The Forgotten Files
written by: Laura Turner
Sometime in October, 1986
My mother and I are parked in the crushed stone driveway of my grandmother’s house after dropping her off. It is late afternoon, and I am in the driver’s seat of my Chevy Nova. Two red fuzzy dice hang from the rearview mirror. My mother is seated in the passenger’s side; she has asked to come along. She wants to go for a ride, she says. She is in need of fresh air. “My breathing is shallow,” she tells me.
“This is how it happens, click, click, click,” she says. My mother reaches forward, takes one of the red fuzzy dice in each hand, and then taps them together in rapid succession. “Click, click,” she repeats. From what I have gotten so far, my mother is light-headed and dizzy. Her heart is racing, and so are her thoughts.
“Do you understand me?” I ask, trying to get a proverbial pulse on her mental health. Mother’s behavior has been erratic all day. Her words make little sense, disjointed and cryptic. She has asked me not to start the car. She must remain in a meditative state, she says. But now I am unsure of what to say or do. Her fractured thoughts began early in the day. By afternoon, she had petitioned me to take her from the house, and I obeyed her command.
Soon, she responds, but not to my questioning. “When you want to stop the drinking and the Valium, all you have to do is end the game,” she says. “In moments you’re clean again, click and click.” Once more, she taps the fuzzy dice before me. I am on guard then, carefully weighing options to proceed. Outside, the day is early fall, considered close to peak season in upstate New York. Although some had fallen, many orange and crimson leaves remain on branches, and an array of hybrid colors display their beauty. Sparrows twitter nearby, adding to the effect.
I turn in my mother’s direction. Her chocolate eyes are glossy; her thoughts appear far off in her mind. “You know, Laura,” she says then, “I’ve had a vision.” My mother is wearing deep navy jeans and a matching button-down shirt. Her hair is cropped short, her features delicate. She has a button nose and thin lips, a classic beauty in the way of Rosalynn Carter or Jackie Onassis.
I place my hand on the key in the ignition, but my mother holds it hostage. The car is unsecured, and I pray she does not aim to exit. My instinct tells me to keep her thoughts occupied, but I am uneasy, and my mouth has gone dry. “Tell me,” I say, aiming for simple words that will not disturb. “What’s your vision?” My own thoughts tumble in my head. Like a puzzle, I am piecing together events leading to this reality break.
My mother shuffles in her seat. She fusses with the window cracked for air. I return the windows upright and power-lock the vehicle inconspicuously. “I’ve seen Jesus,” she says matter-of-factly. “Jesus came to me in a vision.” My mother tries to open the door, but is unsuccessful in her quest. I don’t believe she will be violent. She never has been, at least. She is of a generally calm demeanor, save a dust-up precipitated by my brother’s health care gone awry.
“And what did you see in the vision?” I ask her, hoping to keep her thoughts focused on some semblance of conversation. My instinct tells me to turn on the radio, let it hum in the background. I tune the dial to the nearest easy-listening station. Her attention turns to the fuzzy dice again, and she taps them together several times. “Click, click.”
Soon, however, my mother reposes, rolls her head back, and closes her eyes. “Jesus came to me and Jesus is a woman,” she says. Her eyes remain closed, and she falls silent. Outside, the orange and crimson leaves blow in gusts with the breeze. They swirl and twirl around in batches, lift up into the air in a swarm, and then fall lifeless to the ground.
I place my hand on my mother’s arm. “Mom, you okay?” I ask.
My mother pauses. She opens her eyes, rubs them with her fists. She crosses her arms over her body and massages her shoulders with her hands. “I’m cold,” she says. “And my chest is tight.”
I turn the dial to employ heat. “Do you need an ambulance?” I ask and then query differently. “Are you in need of medical attention?” I am making my best effort not to panic. I am young. Driving is new to me. I passed my driver’s exam only one year ago.
“Laura,” she says, “I did a strange thing.” Her eyes are dark chocolate now, sullen. Again, she shifts in her seat, reaches forward, and turns up the heat of her own accord.
“Tell me, what did you do?” I am speaking to a child, it seems. Likewise, I ask leading questions and hope the answers show me a safe path forward.
“You know, I’ve used alcohol and Valium to stay calm. To take care of your brother after his surgeries,” she says. “You remember, after one surgery, I needed to pack his back with gauze to close the wound to his spine. I had to stay awake all night. And I used alcohol and Valium to keep me calm.” She pauses then. “But I never stopped.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” I say. “Are you telling me you’re a closet drinker and have been taking Valium all along?” My own thoughts race. Now, the scenario has taken full shape in my mind.
“Yes,” she says. “But I didn’t want to do it anymore, so I quit, cold turkey, click and click.” Again, she reaches forward, taps the fuzzy dice together.
To date, I have little experience with addiction or mental health concerns. Yet clearly, something has snapped in my mother’s mind. “Promise me you’ll get medical attention?” I ask. “I think you need medical attention.”
“If Jesus is a woman,” she says, changing the subject, “do you know what this means?” she asked, raking her hand through fresh-trimmed, wavy hair. She extracts a Kleenex from her pocket and dabs at her forehead.
“No, mom,” I say. “What does this mean?” My fears are elevated and have now reached a fever pitch.
“It means women are going to rule the world one day,” she says.
“Listen,” I say in a low tone. “I’m going to start the car now.” There is no more time for exposition. I need to transport Mother to safety. The scene is more than I can handle at my tender age of 17. My heart thumps in my chest. Oh, how sorry I am for my mother! She has sacrificed all to protect her son, paralyzed from the waist, born with spina bifida, and look where this has gotten her.
“You know, Laura,” she says finally. “Do you remember when I hopped the Greyhound bus, trying to run away?”
My thoughts are scattered, but I search my mind for the memory. My mother had gone missing for the day, returned home in the evening, suitcase in tow.
“I remember,” I say.
“Some days I wished I would have kept going.”
“I understand.” I pause. “Try to relax.”
My mother reposes back, closes her eyes, and remains quiet. I turn on the ignition and shift the car into gear.
Soon, we return home. I lock my mother inside the car and scurry inside to call the emergency department. I explain my situation as best I can, and they ask me to remain with my mother until they approach.
I am standing in the driveway when the entourage arrives, police officers, fire trucks, and emergency vehicles. I inhale the wafting exhaust of the ambulance while first responders remove my mother from the car and escort her onto the gurney.
I step up and into the front seat of the ambulance’s passenger side while they examine my mother’s vital signs. “Will she be okay?” I ask. But there is no response.
The ride is long and arduous; the notion of self-sacrifice swirls through my mind. I peer back at my mother. She lies still, the top of her head visible. I make a mental note and promise to myself then: I will not live in her image. My mother dreamt of being a writer. But her dream has fallen to the ground like crimson leaves from autumn trees.
If she could, she would be a woman who ruled the world. She will hopefully recover now, but she will never be the same again.
- The Forgotten Files - September 16, 2025
