didn’t move a muscle even when they poured the liquid right on her wound. The cute paramedic then dabbed at the wound and applied some butterfly tape. The wound had finally stopped bleeding at that point. Then the two men put more gauze around Mrs. Hakim’s head and put an IV in her arm.
Finally, the cute paramedic yelled to the front of the ambulance, “O.k., let’s go, Hardy.”
With that, the ambulance pulled away from Storm River High School. Cornelia looked out the back windows at classroom number 97. She could see people looking out the windows, but she was certain they hadn’t seen what was going on inside the red and white ambulance that was now screaming down the road.
Cornelia’s thoughts raced as the siren screeched in her ears. When she committed her crime, she never considered that Mrs. Hakim might be sick. Then she wondered what she would have done if someone would have written nasty things about her grandmother while she was sick. “I would have killed them,” she thought. And she suddenly felt truly, unabashedly ashamed of herself, not just because Mrs. Hakim was sick, but because what she did was despicable and she knew it. She didn’t just see it, she felt it.
She felt the pain and anguish Mrs. Hakim’s children must have felt when they were told that their mother had breast cancer. She felt their warm, salty tears on her cheeks. She felt pangs of regret over unspoken words and harsh words spoken and written out of anger. Most of all, she felt shame burning through her veins. She and Admeta remained silent as the paramedics worked to make Mrs. Hakim more comfortable.
“Samantha, you have to stay awake. You may have a concussion.”
“Oh, very well,” Mrs. Hakim said, opening her eyes. The paramedics did their best to clean up the blood that had gotten everywhere, including all over the wig.
The rest of the ride was spent in silence except for the fussing paramedics. By the time they arrived at the hospital, Cornelia had stopped crying, but she was still hurting. Admeta was just as stoic as ever. The paramedics offloaded Mrs. Hakim from the ambulance and pushed her into the Emergency Room doors. Cornelia and Admeta followed them. When they got inside the cute paramedic asked the girls to wait in the waiting room.
“We want to go in with her!” Admeta protested.
“It is alright, Admeta, they are going to change me into one of those drab hospital gowns. You young ladies do not need to witness that. These young me will call you when I am ready for visitors,” Mrs. Hakim said as the paramedics pushed her gurney through some flapping doors.
Cornelia looked around the waiting room, clutching her purse. It was the same purse she had at her trial a few weeks before, but somehow it meant less to her. She handed Admeta her purse without speaking. In the waiting room sat people of every race and color. Some young, some old, and some in between. Some of them looked sick, and some just looked tired, but they all looked sad somehow. Everyone except one little blonde-haired girl in the corner. Before Cornelia could turn to walk away, a nurse had come up to Admeta. She was holding blue scrubs and a plastic bag. Admeta took the bag and clothes and went into the bathroom to change.
Cornelia looked again at the little girl who was laughing and playing with some toys the hospital put out for pre-schoolers. The little girl was wearing a pink, poofy dress and had curls all the way down the middle of her back. Cornelia thought she looked like an angel. She walked over and sat beside her.
“Hi!” The little girl said to Cornelia.
“Hi,” Cornelia said back. She was relieved by the distraction.
“My name is Gwendolyn, what’s your’s?” the little girl asked with a smile.
“Cornelia.”
“Cornelia? That’s a funny name,” the little girl laughed.
“Hey, I didn’t make fun of your name, Gwendolyn. It’s not nice to make fun of mine,” Cornelia said sternly. If Writers on
the Storm had taught her anything it was that words can wound worse than fists.
“I’m sorry,” Gwendolyn replied. “Do you forgive me?”
Cornelia thought it was a strange request from such a young girl, but she was happy to oblige. “Yes, I do,” she said.
The little girl looked around the room. Cornelia admired her porcelain skin and bright blue eyes. The little girl moved closer to Cornelia and whispered, “Do you think Jesus will forgive me too?” Then she looked up at the ceiling as if searching for a lightening bolt to strike her down.
Cornelia leaned in close to the little girl’s ear and whispered back, “Yes, I think he will.”
“Cool,” Gwendolyn replied and smiled widely. “Is your friend hurt?” she asked.
“My friend?” Cornelia asked.
“The one in the bathroom,” Gwendolyn replied.
“Oh, Admeta. No. She’s fine,” Cornelia said.
“But she had blood on her clothes,” Gwendolyn persisted.
