Please, Hurry Leave Me
Julia Hirschfield
The bus from Evanston to Chicago takes an hour. I am sitting in between my aunt and Jason. Why my aunt insisted on taking Jason is unbeknownst to me. The bus is packed with college students with their fake IDs and liquor breath. The bus walls feel like they are closing in on each other. A group of boys sits behind me, and every single time one of them laughs, I feel it vibrating in my skull, like a bass guitar is trapped in my brain. (They’re engineering majors, I can tell by how loud they are. They’re pretending to have more fun than they actually are to overcompensate for the heart attacks they are going to have in five years).
My aunt seems completely unbothered; she’s just reading her Dostoevsky. Sometimes we will sit by the heater in our apartment, pretending it’s a fireplace, and start a book at the same time. But my aunt always reads incredibly fast with laser focus. My attention always wanders to the sound of the fridge light or a squirrel on a tree. When she reads, she becomes stoic. She’s not the same person she was 15 minutes earlier, who greeted the bus driver as soon as she boarded the bus, complimented him on his blue chevron scarf, and asked him how his Thanksgiving was. All genuine care about this stranger’s life. When she reads, she finally allows herself to focus only on her own experience rather than being concerned about everyone else’s.
That concern is probably why Jason is accompanying us to this unfortunate rendezvous. Jason is holding his phone in one hand and picking at his cuticle with the other. The person sitting across the aisle from him is so manspread that his knee is grazing Jason’s thigh. I know Jason despises that because one time I poked Jason’s thigh during class because Melissa said some dumbass thing about The Crucible (I don’t remember what, probably something racist, accidentally, about Tituba), and his face turned red. And that was just a poke, so he must be trying to unzip himself from his skin right now. The fact that he isn’t saying anything to that invasive passenger makes me want to take a cigarette and press it against Jason’s spine, so he remembers he has one.
“Are you okay,” I whisper to Jason. He turns his head slowly over to me, and glares at me like I had no right to ask such a vile question.
“Yeah?” I can tell he’s trying to make me feel like an idiot for my concern about his well-being. He is obviously not okay. I can see the tears in his eyes. Part of me just wants to yell at him for taking me for granted. Another part of me wants to pretend that didn’t happen, look over at my aunt’s book and read along with her, pretending Jason isn’t even there. But an even bigger part of me wants to do this:
I look past him over to the inconsiderate passenger across the aisle.
“Excuse me?” He’s not looking at me, but I know he hears me. “Move your leg, you’re touching my friend.” The bastard doesn’t move an inch.
“Emmalina, I’m fine, God.” Jason inches toward me, almost sitting on my lap. I ignore him and continue to stare at the passenger, yet he still says nothing to me. I feel like a dormant volcano, just begging to explode at this motherfucker. I need a punching bag, a scapegoat. I wish Jason wasn’t here. My socks feel weird against the sole of my shoe. The socks are thin and I can feel each individual lint ball against my skin, as well as the peeling fake leather of the insole of my boots. I scrunch my toes back and forth, trying to distract myself from the sensation. I’ll leave the passenger alone. And Jason. I turn to my aunt and read along with her Dostoevsky.
By the time the automated voice calls “Chicago Union Station,” I am no longer engaged with the novel. As we exit the bus, my aunt grips onto my arm, as if it will somehow cast an invisible shield protecting me from any loose haunted spirits. My aunt pulls my arm along with her fast pace, with Jason trotting along behind us like a baby duckling. I see him out of the corner of my eye, repeatedly getting stuck behind aggressive businessmen and tourists. I know his mother usually doesn’t let him go downtown, and only made the exception because my aunt would be chaperoning. But my aunt is leading me with her lazer sharp book focus and Jason is on his tippy toes, trying to find us over the crowd, fighting to catch up. God, why is he here.
When we come to a halt at the train station’s Dunkin’, as planned, I push up my layers of sleeves to find my watch.
