The Art of Leaving

by Ayelet Tsabari

  The bus is late, and when it stops next to me, it releases a rude flatulent noise. The driver ignores me when I say hi.

  I sit by a smeared window, sticky with fingerprints, and stare outside. I usually like bus rides, enjoy being in motion, delight in the constant shuffling of cards as people board and get off. I’ve had some of my best conversations on buses, sung “Stand by Me” with the entire back section, and even shared a smoke with strangers on a late-night ride that turned into a bit of a party. Buses are modern-day traveling circuses. You never know what you’re going to get.

  This time it’s rowdy teenagers, wearied middle-aged men on their commute home, and gruff elderly ladies. It’s a bad mix. The three teenagers—two girls and a boy—yell at a woman who gave them a piece of her mind before stepping out. They swear at her, waving arms through the open window. People glower in disapproval, mutter about today’s youth. The ladies shuffle to the front, complain to the bus driver. He stares blankly ahead. A mild headache settles over my eyebrows.

  Exasperated, I blurt, “Why don’t you just shut up?”

  “Who said that?” One of the girls stands up and scans the bus.

  “Me,” I say.

  She glares at me. I turn to look out the window at the rows of wooden houses, their roofs like jagged teeth, and the milky clouds that swim above them.

  As they left the bus, one of the youths threw her super-sized McDonald’s drink at the victim’s face. The victim stood up and was struck in the face by one of the youths, knocking her to the floor. The victim stated that she was then hit repeatedly in the face and kicked in the upper body.

  * * *

  —

  ON TUESDAY, A police officer follows up on the phone call made at the scene and comes to take my statement at Sean’s apartment, where I’ve been staying for the past few days, recovering from the assault. “Constable Louie,” he says, shaking my hand firmly. He’s a short, stocky man whose self-assured bearing compensates for his boyish features and soft voice. We sit at Sean’s kitchen table; I chain-smoke, fiddle with the lighter, and stare out the window. The sky is mucky and gray, an ashtray left on a rainy porch. Across the alley, a forgotten Halloween pumpkin bares its teeth on an apartment’s windowsill. I tell the constable what led to the assault, up to the part where the girl threw her drink, and he scribbles it in his notebook. Then I pause.

  “What happened next?”

  “She smirked at me,” I say.

  He looks up from his notebook. “Smirked?”

  “I mean, before she tossed the drink.” It was a vicious sneer, like a pit bull about to attack, yet the thought of her hurting me never crossed my mind.

  “What happened then?”

  “I stood up.”

  “And?”

  “Um…” I shuffle in my seat, light another smoke.

  “Take your time.”

  I inhale, concentrate, try to tap into myself on the floor of the bus. But I see nothing; a veil is hiding my view. How did I get there? What did I say to her when she tossed the drink in my face? What if I punched her? Maybe it never happened. Maybe I made it all up.

  “I’m not sure. I think I said something.”

  “It’s okay not to remember. You were in shock,” Constable Louie says.

  But I have such good memory. I always remember everything. How can I not remember?

  The victim states that she can identify the assaulters.

  * * *

  —

  OF COURSE I can describe them, I tell Constable Louie. They were the kind of teens you see all around East Van, rough around the edges, their jeans too low, too tight, or too baggy. They drag their feet, smoke, drink in the park, get into fights, and glare at passersby. The one who tossed the drink had a tight ponytail that stretched her eyes into catty slits. The other one had red-streaked bangs that fell over her face, shrouding her drunken gaze. The boy was overweight and wore his clothes loose, gangster-style. His mouth hung open in a dumb expression, like a toddler with a stuffed-up nose.

  “I should’ve just shut up,” I tell Constable Louie.

