The Call That Came at Midnight

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Happy Mother's Day everyone!



Well Sunday is Mother’s Day. And let me tell you, I think moms everywhere deserve to be honored, pampered, loved, and get lavished with lots of gifts. Hey, I like gifts. But seriously, I can honestly tell you that there is no job as difficult as being a mother. You look at those little humans and know they are watching you to learn how to live. It’s a scary thought, and it always makes me want to be a better person. And it makes me appreciate my mom, too.

Today, in honor of Mother’s Day, I decided to post a personal experience piece I wrote almost twelve years ago. And I’m warning you upfront, it’s not funny. You might recognize it. The story was the leading essay in the Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul 2 in 1995. I’m also running a contest, with nice prizes, see the prizes at the bottom of the blog. (See, I feel bad about not being funny.)

And one more thing: My non-fiction writing partner, Faye Hughes, and I have just launched our new website, http://www.writewithus.net/. Not only will the website have information about our speaking engagements, our workshops/online classes and upcoming projects, it will offer writing tips and information—from how-to articles to examples of synopses that have sold books. We plan to house even more articles and information at the site’s Yahoo! Groups.
If you get a chance, please stop by for a visit . . . and tell your friends!

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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. 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.

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 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, 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." 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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Okay, what I’d like to hear from you guys now are stories of being a mom, maybe stories of your mom. Come on, it’s Mother’s Day, let’s share. And because it’s mother’s day, I’m doing a contest. Some lucky poster will receive an ARC ( Advanced Reading Copy) of Weddings Can Be Murder, a Sexy, Suspenseful and Seriously Funny Tee-shirt, and a pack of my note cards. So post away guys!

Happy Mother’s Day

Crime Scene Christie, AKA, Mama