In her retirement, Miss Dorothy Johnson, apart from the usual utility bills and buying groceries at the wholesale market, allowed herself a small treat—a little bag of coffee beans.
The beans were already roasted, and when she cut a corner of the bag, they released an intoxicating aroma. Inhaling required closed eyes, letting go of all senses except smell, and then the magic would happen! With the marvelous scent came a surge of energy, resurfacing memories of girlhood dreams about distant lands, the ocean waves, the sound of tropical rain, mysterious forest whispers, and the wild cries of monkeys swinging from vines…
She had never seen any of this, but she clearly remembered her father’s tales, who was often away on research expeditions in South America. When he was home, he loved to tell Dottie about his adventures in the Amazon Valley, sipping strong coffee, and its scent always reminded her of him—the lean, wiry, sun-browned explorer. She always knew her parents weren’t her biological ones.
She remembered how, at the start of the war, she, a three-year-old girl who lost her family, was picked up by a woman who became her mother for life. After that, all was like everyone else: school, studies, work, marriage, the birth of a son, and now the result—loneliness. Her son, about twenty years ago, persuaded by his wife, chose to live in another country and prospered with his family in the city of Brighton. Over all these years, he visited his hometown only once. They kept in touch, and he sent her money monthly, but she saved it in a special account. Over twenty years, she saved a significant amount, which she’d return to him eventually…
Recently, she couldn’t shake the thought that she had lived a good life, full of care and love, but a borrowed one. Had it not been for the war, she would have had a completely different family, different parents, a different home. Therefore, her fate would have been different too. She barely remembered her biological parents but often recalled a girl her age who was always around in those almost infant years. Her name was Mary. At times, it seemed as though she could hear someone calling out “Mollie, Dottie!” What relationship did they have? Friends, sisters?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the short buzz of her mobile phone. She glanced at the screen—her pension had arrived on the card! Perfect timing! She could stroll to the shop to buy some coffee—she had brewed the last of it yesterday morning. Gently tapping her cane on the sidewalk, avoiding the autumn puddles, she approached the shop’s entrance.
By the door, a small grey tabby cat sat warily eyeing both passersby and the glass doors. Pity stirred in her heart: “Poor thing, cold and probably hungry. I would take you home, but… Who would need you after me? And I don’t have much time left… not today, then tomorrow.” But feeling sorry for the poor cat, she bought a small bag of cheap cat food.
She carefully squeezed the jelly-like substance into a polythene tray as the cat patiently watched her with adoring eyes. The shop doors burst open, and a stout woman emerged whose face showed nothing good. Without a word, she kicked the tray so that the jelly chunks scattered across the sidewalk: “I’ve told them, time and time again—no point! They shouldn’t be fed here!” she barked and marched off, agitated. The cat, warily glancing around, began picking up the food pieces from the sidewalk, while Dorothy, breathless with indignation, felt the first wave of an impending attack. She hurried to the bus stop—only there were benches. Sitting down on one, she frantically searched her pockets, hoping to find her medicine but in vain.
The pain mercilessly broke over her in waves, her head felt clamped in a vice, her vision dimmed, and a groan escaped her chest. Someone touched her shoulder. She barely opened her eyes—a young girl was looking at her, frightened: “Are you alright, Grandma? How can I help?”
“In my bag,” Miss Dorothy weakly moved her hand. “There’s a pack of coffee. Take it out and open it.” She pressed the pack to her face, inhaling the roasted beans’ scent once, twice. The pain didn’t leave completely, but it eased.
“Thank you, dear,” Miss Dorothy said weakly. “My name’s Pauline, but you should thank the cat,” the girl smiled. “It was right by you, meowing so loudly!”
“And thank you too, my dear,” Miss Dorothy petted the cat that sat beside her on the bench. The same tabby. “What happened to you?” the girl curiously asked.
“A migraine, dear, a fit,” admitted Miss Dorothy. “I got stressed, it happens…”
“I’ll walk you home, it’ll be hard for you to manage on your own…” “My gran has migraines too,” Pauline said as they drank mild coffee with milk and biscuits in Miss Dorothy’s apartment. “Actually, she’s my great-grandmother, but I call her Granny. She lives in the village with my nan, mom, and dad. I’m here studying at the nursing college. Granny calls me ‘dear’ too. And you look so much like her; at first, I thought you were her! Have you ever tried finding your real family?”
“Pauline, dear, how would I find them? I barely remember them. Not my surname, nor where I came from,” Miss Dorothy said, stroking the cat warmed on her lap. “I remember the bombing, when we traveled in a wagon, then tanks… And I ran, ran so hard I lost my mind! Horror! A lifelong horror! Then a woman picked me up, and I called her mom my whole life, and she’s still my mom to me. Her husband came after the war, became the best dad in the world! The only thing I have left is my name. My biological family, most likely, perished under the bombs. My mom and Mollie…”
She didn’t notice Pauline flinch at these words and look at her with big blue eyes:
“Miss Dorothy, do you have a birthmark on your right shoulder that looks like a leaf?” Startled, Dorothy choked on her coffee, and the cat stared at her intently.
“How do you know about that, dear?” “My granny has the exact same one,” whispered Pauline. “Her name is Mary. She still can’t hold back tears when she remembers her twin sister, Dottie. She went missing during the bombing, in the evacuation. When the road was cut off by the enemy, they had to return home and lived through the occupation there. But they lost Dottie. They never found her, despite all the searching…”
Since morning, Miss Dorothy couldn’t find her place. She paced from the window to the door, waiting for guests. The little grey tabby cat stayed by her side, watching her face with concern.
“Don’t worry, Margie, I’m alright,” Dorothy reassured the cat. “Just my heart’s racing…”
Finally, the doorbell rang. Dorothy, nervous, opened the door. Two elderly women stood still, quietly looking at each other with eyes full of hope. Like in a mirror, they saw the unchanged blue hue of their eyes, grey curls in wavy hair, and sorrowful wrinkles at the corners of their lips.
Finally, the guest exhaled with relief, smiled, stepped forward, and embraced the hostess:
“Hello, Dottie!”
And on the doorstep, wiping tears of joy, stood their family…