  “Don’t even think that!” He gives me a sharp look. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  * * *

  —

  I CALL THE witnesses after Constable Louie leaves, hoping they can help clear the fog. They both gave me their phone numbers before leaving the scene. Virginia begins to cry as soon as she hears my voice. I’ve been told by Jessica, the other witness, that Virginia was the only one who intervened, even with her grandson in a carrier on her back. She pressed hard on the girl’s neck until she backed off, and then shoved her down the rear door and off the bus. The other teens followed. I’ve never experienced this kind of gratitude toward anyone. It’s so huge I have no idea what to do with it; it doesn’t fit anywhere and it’s too heavy to carry around. “These kids are from my community,” she says on the phone, sobbing. “It’s so upsetting to me. And no one helped…It makes me think no one would have helped me.” I thank her over and over again until my words are wrung out of meaning, become a shrunken, shriveled version of themselves.

  I call Jessica. She is a petite twentysomething woman who kept screaming at the men on the bus to help. Afterward she stayed with me and held my hand. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t do more,” she said. “I’m so little, and I was scared.”

  “What did I do when she tossed the drink at my face?” I ask her. “I didn’t, like, punch her, did I?”

  “No, no…You got up and grabbed her shoulder.”

  “I grabbed her shoulder?”

  “Yeah, and said, ‘How dare you?’ or something along these lines.”

  “Did I call her a bitch?”

  Jessica giggles. “You might have.”

  Images of the assault start flashing in my head: choppy, like a comic strip.

  “You were brave,” Jessica says. “You fought back the entire time. Even on the floor, you kept kicking and punching. You grabbed their feet when they tried to kick you.”

  “I did?” I’m relieved. “Did I say anything at all?”

  Jessica thinks. “Only once you screamed, ‘Let go of my hair!’ ”

  Hair color: black

  Hairstyle: long

  Complexion: medium

  Ethnicity: Middle Eastern

  * * *

  —

  HER DRINK SPLASHES in my face like a cold slap; cubes of ice sneak into my shirt, sticky streams of Coke snake down my chest. I raise my arms, dripping, and look down at myself. My clothes are soaked. My hair is wet. I flat-ironed it the night before for Halloween, my Morticia Addams look, and now it’s starting to curl. It’s ruined. The teens start pulling my hair from both sides and it hinders my view, a thick, swaying black curtain. Then it’s hot, a sudden gush of engine air. I’m on the floor, blind. I don’t hear Jessica’s screams. I don’t feel pain. I keep thinking any minute now, somebody is going to make it stop.

  There were approximately 40 people on the bus.

  * * *

  —

  FOUR YEARS LATER I’m at my desk, staring at a blinking cursor on my computer screen. I’ve decided to take another stab at writing about the assault. I’ve written dozens of variations of this story; none of them work. I scramble through my drawers for notes I wrote at the time and find Constable Louie’s card, now creased and discolored. For a long time, I kept it in my wallet just in case, tucked between cards for doctors, masseuses, and florists. I turn it around, look at the incident number scribbled in pen, and an idea strikes me. What if I could read my police report?

  I call Constable Louie and leave a message. I tell him I remember him with fondness. I can tell from his hesitant words on my voicemail that he doesn’t remember me.

  When my report is ready to pick up, I head to the police station at Main and Hastings. As I wait at the bus stop for the Number 20, a
group of teenage girls walk by, laughing and shouting, bumping into each other, the air around them thick with cigarette smoke, perfume, and bubble gum. I look away, stare hard at the shop across the street. Four years and I’m still scared of teenagers. My friend Eufemia, to whom I admitted this, advised me to exercise love and compassion, smile when I feel fear. I force a smile. Think good thoughts, I tell myself. Love. Compassion. My smile is a twisted knot; my eyes are wide, unblinking. I must look like a freak. I almost expect one of them to snap at me, What are you looking at? And then she’d punch me.

  The bus slides up next to me and the doors open with a soft whooshing sound. It’s brand-spanking new, with blue cushioned seats. It looks nothing like the rusted old vehicle from four years ago.

