The call at midnight

夜半铃响，俱知此觉。此夜似往，并无他想。声惊寐起，聚神于钟。夜半铃响，诚惶诚恐。朦胧无意，促我猛仪。 心起及口，六神不安。望及我夫，此面向我。 姝女言弱，类及我女。此声无法，绵绵难绝。我心难宁，累及我夫。 “阿母吾言，女知时晚，有言难尽，女知不该。母听女言，吾有杜康，借以消愁，不胜酒力，醉以车往”姝女悲绝，无以话言。 促我猛仪，吾以浅絮。以手拂面，梦惊神留，仍知其忧。 “姝女无援，类及孤屿。唯言女灭，方及伤母。女往归家，女往归家。女知己妄，女知母忧。女往言母，女实不敢。” “愿母轻留，女实述哀”姝女言忧，济以恕心。 吾思何言，慰其心哀。先吾语怀，姝女仍言“女身有命，不以沉沦，难以言孤，难以言孤。” 女言再断，泪盈我眶。透及我伤，目及我夫，促以言型，谓吾及谁？ 不知何言，不知何哀。我夫步移，贴耳乃回。 姝女闻空，问及吾言“母何在乎？静听女言。女实念母，难言以孤。” 拽及我夫，求其以援“母直此乎，母直此乎。” “女往言母，女其言母。时其相言，母训纸乎。怨母不听，怨母不念，类及我心，竟无意乎！母以为答，涵及女问，怨母不听，怨母不念！” 哀似共工，唯以念绝。触及榻侧，吾弃于纸。“母实愿听，母实在听！”低语哀女 “母实不知，女往归家，行至半途，车无以控。女及短亭，会以母言。母须训女，不以自持，母须训女，不以自命。先已邀车，女往归家。” “女言极好”吾气乃畅。夫眷我指，夫伴我心，其意明了，吾行一善。 “女往归家，亲驱以车？” “儿实不可！儿实不可！”吾知其静，吾心俱忧。姝女不言，握心以待，姝女何劝？ 车来声响，吾气复畅！ “女已归家”听及音响，姝女已安。 归吾床榻，泪满吾颊，行至厅中，望女闺房。女方二八，女实我心。夜深人寂，吾夫来伴。圈我以怀，抚我以颌。 以手拭泪，触及满面“吾辈不善，闻及子女” 夫抚我面，慰我以言“吾辈将善，吾辈要闻”圈吾以怀，枕以其肩。 身倚我夫，不觉几时，归吾床榻，夫视我面，夫视我心“女可知否，言及错否？” 望及我女“错否对否，不可知矣” “母乎，父乎，何以待乎？”吾女乃言，神留梦中。吾乃近乎，“母乃起乎，父乃练乎” “起乎，练乎？”女言不明，归其床榻，入其梦中。 “闻之闻之”吾抚女颊。 We all know what's it 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 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 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 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 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. Reprinted by permission of Christie Craig (c) 1995 f rom Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul 2 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Marci Shimoff and Carol Kline. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.