The Call That Came At Midnight

Today, I decided to post a personal experience piece I wrote years ago. Yes, in another life, I wrote nonfiction for all sorts of magazines. This story was the leading essay in the Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul 2 in 1995. Well several years back, I got a request from someone in Vietnam to use it to make a short video for a school project. The other night I was searching for something on You Tube and found it. I can’t understand a word of it, but it still brought tears to my eyes because I know the story. And it reminded me in a way of Kylie and Sara and the issues they have with their moms. So, I decided to post it today.

I’ll be upfront with you, there are no vampires, werewolves or any supernaturals in this short piece. But there’s a lot of emotion, and I thought you might enjoy it.

Next week, we’ll go back to answering some more questions you have for Lucas and Derek. And hey…Whispers at Moonrise is getting closer to the release date!!

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“One of the oldest human needs is having someone to wonder where you are when you don’t come home at night.” Margaret Mead

The Call That Came 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. Was someone I loved in trouble? 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 a desperate sound of the 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 say…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,” she continued. “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, I recalled the light raspy sound of her voice 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.

The caller 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 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 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 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, envisioning a wreck, envisioning losing a child, 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. But how?

“There’s the taxi, now.”

Only when I heard someone in the background asking about a Yellow Cab did I feel my

tension easing. She would get home.

“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.” Somehow, I was sure this had been some kind of a wake call for me as a mother.

“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 her question.

“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.

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Now that you’ve read the story, watch the video and let me know what you think.