  On the bus ride home, I rip the envelope open and begin to read my report, excited to fill in the blanks so I can finally write them into my essay. “You’re brave,” Eufemia said to me the night before. “I admire you for doing this.” I dismissed it with a laugh. It’s been four years, after all! I flip through the pages, skim over the cryptic abbreviations, the clinical lingo. I find my description, filed under “Victim,” my identity broken into a list of cold facts. As I read the accounts provided by the witnesses, my hands start shaking. The descriptions are worse than my recollections. I slouch into my seat, trying to hide my tears behind the report.

  Suspect 2 struck the victim in the face with a closed fist, knocking her to the floor face down. Suspects 1 and 2 struck her with their fists and feet, while suspect 3 repeatedly kicked her upper body and head. The victim attempted to fight back but was restrained by suspect 1 stepping on her neck.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN MY ASSAULTERS leave, the bus is so quiet I can hear the hum of traffic from Hastings Street; a distant cellphone rings, a woman lilts, “Hello?” From this angle on the floor, all I see is sky, and it’s darker and bluer than I would expect, as if the bus has fallen into the ocean. My earlobes hurt; I touch them and find that my dangly silver earrings have been yanked out and are now tangled in my hair. My head throbs to the rhythm of my heartbeat. I look up and see everyone gawking at me. They look helpless and pathetic, with their eyes and mouths torn wide. I realize I’m the show; I’m the spectacle on the dirty floor. “You won’t believe what happened today on the Number 20,” a woman will say to her husband over dinner while passing the mashed potatoes. “Some chick got roughed up on the bus,” a man will say to his buddies at the bar, sipping his frosty pint.

  They watch as I collect my things from under seats and stuff them into my purse. I look up and scream, “What the hell is wrong with all of you? How can you see a woman getting beaten up and not do anything?” They look away, shuffle urgently toward the doors.

  I grab my purse. “I’m out of here.”

  “Don’t go,” Virginia pleads, her hand warm on mine. “Wait for the police.”

  I look at her. I can tell she’s on my side. I throw myself onto a seat and start crying. I will the passengers to disappear, which they conveniently do.

  One man says as he walks off, “Great, now we have to switch buses.”

  Jessica and Virginia stay with me, take turns rubbing my hand. The bus driver remains at his seat. He still hasn’t spoken a word to me. I feel numb, like when I’m in bed with the flu and everything looks surreal and still and distant. And just when I think it can’t get any weirder, I look up and see Sean. He pokes his head into the bus and asks the driver, “Are you leaving soon?” I stare at him for a moment, think I’m seeing things. Perhaps I have a concussion. This can’t be real. This is like a B-grade Hollywood movie. Then I let out a gasp and run to him, forget I was ever mad at him, forget I wanted to break up. I have spent years training myself to unlearn the shit I was taught by fairy tales and romantic comedies. I didn’t need to be saved by anybody, especially not a man. I could take care of myself. But now Sean’s here and I feel safe and grateful. My cry escalates as I dash through the aisle and down the stairs. He opens his arms to catch me, like a safety net at the bottom of a skyscraper.

  “How did you know she was here?” Jessica’s eyes widen as I bury my face in his chest.

  “Magic,” Sean says.

  * * *

  —

  THE POLICE NEVER come. The bus driver says he called but it’s been a while and nobody is coming. It’s a bit anticlimactic, no sirens whining down the street, no police cars parked on the curb, their lights blinking orange on the pavement. Jessica, Virginia, Sean, and I wait on the bench next to the stalled bus. Lights burn yellow holes in the dark buildings. My clothes are beginning to dry but I’m still shivering.

  “Let’s just go,” I tell Sean.

  “We should call an ambulance,” Jessica says. “You can’t just go.”

  “An ambulance?” I snort. “That’s crazy. I’m fine.”

  Resulting in: minor injuries

  * * *

  —

  SEAN FLAGS A taxi and takes me to the free clinic. The doctor I see helps me pull clumps of loosened hair from my head, checks for fractures and bleeding, grimaces at the bruises on my torso and arms, and examines my two black eyes, my Halloween Zorro mask.

  “There were three of them, you say?” He shines a blinding beam into my eye.