Jason interrupts, “It’s 6:32. You said her train arrived at 6:25?” I nod, putting my gloves back on to comfort my frozen fingers. Jason is not even wearing a coat, just a flannel shirt that was probably a hand-me-down from his older brother. I don’t know how he is not violently shaking. He’s not a Illinois native either. His family moved from South Carolina, so his apparent tolerance of the cold makes no sense. My aunt steps away from us to make a phone call. I am glad she stepped away. I am not ready to hear the voice on the other line yet.
I can tell Jason senses my anxiety, seeping through my skin and leaking out to all the inpatient prospective passengers. I’m not surprised the teleprompter reveals that half the crowd is waiting for a delayed Detroit-bound train, twenty minutes late. Anxiety is contagious. Jason is still picking at his cuticles, more violently. I can see blood. I bet one of the passengers caught my anxiety and they’re contemplating all the consequences of the train being delayed, all the people they might offend or inconvenience.
“Apparently she got a reservation for a pizza restaurant she saw was highly-rated on Yelp. I guess she’s gonna make me pay $50 for a tourist trap pizza. At least she wanted to make this nice for you. It’s near the art district.”
I look over at Jason, who definitely doesn’t have the stamina to walk to the art district after the sprint we did to the train station. Maybe in other circumstances I would ask my aunt to get a taxi for us. But the bus was cramped, and the train station is humid. I need to go outside.
Instantly, a cold breeze smacks my face, as if a child has ruthlessly fired a water gun at me. Upon escaping the chaos of the train station, and all the homeless people who hang outside of it, I am reminded of why I love Chicago. Sure, it’s still a touristy area; it’s not like I am a Chicago-native and detest anything created for outsiders. But in the Art district, even though I don’t consider myself an artist, I feel creativity run through every pipe and between every brick. We pass a line of jazz clubs, and I feel the music wrap around my soul like a hot bath. It does not matter that it is 30 degrees outside, or that one block over I can hear a fight break out. I look up at the towers above me, and I am reminded of how small I am and how much more there is to life than what I’ve seen so far. There is more than this.
The sidewalk sparkles under the streetlamp. I’ve always loved the sparkle. I visited New York City once because my aunt wanted to visit The Strand, and I remember the visible sight of urine, dog shit, and cigarettes all sprawled out for pedestrians to see in broad daylight. Maybe Chicago is riddled with more danger and poverty, but the sidewalks glisten. If I was any crazier than I already am, I’d probably lick it, just to see if I can taste the metallic shimmer on my tongue. We arrived at the stupid restaurant and I can see my mother’s face through the glass, since of course she chose a table right next to the window.
She runs up to us, past the hostess who can’t even get a word in. She’s dressed as though she’s stuck in the 80’s, with her hair in a perm. She looks so frail, probably from the drugs. If she was wearing a crop top, like she was the last time I saw her, I could probably see every individual rib bulge from her stomach. Her cheekbones stick out prominently, with her eyes drooping down like a Tim Burton character. When she hugs me, it feels like I am being wrapped in a thorn bush.
“Emma! It…”
“Emmalina.”
“Emmalina, It’s so nice to see you! You look great.”
I am wrapped in so many coats and sweaters, with my hat slightly covering my eyes. She can’t see what I look like and probably won’t try to take much notice. I know I look more like my father than her, which she can instantly tell from my ashy hair and Roman nose. Taking in other similarities I share with him, like the birthmark above my paper thin lips, would probably be too painful.
“Who’s this? Your boyfriend?” My mother gestures at Jason. We all look at Jason, waiting for him to reply. He’s used to people speaking for him, but my aunt and I are both attempting to speak as little as necessary.