“That wasn’t her blood,” Cornelia said, trying to reassure the girl.
“Are you sure?” Gwendolyn asked skeptically.
“Quite sure,” Cornelia said and giggled a little at the girl’s persistence.
“Maybe it is her blood,” Gwendolyn supposed. “Sometimes my mommy gets blood on her clothes when Aunt Flo comes to visit.”
“What?” Cornelia asked, confused.
“She gets blood on her pants sometimes and has to clean it off. Whenever that happens she tells me that her Aunt Flo has come to visit and she will be gone in a few days. I’ve never met Aunt Flo; I think she’s mommy imaginary friend. But I don’t know why her imaginary friend makes her bleed.” Cornelia couldn’t help but giggle. She had never heard anyone refer to menstrual flow as Aunt Flo before. The little girl looked confused.
“I’m sorry,” Cornelia said, choking back laughter. Then she suddenly remembered why she was at the hospital and she felt guilty for laughing. Gwendolyn was still looking at her quizzically.
“I don’t think your mom’s imaginary friend hurts her. Maybe her friend is a doctor and she accidentally spills vials of blood,” Cornelia felt pretty silly saying this, but she couldn’t find any way out of it.
Admeta had come out of the bathroom during this odd conversation and sat down next to Cornelia. Her bloody clothes were tucked into the bag that once held the scrubs she was now wearing.
“Hello! My name is Gwendolyn and yours is Admeta!” Gwendolyn said.
“Umm, yeah, it is,” Admeta said, looking at Cornelia with her brow furrowed. Cornelia shrugged her shoulders and shook her head.
“Was that your blood on your clothes?” Gwendolyn asked.
“No,” Admeta replied with what Cornelia thought was a tone of regret.
“Oh,” Gwendolyn said and looked down at the floor. Then she moved to the chair cattycorner to Cornelia’s. “Sometimes my brother’s blood gets on my clothes,” she said.
Admeta and Cornelia looked at each other with alarm.
“What do you mean?” Admeta asked.
“He can’t help it,” Gwendolyn said, “he doesn’t do it on purpose. Sometimes it just happens. Then I have to call my mommy so she can take him to the doctor.”
“Where is your mommy?” Cornelia asked, still looking concerned.
“She had to go back with my brother,” she said, pointing to the flapping doors.
“Where’s your dad?” Admeta asked.
“Don’t have one,” the little girl said, matter-of-factly. “He left when Gabriel got sick.”
Cornelia and Admeta looked at each other knowingly. Cornelia couldn’t imagine a father leaving his children because one of them was sick. The thought made her feel sick again.
“Gwendolyn!” a female voice shouted. Admeta and Cornelia looked up to see a large African-American woman standing in front of the flapping doors wearing colorful scrubs. She was an ominous presence. She had braids pulled back into a ponytail. The braids had little streaks of silver hairs running through them, leading Cornelia to believe she was in her forties.
“Gwendolyn, girl, where are you?!” she yelled.
“She’s over here,” Admeta shouted back. When the girls looked back over at Gwendolyn she had vanished. Cornelia and Admeta looked at each other with concern. Cornelia felt something on her leg and jumped out of her chair. When she looked underneath her chair, she saw a bundle of blonde curly locks peeking out.
Noticing this, the nurse continued, “Gwendolyn, girl, you just scared the bejesus out of your mother. Get your fanny in here right now.” Gwendolyn crawled out from under Cornelia’s chair and slowly walked toward the nurse as if she were marching to the beat of an invisible drummer. She had her right hand to her right eyebrow in a salute. This made the girls giggle.
“I gotta go see Gabe,” Gwendolyn shouted back at the girls. “It was nice meeting you.” With that she toddled through the flapping doors, followed by the annoyed nurse. Cornelia and Admeta looked at each other once again.
“What the heck was that about?” Admeta asked.
“I don’t know,” Cornelia said as she sat back down.
“I wonder what’s wrong with her brother,” Admeta said.
“Me too,” Cornelia said. “Do you think Mr. Brockheimer called our parents? My mom grounded me from my cell phone, so I can’t call her. Hopefully she’s not freaking out.”
“My dad never gets home until late, so he won’t worry. I’m sure one of the nurses would let you use a phone if you want to call her,” Admeta said.
