PRACTICE
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?" The voice answered. I could
hardly hear the whisper
over the static. But my thoughts immediately
went to my daughter.
"Mama, I know it's late but, don't. . .
. don't say anything until I
finish and before you ask, yes, I have
been drinking. I nearly
ran off the road a few miles back and .
. . 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 and I should have
called you days
ago, but I was afraid."
I paused and tried to think what to say.
Before I could speak,
she continued.
"I'm pregnant, Mama and 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 clutched the phone and stared at my husband, seeking guidance.
"I'm here. I wouldn't hang up," I said into the phone.
"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'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."
"I know, but do this for your mama, wait
for the taxi please."
I listened to the silence, fearing. 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."
There was a click and then 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 16 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 in his arms and I buried
my head in his shoulder.
I let him hold me for several moments,
then I pulled back and stared
at the bed.
He studied me for a second and then asked,
"Do you think she'll ever
know she dialed the wrong number?" I looked
at our sleeping daughter and 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.
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