Midnight Phone Call

Do not string me up for this... Normally I don't share these... This one was
different... I hope you agree...
K

Midnight Phone Call

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 I 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 of 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 in 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 know I should have told you, Mama. 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 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 about people shouldn't
drink and drive. So I called a taxi. I want to come home."

"That's good, Honey," I said as relief filled 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 with 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. 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 the 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.

"'Kate" wrote in message
...
That one will make ya think.
I'm glad you posted it.

'K


I actually got teary when I read it... The age of my daughter it was very
close to home... Especially with all the ups and downs she has lately :S

K

On Sat, 06 May 2006 17:21:14 GMT, "Kim" the
following was posted in blue dry erase marker:

Do not string me up for this... Normally I don't share these... This one
was
different... I hope you agree...
K

Midnight Phone Call

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 I 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 of 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 in 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 know I should have told you, Mama. 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 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 about people shouldn't
drink and drive. So I called a taxi. I want to come home."

"That's good, Honey," I said as relief filled 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 with 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. 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 the 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.