From her pension, Dorothy Smith, aside from the necessary utility bills and buying groceries on wholesale deals, would treat herself to a small luxury—a packet of whole-bean coffee.
The beans were already roasted, and when she snipped the corner of the packet, they released an intoxicating aroma. She had to inhale with her eyes closed, shutting out all other senses except smell, and then, like magic, it happened! Along with the incredible scent came a rush of energy, bringing back memories of childhood dreams about distant lands, visions of ocean waves, the sound of tropical rain, mysterious rustlings in the jungle, and the wild cries of monkeys swinging through the vines…
She’d never seen any of it, but she remembered her father’s stories of his expeditions to South America. When he was home, he loved to tell little Dotty about his adventures in the Amazon Valley, sipping on strong brewed coffee, and its aroma would always remind her of him—the lean, sinewy, tannin-traveled explorer.
She always knew her parents weren’t her biological ones. She remembered how, at the onset of the war, when she was a three-year-old girl who had lost her family, a woman took her in and became her mother for life. Afterward, it was the same as for everyone else: school, studies, work, marriage, the birth of a son, and now the outcome—solitude. Her son had moved abroad about twenty years ago, urged by his wife, and thrived with his family in the city of Brighton. He had only visited his hometown once during all this time. They kept in touch, and her son sent her money every month, but she never spent it—she saved it in a special account. Over twenty years, it accumulated to a substantial sum that she planned to return to him. Eventually…
Lately, the thought that she’d lived a good life, full of love and care, but someone else’s, hadn’t left her. If it weren’t for the war, she would have had a different family, different parents, a different home. So, her fate would have been different too. She barely remembered her biological parents, but she often recalled a girl her age, who was always by her side in those early years. Her name was Mary. At times, she could still hear the calls: “Mary, Dotty!” Who was she to her? A friend, a sister?
Her musings were interrupted by the brief beep of her mobile. Dorothy looked at the screen—her pension had been deposited! What luck, just in time! She could walk to the shop and buy some coffee—she’d brewed the last of it yesterday morning. Gently tapping the pavement with her cane and avoiding autumn puddles, she approached the shop entrance.
Near the door huddled a small, striped grey cat, cautiously eyeing both passersby and the glass doors. A pang of sympathy tugged at her heart: “Poor little thing, she must be freezing and hungry too. I’d take you home with me, but who would care for you after I’m gone? My time might be up… if not today, then tomorrow.” However, feeling sorry for the poor creature, she bought a small pack of food.
Carefully squeezing the jelly mass into a plastic tray, she watched as the cat patiently waited, gazing lovingly at her. The shop doors swung open, and a hefty woman, who didn’t look pleased, came out. Without a word, she kicked the tray of food away, scattering the pieces across the pavement.
“You tell them, you tell them, and yet they don’t listen!” she snapped. “Don’t feed them here!” She turned abruptly and stormed off. The cat, glancing nervously back and forth, started picking up the scattered pieces from the pavement. Dorothy, breathless with indignation, felt the first twinge of an approaching episode. She hurried to the bus stop, as there were benches there. Sitting on one of them, she frantically searched her pockets, hoping to find her medication, but in vain.
The pain crashed over her in waves, as if her head was in a vice, her vision darkened, and she stifled a groan from her chest. Someone touched her shoulder. She struggled to open her eyes—a young girl was looking at her with concern.
“Are you okay, Gran? How can I help?”
“In my bag,” Dorothy weakly gestured. “There’s a packet of coffee. Get it and open it.”
She leaned into the packet, inhaling the aroma of roasted beans once, twice. The pain didn’t go away, but it eased.
“Thank you, dear,” Dorothy whispered faintly.
“My name is Pauline, but you should thank the cat,” the girl smiled. “It was right there next to you, meowing so loudly!”
“And thank you too, my sweet,” Dorothy nodded to the cat, which was sitting beside her on the bench, the very same striped one.
“What happened to you?” the girl asked with concern.
“A spell, dear, just a migraine,” Dorothy admitted. “Got a bit too worked up, it happens…”
“I’ll walk you home; it’ll be hard to get there alone…”
“My granny has these migraines too,” Pauline shared when they were sipping light coffee with milk and cookies at Dorothy’s flat. “Well, actually, she’s my great-grandma, but I call her Granny. She lives in the village with my grandma, mum, and dad. I study here, training to be a nurse. Granny calls me ‘sweetheart’ just like you do. And you know, you look so much like her that I first thought you might be her! Have you ever tried looking for your real family, those born to you?”
“My dear Pauline, how would I find them? I barely even remember them. Not my surname, nor where I was from,” Dorothy shared, stroking the cat nestled in her lap. “I recall the bombing, traveling by horse-drawn cart, the tanks… I ran and ran until I couldn’t remember myself! It was terrible, a lifelong nightmare. Then a woman took me in, and I called her mum forever, and she’s my mum right now. After the war, her husband came back and became the best father I could ever have! All I have left from my past is my name. And my real family, likely perished under the bombs. My mum and little Mary…”
She didn’t notice how Pauline shuddered at these words and looked at her with wide, blue eyes.
“Dorothy, do you have a birthmark on your right shoulder, like a leaf?”
Taken aback, Dorothy choked on her coffee, and the cat stared at her intently.
“How do you know that, sweetheart?”
“My granny has exactly the same one,” Pauline quietly said. “Her name is Mary. She still can’t hold back tears when she remembers her twin sister, Dotty. She disappeared during the evacuation, after the road was cut off. They had to return home and survived the occupation there. But Dotty disappeared. They never found her, no matter how much they searched…”
Since that morning, Dorothy couldn’t find peace. She walked from the window to the door, expecting guests. The striped grey cat stayed close by, watching her face with concern.
“Don’t worry, Maggie, I’m alright,” she reassured the cat. “It’s just my heart that’s racing…”
Finally, the doorbell rang. Dorothy, nervous, opened the door. Two elderly women stood there, looking at each other silently with eyes full of hope. It was as if they saw in the mirror unchanged blue eyes, the silver curls of wavy hair, and the sorrowful lines at the corners of their lips.
Finally, her guest exhaled with relief, smiled, stepped forward, and embraced her:
“Hello, Dotty!”
And on the doorstep, wiping tears of joy, stood their loved ones.