“No, that’s o.k. She’d probably just yell at me anyway. I’ve been pretty mad at her for punishing me. That was pretty stupid of me too. I guess I have someone else to apologize to,” Cornelia said, bowing her head and looking at her feet. Admeta wanted to say something, but she was too tired.
The next few hours were spent in silence, with the girls looking through magazines and watching whatever was on the tiny television across from them. It was really old and the color was faded. Cornelia didn’t like the news programs that were on and she had already read anything that interested her on the magazine rack.
“How much longer do you think it will be?” she asked, interrupting the silence.
“I don’t know. You can call your mom to come get you if you want. I’ll stay,” Admeta said.
“That’s not what I meant,” Cornelia said.
“I know what you meant,” Admeta interrupted. “I’m just saying if you want to go home, you can.”
“No, I’d like to stay,” Cornelia replied. “Besides, I don’t think my mom’s home. She said she was going out.” Admeta wasn’t listening.
“This is all my fault,” she said.
Startled, Cornelia asked, “Why do you say that?”
“I got Mrs. H. all upset and that’s why she collapsed,” Admeta replied. And for the first time since Cornelia had known her, she thought she saw the beginning of tears in Admeta’s eyes.
“That’s not why she collapsed,” Cornelia protested. “You heard her in the ambulance, she collapsed because she didn’t eat enough today.” Cornelia wanted to put her hand on Admeta’s shoulder to comfort her but she wasn’t sure they had reached that point in their relationship.
“She was probably just saying that to be nice,” Admeta offered.
“No she wasn’t!” Cornelia said. “When my grandma was going through chemo she did the same thing. I’m sure it had nothing to do with you, so shut up and stop feeling sorry for yourself. You need to stay positive for Mrs. Hakim and stop blaming yourself for something you had no control over.”
Admeta looked at Cornelia in slight disbelief. She hadn’t known that Cornelia’s grandmother had cancer and she was surprised by her unexpected lecture. She wasn’t sure how to respond, so she changed the subject.
“So, what was your story about?” Admeta asked.
“What?” Cornelia asked, confused.
“You didn’t get to read your story, so what was it
about?”
“Oh, that. I wrote about the homeless shelter,” Cornelia replied.
“What do you mean?”
“I wrote about that boy calling me ‘white girl’ and how you shut him up by telling him your brothers were in his gang,” Cornelia began.
“What?!” Admeta snapped loudly, and then whispered, “You were gong to tell everyone in Writers on the Storm that my brothers are gang members? What’s wrong with you, Cornelia?”
“Uh,” Cornelia was startled by Admeta’s outrage and didn’t know what to say. “I guess so, yeah. Is that a secret or something?”
“Of course it is! I don’t go around broadcasting my business to everyone. Do you know how people would treat me if they knew my brothers were in La Hijos de El Salvador?” she asked.
“No I don’t,” Cornelia said, honestly. “Why would they treat you differently because your brothers are in a gang?”
“La Hijos de El Salvador isn’t just any gang. It’s the worst gang in Storm River,” Admeta said. “My brothers are probably responsible for a lot of the pain and misery in this town. If people knew I was related to them or had any connection to the gang, they would put me down. You can’t tell anyone, Cornelia; you just can’t!” Admeta persisted.
“O.k.,” Cornelia replied. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was a secret. I had no idea.” Admeta calmed down after hearing Cornelia’s reassurances that she would not tell anyone.
“I’ll write another story, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get to share it,” Cornelia said, sadly.
“What do you mean?” Admeta asked
“I just don’t know if Writers on the Storm will continue without Mrs. Hakim,” Cornelia said glumly.
“What do you mean ‘without Mrs. H.?’ ” Admeta shrieked. “Don’t you talk like that! Don’t you EVER talk like that! Just stop it right now, Cornelia! Didn’t you just tell me to shut up and stop feeling sorry for myself? Didn’t you say that I need to stay positive for Mrs. Hakim and stop blaming myself for something I had no control over? You need to take your own advise, Cornelia.”
“I just don’t want to have false hope,” Cornelia replied and both girls were silent.
“Girls!” the large African-American nurse called out to them.
“Us?” Admeta asked her.
“Yes, you. You can come on back now, girls. Samantha can see you now.” Cornelia and Admeta immediately forgot their conversation and stood up to follow the nurse.
Chapter 12
Reality Bites
Writers on the Storm Page 11