“It’s not a sacred place,” Dad says.
I nod in agreement, trying to convince myself he’s right.
“But I’ll go back there with you if you think it will help,” he says.
“Thanks.” My voice is shaky.
There are two cars parked in the driveway. One is the brand new SUV I purchased yesterday. The other is a small rental car I will be returning in a few hours. But first I have to drive one more place in that car.
Dad pulls his car out of the garage and follows me from Maryland to Virginia, from the house I grew up in to the apartment I’ve called home for the past two years. He parks his car in front of my building and joins me in the rental car.
“Where are we?” he asks as we drive down Wilson Boulevard toward Route 50.
“Seven Corners.”
“I’ve heard about this place on the radio. They always mention it in traffic reports.”
Dad works in real estate. He knows every street in DC and Maryland. He remembers every house he’s sold and each building he’s remodeled. He has a story about every block. But Virginia is an unknown place on the other side of the river. I came here to make my own stories.
“We’re getting closer,” I say as we cross the border from Arlington into Fairfax County. I make a u-turn so that we can get to the exact spot. The last time I was here I blacked out at the wheel. I woke up with the airbag inflated and my car wrecked. The police officer told me I knocked down two signs and 10 feet of guardrail.
“We’re here.” I wonder if my body can handle being back in this spot. Will I black out again?
It’s been 12 weeks since the accident, and no repairs have been made. The metal guardrail is twisted and piled several feet in the air like a piece of modern art. I feel lucky for walking away from the accident with only one bruise and victorious for returning to the spot where it happened.
I continue driving along Route 50 toward Arlington, knowing Dad is right: it’s not a sacred place. I can come here alone or in my new SUV without fear that bad luck is indigenous to this spot and will somehow taint my journey every time I return.
Back in Arlington, Dad and I return the rental car and walk together to my apartment. I point out my yoga studio, my favorite restaurants, the field where my bocce ball team plays. I had arrived in Arlington two years ago with a car, an air mattress, a suitcase, and a strong—and somewhat delayed—desire for independence after living with my parents for nearly a decade after college. I had found a roommate on Craig’s List, ordered furniture online, and spent hours every weekend assembling the furniture. I had been determined to do everything myself, and for almost two years I never had to turn to anyone for help. After the accident, nearly two months went by before doctors permitted me to drive again. Suddenly I was dependent on others for transportation and for moral support.
“I’m really proud of you,” Dad says as we approach my apartment building. “You’ve built a great life for yourself here.”
We get into his car and return to my parents’ house. I hug them and thank them. We all say, “I love you.” And then I start the engine of my new SUV and drive back to the other side of the river.
originally intended for the inaugural issue of Passenger Literary Journal
A native of the Washington, DC area, Aliza Epstein is a non-profit manager by day and an aspiring writer by night.