Woodley Park Station
Final Stop: Woodley Park Station
As I stepped out of Woodley Park Station and into the rain, I regretted forgetting to pack my umbrella that morning. My annoyance only lasted a second, however, as I remembered that I only had a few hours left to live. The steady rain of that morning had now become a heavy downpour mixed with sleet, and I could barely make out the street signs as I dashed across the street. I ran from the station’s exit towards the McDonald’s restaurant next door, bag held above my head for protection, water seeping into my socks with every step that I took.
“Esperanza, your escort has arrived!” the manager Sal, a gruff-looking man with a matted mustache, yelled towards the kitchen as I entered the fast food restaurant. A moment later, my mother made her way out.
Stop Four: Dupont Circle
“This station is Dupont Circle. Dupont Circle. Step back, doors opening. When boarding, please move to the center of the car."
My body instinctively lurched forward as the announcement played over the loudspeaker. Every day for three years, I had gotten off at Dupont Circle and made my way to the DC-Tenley Academy for Boys & Girls — the fancy private school I had attended beginning in tenth grade after my mom and I moved from Arizona to DC. Without fail, my body would prepare to exit the train every time it heard that announcement. Reclining back into my seat, I watched an avalanche of white students in the infamous green and gold uniforms of my alma mater make their way onto the train. I waited for just one student of color to walk in wearing green and gold, and was disappointed. Turning my attention to the obnoxiously loud students at the back of the train car, I was reminded of the first time I had exited the train and entered the hallowed halls of DCTA.
Stop Three: Farragut North
As I waited for my mom to answer the phone, I practiced several different ways to tell her that I was dying.
Ring.
Stop Two: Metro Center
“Cada día se nos hace más dificil,” was the last thing I remember my mother saying to me the morning of her disappearance. The garage we called home at the time featured a small futon, a mini refrigerator, and a microwave. In the far-right corner stood a secondhand floor lamp, the space’s only source of lighting, and a large shelf that held most of our belongings. In the other corner were two doors: one that led to a small bathroom and the other into the main house. I was never allowed to open the second — we always entered through a creaky screen door from the backyard. Our weak ceiling fan stood no chance against the debilitating Arizona summer heat. At nights, my mom would sit by the futon and fan my eight-year-old self to sleep.
***
Stop 1: Gallery Place-Chinatown
The metro ride home was more crowded than usual on the day that I died. Resting my head on the window beside me, I couldn’t help but feel guilty as I watched an elderly Asian woman board the train and stand by the doors. I struggled to find a comfortable position for my head against the window, and I continued to watch the woman as she threw accusatory glances towards the indifferent businessman seated in front of her.
“Step back, doors opening. When boarding, please move to the center of the car.”