**Diary Entry**
It was early in my career, back in the 1980s, when I got a call from a little boy pleading for me to save his dying mother. We managed to save heronly to later discover that the boy, Oliver, who had called me, had been buried a month before. Im a doctor, and over the years, Ive seen all sorts of casessad, joyous, bizarrebut this one still haunts me.
Fresh out of medical school, Id been assigned to a small-town clinic. Expecting some crumbling old building, I was surprised to find a brand-new facility. The staff welcomed me warmly, and for the first week, nothing unusual happened, though patients kept me busy well into the night. One Friday, I arrived early to sort paperwork before appointments began. Nurse Margaret hadnt arrived yet, but as soon as I settled in, the phone rang.
A boys voice, bright but urgent, came through: Dr. Harrison! My mums really ill! Elm Street, number eleven. Please hurry!
Whats wrong with her? I asked.
Shes dying! he whispered, voice fading.
Dying? From what? Call an ambulance! I insisted, alarmed.
No ones home but me. My sisters not back yet, he replied faintlythen the line went dead.
I grabbed my coat and rushed to the address. The front door was ajar. Hello? The doctors here, I called. Silence. Inside, I found a woman slumped across the bed, her face deathly pale beneath tangled dark hair. Her skin was icy, but a weak pulse flickered at her wrist. An empty pill bottle lay on the flooran overdose. Suicide cases were new to me, but time was critical. I dialled emergency from the bedside phone, stabilised her as best I could, and lied to the paramedics, saying shed misjudged her medication. If theyd suspected suicide, shed have been institutionalisedno questions asked back then.
As they carried her out, neighbours gathered. Will she pull through? an old woman asked.
Shell recover, I said firmly.
The woman sighed. Its her Oliver calling her, I reckon. Drowned a month ago, poor lad.
But she has other childrena boy and girl, I said.
She shook her head. No, just the one.
Who had called me, then? And what sister was the boy talking about? I hurried back to the clinic, where Margaret scolded me for vanishing. When I told her, her face fell. Thats Lydia. She and her husband tried for years before Oliver came along. Then to lose him Her voice wavered. Then she frowned. But our phones werent even connected yet.
I stared at the receiverno cord. How had a dead boy called a dead line?
That evening, I visited Lydia in hospital. Her husband gripped my hand, thanking me, but Lydia stared blankly out the window. How did you find us? she murmured. When I mentioned the call, a tear slid down her cheek. Oliver saved me.
I squeezed her hand. He wants you to live. He even spoke of a sister.
She shook her head. The doctors said Id never have children again.
I left, heartsick. Years later, Lydia returnedradiant, holding a little girls hand, her belly round with another child. This is Emily, she said, eyes shining. After you spoke to me, we went to an orphanage. She was waiting on the steps. Then this miracle happened. She touched her stomach. Now I understand why Oliver wouldnt let me go.
Even now, I wonder: why me? What made that boy reach through the veil to choose a stranger as his messenger? Some mysteries defy logicbut kindness? That, we can always answer.
