With her pension, Mrs. Dorothy Iverson, aside from paying the necessary utility bills and buying groceries at the wholesale store, liked to indulge in a little treat—a small bag of coffee beans.
The beans were already roasted, and when she cut open the corner of the bag, an incredible aroma filled the air. Inhaling it was a ritual, preferably with closed eyes, shutting out every sense but smell, and that’s when the miracle happened. Along with the wonderful fragrance came a sense of energy and images of maiden dreams about distant lands, ocean waves, the sound of tropical rain, mysterious rustlings in the depths of the jungle, and the wild cries of monkeys swinging from vines.
She had never seen any of this firsthand, but she remembered her father’s stories. He was often away on research expeditions in South America. When he was home, he loved to tell young Daisy about his adventures in the Amazon valley, sipping strong coffee, and that aroma always reminded her of him—a lean, sinewy, sun-tanned explorer. She had always known her parents were not her biological ones.
Dorothy remembered how, at the start of the war, a woman who became her mother for life found her—a three-year-old girl who had lost her family. Then life went on like everyone else’s: school, studies, work, marriage, the birth of a son, and finally solitude. About twenty years ago, her son, persuaded by his wife’s insistence, moved to another country and thrived with his family in London. He had visited his hometown only once since then. They talked on the phone, and he sent her money each month, but she never spent it—saving it in a special account. Over twenty years, it had become quite a sum, which would eventually return to him.
Lately, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had lived a good life, full of care and love, yet—it was someone else’s. If it hadn’t been for the war, she would have had a different family, different parents, a different home. Her fate would have been different. She barely remembered her birth parents but often thought of a girl, her peer, who was always with her in those early years. Her name was Mary. Sometimes she could almost hear someone calling, “Molly, Dolly!” What was she to her? A friend, a sister?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a quick beep from her mobile phone. She glanced at the screen—her pension had been credited to her account! Just in time! She could take a stroll to the store and buy some coffee—she’d finished the last of it that morning. Carefully tapping her cane on the pavement, avoiding the autumn puddles, she approached the entrance of the store.
A little grey tabby cat sat near the door, eyeing the passersby and glass doors warily. A pang of pity tugged at Dorothy’s heart: “Poor thing, cold and probably hungry. I’d take you home, but… who would care for you after me? I’ve not got long left… maybe today, maybe tomorrow.” Yet, feeling sorry for the creature, she bought a small, inexpensive packet of cat food.
She gingerly squeezed the jelly-like mass into a plastic tray while the cat patiently watched with loving eyes. The store doors swung open, and a stout woman emerged, her expression foreboding. Without a word, she kicked the tray so that jelly bits scattered across the pavement.
“I keep telling people, and they just don’t listen!” she barked. “Don’t feed them here!” she huffed and stormed off.
The cat, glancing around nervously, began to pick up pieces of food from the ground, while Dorothy, breathless with indignation, felt the first pangs of an impending attack. She hurried to the bus stop—only there were benches. Sitting on one, she frantically searched her pockets for her pills but found none.
The pain cruelly washed over her in waves, her head seemed clamped in a vice, her vision darkened, and a groan escaped her chest. Someone touched her shoulder. With difficulty, she opened her eyes—a young woman was looking at her, frightened.
“Are you okay, ma’am? How can I help you?”
“In the bag.” Dorothy weakly gestured. “There’s a packet of coffee. Open it.”
She leaned against the packet, inhaling the roasted bean aroma once, then again. The pain didn’t leave but dulled.
“Thank you, dear,” Dorothy murmured weakly.
“My name’s Polly, but you should thank the cat.” The girl smiled. “She was beside you, meowing so loudly!”
“And thank you, too, my dear.” Dorothy petted the cat sitting on the bench with her. It was the same tabby from before.
“What happened to you?” the girl inquired with concern.
“An attack, dear, a migraine,” Dorothy admitted. “Got too upset, it happens…”
“I’ll walk you home; it’ll be hard for you to get there alone.”
“My granny has migraines too,” Polly shared later, as they drank weak coffee with milk and biscuits in Dorothy’s apartment. “Actually, she’s my great-grandmother, but I call her ‘granny.’ She lives in the village with my grandmother, mom, and dad. I study here, in the city, at the medical college to become a paramedic. Granny, like you, calls me ‘dear,’ and you look just like her—I thought you were her at first! Have you ever tried looking for your relatives, the real ones?”
“Oh Polly, dear, how would one start? I barely remember them—not my last name, nor where I’m from.” Dorothy recounted, stroking the cat warming her lap. “I remember the bombing, traveling by cart, then tanks… and I ran and ran until I couldn’t remember myself! Terrifying, absolutely terrifying! Then a woman took me in, and she was ‘mom’ for life. After the war, her husband came back, became the best dad in the world! All I’ve retained from before is my name. Likely, my birth family perished, bombed, along with my mother, sister Molly…”
She didn’t notice Polly shudder at these words and look at her with wide, blue eyes.
“Mrs. Iverson, do you have a birthmark on your right shoulder shaped like a leaf?”
Surprised, Dorothy choked on her coffee, while the cat keenly looked up at her.
“How do you know about that, dear?”
“My granny has the same one,” Polly quietly replied. “Her name is Mary. Even now, she can’t hold back tears when remembering her twin sister—Dolly. She went missing during evacuations under bombing. When the enemy cut off the roads, they had to return home and went through the occupation. But Dolly disappeared. No matter the search, she was never found…”
Since morning, Dorothy could not find her place. She paced from window to door, awaiting the visitors. The grey tabby never left her side, looking into Dorothy’s face with concern.
“Don’t worry, Mags, I’m alright,” Dorothy assured the cat. “Just my heart racing…”
Finally, the doorbell rang. Trembling with nerves, Dorothy opened the door.
Two elderly women stood frozen, silently looking into each other’s eyes filled with hope. They seemed to see in each other a reflection: still-blue eyes, grey curls, and sorrowful wrinkles at the corners of their lips.
At last, the guest breathed a sigh of relief, smiled, stepped forward, and embraced Dorothy.
“Hello, Dolly!”
And at the door, wiping tears of joy, stood her newfound family.
