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The Call at Midnight
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.
Author: Christie Craig
Submitted by Ruby Tibre, United Kingdom
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