Finding Love in a Stranger’s Car

What happens when the person you trust most is your Uber driver…

When I was young, my parents warned me, “Don’t go anywhere with a stranger.” Years later, the ride-sharing app Uber would upend the paradigm, that general consensus that strangers are not safe.

It was the winter of 2014 when I met Rachel. I had just moved to Northern Virginia taking my first post-undergraduate job. I figured a career in media would bring me closer to becoming a “real” writer, I thought a job in a big city would bring me closer to becoming a “real” adult.

I was 23, anxious, grieving and knee-deep in a heart-break I thought might kill me. Some nights, I slept on the ground or in an empty bathtub because it felt safer, more concrete. I had roommates and I had friends, but I didn’t show them my suffering. We sat together on the couch with open bottles of wine. I told myself, be easy and they won’t leave you.

One day, standing in the rain after a long night out, I upgraded my Uber (a decision that now seems reckless when I look back on my bank account). Rachel pulled up in a silver Mercedes, her wide grin meeting me the second I opened her car door.  

I noticed her beauty immediately – the way her face looked honest. Her skin was tan and her hair was loose. She spoke in a way that felt hearty and gentle, wise, and curious. It seemed like she cared.

Her Uber rating was 5-stars.

Our first conversation, she warned; young girls should be careful taking Ubers late at night.

 “I have young daughters of my own. Girls who will grow up to be as beautiful as you. You have to be careful out there,” she said.

She asked if I took Uber often. I told her that I did. And I asked her if she’d be willing to drive me in the future, off the app, so I knew that I was safe.

“Oh, Sweetie. I would be honored. Take my number and call me anytime you need me,” Rachel insisted.

A few days later, I booked a train ticket to visit my ex-boyfriend in New Jersey. A top-secret-mission that none of my friends or family could ever know. I figured they’d judge me for missing someone who had lied, for craving someone who once turned me into a ghost. I couldn’t tell them that the alternative was taking Nyquil to help me sleep, to lessen the aching in my chest. I couldn’t tell them that the only thing that made me feel better was a warm body lying beside me in bed. I couldn’t tell them that sometimes I drove to full parking lots to feel less alone.

I texted Rachel and asked if she’d take me to the train station. For a moment, I wondered if maybe her offer was less about being there for me, and more about small-talk with a tipsy stranger. But when she responded minutes later with a “See you soon!” relief moved through my body, an almost excited buzz in my chest knowing Rachel would be there to pick me up from work.

She arrived on time. And her car smelled sweet like perfume. She never judged where I was going. She was even careful to ask why. Instead of prying, she let me share my dreams, my hopes of one day writing a book. She would also ask things like, “Is this music okay for you?” and “How is the heat?” But, we never listened to the music. She never adjusted the heat. Instead, we talked. She told me she was a single mom, working late at night to support her girls. She told me about her brand-new Mercedes Benz and how it was a gift to herself after the divorce. We laughed hard.

Every trip I took, plane, train or bus, Rachel was there for drop off and pick up. She was like a mother at the school-yard, standing outside her car, waving, ready – full of love. If my flight was late, if weather caused delays, if I extended a trip to stay in the arms of a man, Rachel was waiting for me at arrivals.

Once, on a drive to the airport, I realized I forgot my credit card at home. Sifting through my wallet nervously, I asked Rachel what we should do. Without hesitation, she offered to drop me off at the airport so that I could check-in to my flight while she went back to my house to find my card. I remember calling my grandma at the airport and telling her about Rachel.

“You’re a lucky girl,” my grandma said.

I felt light as I boarded the plane, credit card in hand, knowing that someone would be there when I returned.

Months would pass, holidays would come and go, and Rachel would answer every text with, “Be there soon.”

One night, in the thick heat of summer, I woke up in a panic, my body shaking so hard it hurt to move. I turned on the lamp beside my bed and pulled my phone to my chest, wondering who to call, wondering who would answer. I looked at the pictures hanging on my walls, sitting on my nightstand. The frames were of random families and friends, the stock photographs that came with the frames. It occurred to me at that moment how alone I felt. How sad I felt. I typed out a message to Rachel.

Rachel, it’s Lindsay. Are you awake? I’m feeling really scared. And I’m feeling like there’s not enough air. I don’t know what’s wrong with me and I’m not sure that I’ll be OK. Can we go for a drive? I never sent it. Knowing that someone I trusted was on the receiving end of the message was enough to help me get back to sleep.

In the spring, I noticed my restlessness spreading. I spent lunch breaks googling flights and graduate schools in Denver. I thought, maybe a blank page was the medicine for this anxiety. Maybe starting over again would cure the twisting in my throat, the panic attacks that made me see the world through blurry eyes. I stayed late at the office that night, writing my admissions essay. I looked at the Cheryl Strayed quote pinned on my desk and found solace in her words, “Go. Go because wanting to leave is enough.”

Rachel took me to the airport a few days after I got accepted into Denver University. Her excitement matched mine when I told her about the creative writing program I was starting and my plans to focus on art. Almost in ritual, I watched her rear-view mirror and found her eyes – wide and sunny. Proud. Reliable. Without knowing, Rachel had become my family. Without knowing, that would be one of the last times we drove together again.

I never gave Rachel a formal good-bye. She drove me to the airport once more, we said, “See you soon,” and I turned back just in time to see her still smiling and waving. I did buy her a blank card, one that was etched in metallic “Thank you” letters on the outside. It sat on my dresser, next to the sad picture frames and sleep medication. I thought of all the things I wanted to tell her, I replayed the monologue in my mind.

Rachel, did you know that you were the best thing that ever happened to me in this godforsaken city? Did you know that you saved my life? That when I thought the loneliness might kill me, I opened my phone just to see your number.

Did you know that all those travels were about running? Running away from me and my pain? I’m sorry I never told you about my panic. About my sadness. I never tell anyone, anyways. But I did want to tell you. Thank you. I love you.

Life moved fast in Denver. I met my husband. I graduated from Denver University. And I decided to start therapy and began dealing with a Panic Disorder and Depression diagnosis. I learned to soothe the parts of myself that were petrified of being alone, the parts of myself that didn’t trust I would be okay. I learned that a man couldn’t save me.  

In my healing, I began to do a lot of reflecting, and in my reflecting, I began to see Rachel. Memories of her re-surfaced, realizations that even on my wedding day, my hands scrolled through my phone for her number. I hadn’t seen her in years and still the impulse to hear her laugh, to be in the presence of her comfort, showed up as I nervously sat in a Black Escalade preparing to walk down the aisle.

When I told my husband about Rachel, he said, “Why don’t you let her know how you’re doing?” But I made excuses because parts of me were afraid to revisit a time in my life I had worked so hard to leave behind. And yet, another part of me knew how deeply I missed her, how badly I wanted to just say, “It all turned out okay.”

Then, one day over luke-warm coffee, the whisper grew louder and I found the courage to say all the things to Rachel that I never had. I wanted to honor the 23-year old me who found love in a total stranger.

Rachel remembered me, but had no idea what an impact she made on my life. She said, “But I am so happy I could do something for someone who remembers me in a good way.”

And isn’t that all we ever want anyways, to be remembered in a good way, to feel recognized for our humanity. To lessen the suffering of the one we love, so the one we love is no longer a stranger.