The Boy from Beyond Saved His Mother
A little boy called me, begging me to save his dying mother. She was savedbut later, I learned the boy, Max, whod called me had been buried a month earlier.
Im a doctor. Over the years, Ive seen all sorts of casestragic, joyful, absurd. But this one stays with me, the strangest of all.
It happened early in my career, in the 1980s. Fresh out of medical school, Id been assigned to a small-town clinic. Expecting some crumbling old building, I was stunned to find a brand-new facility. The staff welcomed me warmly. I was thrilled.
Nothing unusual marked my first week, though patients kept me busy late into the evenings. That Friday, I arrived early, hoping to tidy paperwork in peace. My nurse, Margaret, wasnt due for another hour. But just as I settled inthe phone rang.
I lifted the receiver and heard a boys bright voice. *”Dr. James! Its my mumshes bad. Elm Street, number 11. Please hurry!”*
*”Whats wrong?”* I asked.
*”Shes dying!”* His voice dropped to a whisper.
*”Why? What happened? Call an ambulance!”* I urged.
*”No ones homejust me. My sister hasnt come yet,”* he murmuredthen the line went dead.
I threw on my coat and raced to the address. Fifteen minutes later, I stood before the house, its door ajar. *”Anyone call for a doctor?”* No answer. Inside, I found a woman sprawled across the bed, her head lolling, face ghostly beneath tangled dark hair.
Her skin was ice-cold, but a faint pulse fluttered at her wrist. An empty pill bottle lay on the floor. A suicide attempt. Id never dealt with one beforebut time was running out. Spotting a telephone, I dialled emergency services, then did what I could until the ambulance arrived.
To spare her the psych wardwhere suicides were treated harshlyI told the paramedics shed miscalculated her medication and called me in panic.
As they carried her out, neighbours gathered. *”Will she make it, Doctor?”* asked an elderly woman.
*”Shell pull through,”* I assured her.
The woman sighed. *”Its her Max calling her, I reckon. Her lad drowned. A month ago tomorrow.”*
*”But she has other childrena boy and girl,”* I said.
The woman shook her head. *”Only ever had the one.”*
Then who had called me? What sister had the boy spoken of? No time to thinkI rushed back to the clinic.
Margaret gasped when I entered. *”Dr. James! I was worried sick!”*
I recounted the mornings strangeness.
*”I know that family,”* she said quietly. *”Lydias a kind soul. She and her husband longed for a child. When Max came, they doted on him. Why must such grief find good people?”* Her voice wavered. Then she frowned. *”But how did they call you? Our clinics not even connected to the exchange yet.”*
*”What?”* I stared at the phonethen noticed its severed cord.
Dread prickled my skin. A dead boy had called me on a disconnected line? Had I lost my mind? Yet Id spoken to him.
That evening, I visited Lydia in hospital. Her husband gripped my hand. *”Thank you. Without you, Id have lost her.”*
Lydia stared vacantly out the window. *”How did you find me?”* Her voice was hollow.
I told her about the call. A tear slid down her cheek. *”Max saved me.”*
I squeezed her hand. *”He wants you to live. Why else would he have called? Fightfor him. He even mentioned a sister.”*
She shook her head. *”The doctors say I cant have more children.”* Turning away, she wept.
I left, heart heavy. I didnt visit againshe seemed to want no reminders.
But the story haunted me. Years passed. Then one winter day, a knock interrupted my rounds.
Lydia stood there, radiant, one hand resting on her swollen belly, the other clasping a little girls hand. *”Meet our daughter, Emma,”* she said. The girl peeked shyly from behind her skirt. Lydias eyes shone. *”You saved me. Your words struck deep. After I recovered, we went to an orphanage. Emma was waiting on the stepslike she knew us. Thats why Max wouldnt let me die. And then”* She smiled, patting her belly. *”A miracle. The boy from beyond had called not to save his mother from deathbut to lead her back to life, to the family she was meant to have. I stood there, stunned, as little Emma reached out and took my hand, her tiny fingers warm and sure, just like the voice on that silent phone line had been. Years later, I still keep a photograph on my desk: Lydia, her husband, Emma, and a candlelit space beside themleft for Max, the unseen son, the guardian no one else can see, but whose presence I feel every time the clinic phone rings.
