“Call an ambulance,” spoke a voice in his head, and Constance glanced around.
This tale was told to me by an acquaintance.
Often, when someone shares a story of a miracle that happened to them, we don’t believe it. We nod along but secretly dismiss it as imagination, a dream, or wishful thinking. Miracles? Angels? God? Old wives’ tales, nothing more. And where would miracles come from in our frantic, modern age? Why should one oddball be granted a miracle while the rest of us see none? If it happened to me, I suppose then I might believe.
That was how twenty-eight-year-old Constance used to think. He lived with his mother, Evelyn. His father had passed when Constance was ten. Marriage wasn’t a priority—he was seeing a quiet girl named Margaret. First, he’d buy a flat, then bring his bride home. No good having two women in one kitchen. Renting? No rush. Besides, he wasn’t eager to leave his mother alone.
An old-fashioned sort, by modern standards. Worked in information technology—just a regular IT bloke. One afternoon, his mother called. She never rang him at work unless it was serious. So Constance answered at once.
“Son,” came her weak, trembling voice. “I’ve broken my leg. It’s agony—I can’t move.”
“Where are you?” Constance leapt from his chair in alarm.
“By the Tesco near our house. I’ve already called an ambulance. Just wanted to let you know—in case anything…”
“Mum, I’m on my way!” And he rushed to her aid.
Another call reached him in the car. His mother said they were taking her to the county hospital. Constance spun the car around and sped in the opposite direction. When he arrived, she’d already been wheeled into surgery. He spent hours pacing the corridor until the surgeon emerged.
“Come back tomorrow when we’ve moved her to a ward,” the man said.
Dusk had fallen when Constance left the hospital. He stopped at a shop to buy juice and fruit for his mother. Stepping outside, he noticed a woman staggering past. Odd—well-dressed, middle-aged, yet clearly drunk. He reached his car but glanced back once more.
Then, she swayed, stretched out a hand as if bracing herself, found no support, and collapsed onto the pavement. Without hesitation, Constance ran to her.
Setting the bag down, he crouched beside her and called out. No response. He leaned in—no scent of alcohol. What now? No medical training. Never been seriously ill himself. And not a soul around.
“Can you hear me? Are you hurt?” He tapped her cheeks lightly, hoping for a reaction.
*”Won’t help. Call an ambulance. Lift her head—put something beneath it.”*
The voice was so clear in his mind that Constance looked around. Empty street. Only a distant man walking a terrier—too far to have spoken. And the woman lay unconscious.
He dialled emergency services, explaining the situation.
*”Tell them it’s a stroke. They must hurry.”*
Again, he glanced about. Then repeated the word *stroke* into the phone. Probably just thinking aloud, he reasoned.
*”Now lift her head—carefully.”*
No suitable object nearby. He peeled off his jumper, folded it under her head, and waited, praying silently for the ambulance’s arrival.
*”Rub her ears—hard.”*
He did, until they flushed crimson. Whether it helped or she was already stirring, her eyelids fluttered as sirens wailed closer.
*”Thank God, she’s coming round.”* A sigh of relief escaped him.
Two women emerged from the shop, crowding round, offering advice. A small audience gathered.
Then the ambulance arrived. Medics strapped the woman to a stretcher, loading her swiftly.
“Was it a stroke?” Constance asked one of them.
“Looks like it. You a doctor?”
“No. I just… called you.”
“You did everything right—even raising her head. Hope we got here in time.” The medic climbed inside.
“Which hospital?” Constance called, though he wasn’t sure why.
“County General.” The door slammed, and the ambulance sped off.
With nothing left to see, the crowd dispersed. Constance dusted off his jumper and pulled it back on. Then he realised—the bag of groceries was gone. Someone must’ve nicked it. *No matter.* He’d buy more tomorrow.
At home, he couldn’t eat. Kept wondering—what *was* that voice? People talk to themselves, but never had his thoughts sounded so… *foreign*. No, his mind usually raced in fragments during crises, never forming clear directives. And diagnosing a stroke? He barely knew what one was. If he told anyone, they’d think he’d cracked from too much coding.
Lying in the dark, he tried summoning the voice again. Nothing. Just his own muddled thoughts. That day, though—it had been crisp, immediate. *Going mad. Hearing voices now.* He smirked. No answer came.
Perhaps the woman was responsible? A medium, a witch? That seemed the likeliest explanation. Content with it, he finally slept.
Next day, he visited his mother. She fretted over his meals—”You’ll live on toast if I’m not there!”—while marvelling at how she’d broken her hip on flat ground. He promised to manage and offered to bring whatever she needed. Margaret could cook, too. After a brief chat, he left.
In the hospital foyer, on impulse, he approached the front desk.
“Last night, an ambulance brought in a woman—stroke victim?”
The nurse directed him to records.
Waiting in line, he questioned himself. Why bother? He’d done his part. Yet when his turn came, he learned: Antonia Whitmore, neurology ward, third floor, Room 7. No visitors allowed.
Not that he’d planned to see her. He didn’t know why he’d asked.
Days passed with no more phantom voices. He relaxed. Stress played tricks on the mind. His mother improved, hobbling on crutches. He visited daily.
One evening, descending the stairs (the lifts were always jammed), he spotted the *Neurology* sign—and paused. *Does anyone visit Antonia? How is she?* As if nudged, he entered.
Room 7 held women of similar age—grey, frail. Constance hovered in the doorway.
“Who are you here for, young man?” one asked.
“Antonia Whitmore.” He scanned their faces.
“That’s me,” came a voice by the window.
He approached.
“Are you one of Michael’s friends?” Her words were slow, deliberate, yet clear. The left side of her mouth drooped slightly.
Constance blinked. He’d expected her near death—yet here she was, speaking.
“I don’t know Michael. I called the ambulance when you collapsed.”
She nodded faintly.
“I saw you.”
“How? You were unconscious.”
“You stood beside my son. He spoke to you.”
Gooseflesh prickled his neck. He fumbled for words. Only one explanation came—she was delusional.
“My son was in an accident. Coma. When I heard, I nearly lost my mind.” Her words confirmed his suspicion. “Then—dizziness, pain—blackness. Next thing, I saw Michael. And you. I thought he’d woken. But he hadn’t.” She gazed at him, pleading.
“If you need anything, tell me. I’m here often. My mother’s in orthopaedics—broken leg.”
“Nothing’s needed. But—if you could… go to church. Light candles. For Michael. And your mother.”
Constance had never set foot in a church—thought them for the elderly or the unwell. The hollow echo of his steps filled the quiet nave. A wizened woman at the candle stall watched him approach. Helped him scribble names. Showed him where to place the candles.
Before the icon, his thoughts tumbled. *Focus.* Silently, he repeated: *Antonia, heal. Michael, wake. Mum’s leg, mend.* Then wondered—should he push his luck? Ask for a flat where Margaret could reign? Best not.
His mind stilled. Leaving, he felt calm. Certain, somehow, that all *would* be well.
His mother visited Antonia; they grew close. Three days after Constance’s church visit, Michael woke.
Two months later, Margaret’s folks offered to help buy the flat. “You’ve waited long enough. Marry, give us grandchildren.”
Constance asked Michael if he’d seen anything during the coma—had he spoken to Constance? Michael only shrugged. No memory.
In time, Constance stopped puzzling over it. Clearly, he *hadn’t* spoken to a comatose man. Just stress, imagination. He never heard the voice again. Never spoke of it—not even to Margaret.