“No, I’m Emmalina’s friend from school. Jason.” He doesn’t make eye contact with her. My aunt explained my estrangement from my mother so I didn’t have to. She sent him a text message a couple days ago to warn him. I saw it on her laptop when I went to print my essay out. I am not angry at her, because as she said in the text, “I need a distraction.” And Jason has been doing his part, since he has been acting like a fucking incapable child that I feel the need to take care of. Oh look, now he’s shaking.
“Well, I ordered a pizza for all of us, their specialty meat lover’s supreme deep dish. They said it was ideal for four people, so I am glad you are here, Jason.”
I feel my stomach boiling up with acid. I feel like I belong in a chemistry lab rather than ordinary society. I look at my aunt, who I can tell is experiencing the same debate I am, of whether or not we should tell my mother I am vegan. I wasn’t planning on eating anyway, which would already have been controversial. Last week, I wanted to sob during class so badly that I whimpered silently in my seat. I was in the back row behind a lot of people, so I knew my teacher wouldn’t see my face. I just had to be as quiet as remotely possible. I made no noise, but my face scrunched and expanded however it desired. I was still able to purge myself, even though my vocal cords were sealed shut. Now I don’t even have that option.
The restaurant is super kitschy, with red tablecloths and gas lamps, to fit with whatever stereotype people associate with Chicago pizza. I think my mother just gave my aunt a back-handed compliment, two seconds after sitting down, about being well-fed. I can barely pay attention to the conversation, it’s like my body is shutting down.
“Are you still friends with Lucie?”
“No, I haven’t kept in touch with anyone from New Hampshire. I moved away nearly ten years ago.”
My mother chuckles, like I am a little kid who learned a big word at school today.
“It feels like yesterday you were cut out of me. You were a C-section, you know?”
I nod. Yes, I know. She brings it up every single time, without fail. The waiter brings out the meat lover’s pizza. No one except my mother touches it. Even if Jason was hungry, he wouldn’t dare move an inch. My aunt is likely abstaining from food in solidarity with me. Other than the meat, which I obviously despise, the pizza looks disgusting. The deep dish shape looks more like a bowl of oil than an edible substance. The cheese looks like it’s made of plastic, as though biting into it would be like biting into a melted crayon. But my mother cuts herself a piece and gobbles away.
When I cried in class the other day, I told Jason about it after. I usually don’t talk to Jason about emotional stuff. Even though he’s more gentle then all the men at our school, he’s still a guy and emotionally cut off. So he obviously didn’t know how to comfort me with words, so instead he made me an origami flower and I kissed him on the cheek. If I was attracted to men, I probably would have a crush on him.
“Emma, why don’t you try some? It’s delicious!” My mother claims, with sauce dripping down her face. I shuffle uncomfortably in my seat.
“Are you starving yourself, or something? I would never let you skip a meal if you were living with me. You know, I’m doing quite well right now. I’ve gotten a promotion recently and I’ve purchased a Dyson vacuum. Come on, eat some.”
I look across the table to my aunt. Everyone at this table, even my mother deep down, knows I don’t want to live with her. That I can’t live with her. I have no choice but to say:
“I’m vegan.”
The air feels so thick, like I am suffocating.
“Oh wow, well, I just don’t know anything about you, do I? You haven’t thought to update me on such a big part of your life? You never answer my letters. Does she even receive my letters, Rosemary?”
I have never seen any letters from my mother. I glance at my aunt who is looking at her lap. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was reading her fucking Dostoevsky down there. When I was younger I used to ask my aunt questions about my mother. I wanted to know what she sounded like when she laughed, since I was always made fun of for my laugh and I wondered if we had the same one. My aunt never wanted to tell me too much information about her, and now I am old enough to know why. Maybe that was a decision I should have made for myself though. I don’t know. I wish I didn’t have any autonomy or individuality, but I also wish I lived alone like a hermit in the woods.
I notice the scar on my mother’s hand, finally. It doesn’t look like a scar, it just seems like her hand is shriveled up. Since I haven’t gotten any taller since she last saw me, her scar is the only mark of time passing. I don’t want to think about that right now, but my resistance is only making the memories come back stronger. I can tell my mother has a little self-control left, and is trying to collect herself to not sabotage the entire dinner.
