Story of the Day
"The Call at
Midnight"
We
all know what it's like to get that phone call in the middle of the night.
This night's call was no different. Jerking up to the ringing summons, I
focused on the red illuminated numbers of my clock. Midnight.
Panicky thoughts filled my sleep-dazed mind as I grabbed the receiver.
"Hello?"
My heart pounded, I
gripped the phone tighter and eyed my husband, who was now turning to face my
side of the bed.
"Mama?"
I could hardly hear the whisper over the static. But my thoughts
immediately went to my daughter. When the desperate sound of a young
crying voice became clearer on the line, I grabbed for my husband and squeezed
his wrist.
"Mama, I know
it's late. But don't...don't say anything, until I finish. And
before you ask, yes, I've been drinking. I nearly ran off the road a few
miles back and..."
I drew in a sharp
shallow breath, released my husband and pressed my hand against my forehead.
Sleep still fogged my mind, and I attempted to fight back the panic.
Something wasn't right.
"And I got so
scared. All I could think about was how it would hurt you if a policeman
came to your door and said I'd been killed. I want...to come home. I
know running away was wrong. I know you've been worried sick. I
should have called you days ago, but I was afraid...afraid..."
Sobs of deep-felt
emotion flowed from the receiver and poured into my heart. Immediately I
pictured my daughter's face in my mind and my fogged senses seemed to clear.
"I think –"
"No!
Please let me finish! Please!" She pleaded, not so much in
anger, but in desperation.
I paused and tried
to think what to say. Before I could go on, she continued. "I'm
pregnant, Mama. I know I shouldn't be drinking now...especially now, but
I'm scared, Mama. So scared!"
The voice broke
again, and I bit into my lip, feeling my own eyes fill with moisture. I
looked at my husband who sat silently mouthing, "Who is it?"
I shook my head and
when I didn't answer, he jumped up and left the room, returning seconds later
with the portable phone held to his ear.
She must have heard
the click on the line because she continued, "Are you still there?
Please don't hang up on me! I need you. I feel so alone."
I clutched the
phone and stared at my husband, seeking guidance. "I'm here, I
wouldn't hang up," I said.
"I should have
told you, Mama. I know I should have told you. But when we talk, you
just keep telling me what I should do. You read all those pamphlets on how
to talk about sex and all, but all you do is talk. You don't listen to me.
You never let me tell you how I feel. It is as if my feelings aren't
important. Because you're my mother you think you have all the answers.
But sometimes I don't need answers. I just want someone to listen."
I swallowed the
lump in my throat and stared at the how-to-talk-to-your-kids pamphlets scattered
on my nightstand. "I'm listening," I whispered.
"You know,
back there on the road, after I got the car under control, I started thinking
about the baby and taking care of it. Then I saw this phone booth, and it
was as if I could hear you preaching about how people shouldn't drink and drive.
So I called a taxi. I want to come home."
"That's good,
Honey," I said, relief filling my chest. My husband came closer, sat
down beside me and laced his fingers through mine. I knew from his touch
that he thought I was doing and saying the right thing.
"But you know,
I think I can drive now."
"No!" I
snapped. My muscles stiffened, and I tightened the clasp on my husband's
hand. "Please, wait for the taxi. Don't hang up on me until the
taxi gets there."
"I just want
to come home, Mama."
"I know.
But do this for your mama. Wait for the taxi, please."
I listened to the
silence in fear. When I didn't hear her answer, I bit into my lip and
closed my eyes. Somehow I had to stop her from driving.
"There's the
taxi, now."
Only when I heard
someone in the background asking about a Yellow Cab did I feel my tension
easing.
"I'm coming
home, Mama." There was a click, and the phone went silent.
Moving from the
bed, tears forming in my eyes, I walked out into the hall and went to stand in
my sixteen-year-old daughter's room. The dark silence hung thick. My
husband came from behind, wrapped his arms around me and rested his chin on the
top of my head.
I wiped the tears
from my cheeks. "We have to learn to listen," I said to him.
He pulled me around
to face him. "We'll learn. You'll see." Then he took
me into his arms, and I buried my head in his shoulder.
I let him hold me
for several moments, then I pulled back and stared back at the bed. He
studied me for a second, then asked, "Do you think she'll ever know she
dialed the wrong number?"
I looked at our
sleeping daughter, then back at him. "Maybe it wasn't such a wrong
number."
"Mom, Dad,
what are you doing?" The muffled young voice came from under the
covers.
I walked over to my
daughter, who now sat up staring into darkness. "We're
practicing," I answered.
"Practicing
what?" she mumbled and laid back on the mattress, her eyes already closed
in slumber.
"Listening,"
I whispered and brushed a hand over her cheek.