The Bag Lady

I have always had an innate fear of the night. As a child, my imagination was filled with stories of creatures that came alive after dark and the safety offered by a house and light. I had never had anything concrete to base the fear on until an encounter after I dropped a friend at home.

I stopped at a traffic light near the street leading to my house. The junction was empty, and I considered driving through the red light, but I decided to wait.

A woman was sitting alone on a bus bench. We made brief eye contact, and I quickly looked away. I saw movement in my peripheral vision and realized she was walking toward my car. She carried a bag. I checked that the doors were locked and the windows were up, moved my foot over the accelerator, and prepared for an awkward exchange.

She walked to my window, put down the bag, and tapped on the glass. She motioned for me to lower the window. I lowered it only a tiny amount. She leaned in and said, “My boyfriend beat me up, I have a friend who lives down the street, can you give me a ride?”

She was small and thin, and it was impossible to verify her story by looking at her. Something about her delivery made my skin crawl. It sounded robotic and practiced, as if she were disconnected from the moment. After a brief hesitation, I told her I could not give her a ride.

She leaned closer and repeated the same request. I declined again and said I had to get home. She began the sentence a third time. At that moment the light changed. I started moving forward and apologized, but she did not move. She looked at the traffic light, then down at me, leaned closer, and said five words that have stayed with me ever since:

“You made the right decision.”

She picked up her bag and walked back toward the bench. I drove away in a panic. I have no idea what she intended, or whether other people were waiting nearby to enter the car if I let her in, but the encounter has haunted me ever since.