“So, what do you do for fun, Jason?” I’m surprised she remembered Jason’s name.
Again, he waits for someone to answer for him, which no one does.
“Well, uh, I like going to Emmalina’s poetry readings.”
My mother drops her fork and knife on the edge of her plate, making a cling, before it drops to the ground.
“You write poetry? Why have you never sent me any?” I see tears welling up in her eyes. “Do you know my address?” She asks, reaching for the silverware under the table. I hope it’s a hypothetical question.
“Do you remember my address? The home you were conceived and brought up in for the first years of your life? Do you remember?”
My mother is gripping the silverware, heads up, in her palm against the table.
“No, I don’t remember.”
She presses the knife into her hand, the one with the boiling water scar. I see blood trickle down her wrist. I instantly stand up.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” She chases after me. She hugs me again, cradling my face. I can feel the blood against my cheek. Without any control over my body, I let out a moan of terror and push her away. My aunt catches up to the situation and separates us.
“We’re leaving. Thanks for making the trip to see us.”
My mother screams no. So loud the entire restaurant, once lively with tourists discussing the play they saw or what time they’ll see the Bean tomorrow, immediately silences. My mother lowers herself to the ground, and prays on her knees.
“Please, Emma-Emmalina, come back to mommy. Please, I need you. You need me. Please just come home. I love you.”
I try to step away, but she wraps her arms and legs around my leg, rooting me to the ground. My aunt attempts to pry her off of me, while Jason runs out of the restaurant, completely useless. His mom will probably pick him up and never let me talk to him again. My mother’s face is pressed against my leg sobbing, while I feel the snot from her nose dripping onto my corduroy jeans. I feel completely numb, like someone could stab a fork in my prefrontal cortex like a make-shift lobotomy and I would experience no sensation. When the waiters help pry my mother off, my aunt manages to escort me out of the restaurant, and I feel like a mannequin being dragged across the streets of Chicago.
My aunt pulls me inside of a Walgreens a few blocks away, as she calls for a cab and keeps watch of the window. I wander across the aisles, look at cosmetics even though I am committed to the two products I already use and am well stocked up on. When I land upon the stationary aisle, I’m surprised to see Jason sitting in front of a shelf. He’s opened one of the painting kits for kids. I walk toward him, catching him off guard.
“What are you up to?” I ask. My face feels tight from the tears that I don’t even remember crying.
He shows me the page, a caricature of the man spreader on the bus. His nose and beer belly are incredibly exaggerated. Jason gave him fangs, claws, and made his dick exposed and incredibly tiny. There is a little text bubble that says, “I like rubbing knees with teenage boys!” It’s not Jason’s sense of humor at all, but it’s mine. I start to weep. He pulls me into a hug and strokes my hair.
“You should take up as much space as him,” Jason whispers. I don’t really know what that means and I don’t think Jason does either, but it sounds good. My aunt approaches us and we quickly collect ourselves.
“I probably should pay for this,” Jason gestures to the opened painting kit.
“Wait,” I grab his arm. “Why did you tell my aunt I write poetry?”
“I don’t know. I kinda thought you should. I mean, I can’t understand any of the stuff we read in school, but yours would probably be better. Just because the way you think sometimes, it’s like metaphorical or something.”
I start cackling at him, and at first Jason is confused, but then he starts laughing as well. I feel myself accidentally spitting on him but neither of us care. He’s probably fucking right too.
Julia Hirschfield is a sophomore at Mason Gross School of the Arts, class of 2026. She is pursuing an acting major and a creative writing minor. She is from Metuchen, NJ and graduated from Metuchen High School in 2021 and took a gap year before starting college.
Julia wrote this story in course taught by Joanna Furhman, who selected the piece for inclusion in WHR.