[转载]午夜铃声 The Call at Midnight
(2015-02-10 22:21:16)
Arthur
Zhang
The following is another story which moved me to tears. After
reading it I try to reflect on my own behavior as a teacher. We
often, as a teacher, tell our students or children
to do this or that, to follow the rules or your
way of thinking. We seldom listen to the students what they really
want or are thinking about. From this story I learned that we, as a
teacher or parent, need to pratice listening. Learn to listen to
our inferiors, our subordinates, our students and children. Listen
to what they have to say.
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The Call at
Midnight
By Christie Craig
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.
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