Open Writing

A few months later my folks were in a terrible wreck and Mama was nearly killed. They were returning home from a night of dancing at the old Wagon Wheel Dance Hall outside of Aztec when it happened. There was no alcohol served there, so Reita and Phyllis went with them. Fortunately, the girls left the dance hall to spend the night with some friends so they were not with them when the wreck occurred.

Around midnight Jessie came running into our house without knocking, and startled us awake. "Larry, Bertie, get up!" he yelled. "P.G. and Mama have been in an awful wreck! Mama's hurt bad! We need to get to the hospital as fast as we can!" He was fighting hard to hold back tears.

On the way to the hospital Jessie told us more. "I come upon the wreck right after it happened. I recognized what was left of their Chevy pickup."

They had bought this used 1953 pickup when a new one they bought was repossessed. "The ambulance was just pullin' away. I jumped out and ran to the people workin' the scene and asked what happened to the people in the wreck? I told 'em those are my folks!" His voice cracked. "The cop told me the woman went through the windshield; said it looked like she lost a lot of blood. He told me they were luckier than the kid that wrapped his car around them though. He said that kid was dead." Jessie hesitated, his breath catching as he sighed. "I came straight to your house, Bertie. It's not good and I'm sure scared."

Knowing P.G. usually did the driving, I immediately jumped to the conclusion that he was to blame. At the hospital, P.G. must have read the accusation written on my face as he tearfully explained what had happened. The police report later confirmed that the car that hit them was going over a hundred miles an hour when the driver either lost control or went to sleep at the wheel; he had just finished his night shift on a rig and was eager to get home. His car skidded sideways as he rounded a curve on a hill. P.G. saw the car sliding toward them, slowed down, and pulled the pickup toward the shoulder of the road. But he couldn't avoid the terrible collision, which left him with cuts, bruises and broken ribs.

The force of the impact propelled Mama through the windshield, and left her so badly lacerated she almost bled to death. One of her legs was broken and several of her ribs were cracked. Her beautiful face would be scarred for life.

As we arrived at the hospital Mama was being rushed into the operating room. Even though she was fading in and out of consciousness, she somehow recognized the sound of my footsteps as I ran toward her down the hall.

"Don't let her see me," she moaned weakly. "She must not see me like this!" They held me back as they rolled her into the operating room.
I was terrified she would die. All my life, just the thought of losing my mother would bring unbidden tears to my eyes. Facing the real possibility of her death, I cried unashamedly. Later, when I walked into the recovery room I recoiled in shock at the sight before me: blood oozed from the densely stitched wounds on her bruised and swollen face. I became dizzy, and, for the first time in my life, I fainted.

My folks eventually healed from their injuries, but the scars remained. They continued to behave like rebellious teenagers and we continued to behave like anxious parents.