  “Well, I was in the Israeli army, y’know.” I slip back into my tough-chick act. I’ve been playing this role for so long that it takes no effort. It stuck, the way my mother warned me my eyes would if I kept crossing them. Even as I sit in the examining room, a part of me can’t believe I didn’t win this fight.

  “I wouldn’t want to be the other guys.” The doctor winks at me. And for a moment, my confidence is restored.

  Resulting in: emotional trauma

  * * *

  —

  TRAUMA SNEAKS UP on you the way water slides under a basement suite door before it floods. A couple of hours after the assault, I do a little belly dancing move for Sean and we drink whiskey at his house like every other night and laugh about the stupid fight we had the night before. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I freaked out.” “I freaked out!” I say. I enjoy hanging out with him on a Saturday night; I usually work on weekends. I feel like I’m playing hooky.

  I ask him to take me to my favorite restaurant for food and martinis; I might as well get the most out of my night off. But it’s the night of the Parade of Lost Souls and we sit by a window and watch skeletons and ghosts and witches, and there are people in the restaurant, chatter and music, and a waiter who keeps asking if everything is okay when nothing is. I’m glad I have my glasses on to blur the edges of my black eyes. I look down whenever someone meets my gaze.

  I still think I’ll be okay tomorrow.

  The next morning, I wake up bawling like someone has just died. I don’t want to wake Sean, so I slide out of his embrace and go cry in the shower. When he gets up, I suggest we go out for coffee. I figure I should be fine—the coffee shop is only two blocks away—but while waiting in line, I start to feel light-headed. My face is washed with sweat and everyone is staring, probably wondering why I’m wearing sunglasses indoors on a rainy day. “There’s no air in here,” I tell Sean, leaning into him. My heart is beating so fast it hurts. I think I’m going to faint. “Take me home,” I say.

  * * *

  —

  AFTER ONE WEEK at Sean’s, I go back to my own place. “I’m afraid that if I stay too long, you’ll beat me up,” I tell Sean. We both laugh. We’ve only been dating for a few months and he probably needs his space. It’s not like he’s my boyfriend. Also, I’m not used to having someone else take care of me.

  Sean walks me home. “You’re sure you’ll be okay?” he asks at the door. “I can stay.”

  “No, I’m fine.” I turn to open the door and pause. “Oh, and thanks,” I say and look him briefly in the eyes, “for everything.”

  * * *

  —

>   I LIVE IN a tight community and word gets out fast. As I begin going out for groceries and errands, people coo at me on the street, tilt their faces, and ask in their most compassionate voices, “How are you?” I take to walking the alleys, staring at the sidewalks, screening my calls. Constable Louie calls a couple of times to check up on me. I never knew cops did that. It’s November and it’s raining nonstop, dripping from the drainpipes, tapping on the windows, dribbling like a runny nose. Everything is so gray I forget we have mountains. I watch TV for hours on end and it lights my apartment in cold, unfriendly blue, like the innards of a fridge. I cry while watching Friends. I’m not going back to work because I’m still hurting, and because I’m afraid I might throw food in people’s faces. When they ask for more water, I’ll empty it over their heads. This anger is bad for business.

  When I do answer my phone, I put on a light tone. I’ve been making jokes from day one.

  “Well, in my country, when you get on a bus, it could explode,” I tell people. “Maybe getting beaten up isn’t so bad.”

  It’s funny because it’s true. I realize this is what I’ve grown used to in Israel, that air of menace, the ever-present threat, the taste of my heart in my mouth. It’s like I’m always waiting for something to happen, ready for a fight, wanting to wage war with the day, the world, or a person; as though a part of me longs for the risk, that shard of glass in the sand that catches your eye, a promise, an assurance that I am alive.

  I repeat the joke while talking to a Lebanese friend. Our neighboring countries have been at war for generations, but we’ve been living outside long enough to know we’re essentially the same people. When I talk about my home, he just hears “home.” “Well, maybe so,” he replies. “But at least back home, people would have helped you.”