Midnight Phone Call

Midnight Phone Call



Midnight Phone Call Stirs A Mothers's Heart

We all know what it's like to get that phone call in the middle
of the night. This night 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 reciever.

"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?" The voice answered. 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
clear 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 of the roada 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 of 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 from
home was wrong. I know you've been worried sick. I should
have called you days ago, but I was afraid...Afraid..."

Staying on the line.

Sobs of deep-felt emotion flowed from the reciever and poured
into my heart. Imediately I pictured my daughter's face in my
mind, and my fogged senses seemed to clear, "I think---"

"No! Please let ne 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 up 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 a portable
phone held to his ear. She must have heard the click in the
line because she asked, "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 won'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 iimportant.
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."

When to talk I swallowed the the lump in my throat and stared
at the how-to-talk-to-your- kids pamphlets scattered on my
night stand. "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 to me 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.

"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."

Learning to listen

I listened to the silence fearing. 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 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 16-year-
old daughter's room. My husband came from behind,
wrapped his arms around me and rested his chin on top of
my head.

I wiped the tears from my cheeks. "We have to learn to
listen," I said to him. He studied me for a second, then asked,
"Do you think she'll ever know she dialed the wrong number."

"Mom, Dad, what are you doing?" The muffled voice came
from under the covers. I walked over to my daughter, who
now sat up staring into the darkness.

"We're practicing," I answered.

"Practicing what?" she mumbled and laid back down on the
mattress, but her eyes already closed in slumber.

"Listening," I whispered and brushed a hand over her cheek.


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*contributed by my dear friend Shirley