When the Phone Rings...

            Since my daughter Jenna left for college, I rarely call her; she calls me. During Jenna’s freshman year, it seemed like I always caught her at a bad time, so we decided it would be best if she contacted me.  Now she’s 23 and living in D.C., and we follow the same rule because she can still fit herself into my life easier than I can fit into hers.

So when Jenna calls, I’m eager to talk.  However, raising the phone against my ear, I usually hesitate ever so slightly before I say, cheerily, “Hi Jen.”  I know that in the next few seconds I will discover which type of call this one will be.  There’s the free-flowing, chatty one; the exuberant “I can’t wait to tell you what happened!” call; the short and clipped obligatory type; and the call that begins with silence, followed by a burst of garbled sentences and tears.

The “free-flowing, chatty” call is the most frequent and is our chance to catch up on the week.  As Jenna describes what she’s been doing, I picture her in sweatpants on the over-sized leather couch in her studio apartment.  It’s a deep one and she’s leaning against a big pillow in the corner, legs folded underneath.  Other times I see her slumped down, with her long legs stretched straight, heels resting on the wooden coffee table.

The second type, the exuberant “I can’t wait to tell you” call, is the one I enjoy the most. After answering the phone, I encounter a fast-paced string of sentences that forces me backward into a chair.  Jen spews excitedly about some accomplishment at work that earned her kudos from her boss, or shares an endorphin-filled account of a long run in the park.  It’s as if my daughter has been transported through the phone, swirling out like a genie bursting from her bottle.  There are colorful sparkles and I see Jenna’s beautiful, broad smile and bright brown eyes appear before me. 

The third “short and clipped” phone call is the one I really don’t enjoy.  It comes when Jenna’s not in the mood to talk but realizes she hasn’t spoken to me in a while.  Her sentences are terse and the words come through the phone like wood.  I used to try coaxing Jen out of her mood by introducing interesting topics, but the conversations ended up a game of 20 questions with me asking and Jenna responding with unsatisfying one-word answers. 

When I receive this type of call, I assume Jenna’s had a hectic day.  I envision her standing in work clothes, messenger bag slung over her shoulder.  If I hear some echo-y sounds in the background, I know she’s waiting in a crowd for the Metro.  Or I see her in black tights, rushing across the bridge to Adams Morgan to get to yoga class.  For these calls, I quickly say, “Hey, Jen.  It’s great to hear from you, but it sounds like you don’t have time to talk right now.  Call me later.”  She sounds relieved, and the call ends with a quick click.   

The last type of call is the one that comes in the middle of the night.  The ring is like a siren and I jolt up, scanning the room, wondering what woke me. As I orient myself in the dark, my body prepares for action – blood rushes, pupils dilate, muscles contract.  I snatch the phone from its cradle.  Something must be very wrong. 

There’s no Caller ID this time, just the loud jarring sound intruding into the peace of the night.  There’s no light-hearted “Hi Jen” coming from my end either.  My voice comes out tentative, fearful, “Hello?” 

There’s a pause, after which I can make out the word “Mom?” through a torrent of muffled sobs.

“Jen?  What’s wrong?”  My visions are a quick-moving kaleidoscope of dark images:  Jenna lying on the city sidewalk in the wee hours, curled up in bed with her hand clutching

her stomach in pain, standing by the side of a car with a bloody figure at her feet. 

After she says through tears, “I’m really upset …” I start breathing again. She’s okay.  My baby is alright physically, but she is horribly unhappy.  I yearn to wrap my arms around my daughter and wipe the tears from her face.  As Jenna begins to explain, I tip-toe out of the room and settle onto her old bed down the hall for what will probably be a long conversation.

However unpredictable Jenna’s calls, I am thrilled when I get them because I want to know what my daughter’s doing and feeling. I want to understand her comings and goings, triumphs and sorrows.  Regardless of which type of call I receive, each one gives me a glimpse of her independent, far-away life.  It’s these virtual connections that hold our bond intact between our visits during holidays, birthdays and mother-daughter weekends.  So when the phone rings and I see it’s Jenna, I will continue to grab it eagerly to find out what the call will bring.