Upon receiving her pension, Doris Smith allowed herself a small luxury after taking care of essential bills and shopping in bulk: a little bag of coffee beans.
The beans were already roasted, and whenever she snipped the corner of the bag, an incredible aroma would fill the air. To truly savor it, she would close her eyes, shutting out everything but the smell, and then – magic happened! With the delightful scent came a feeling of strength, memories of youthful dreams about distant lands, visions of ocean waves, tropical rain, the mysterious rustling of jungles, and the wild calls of monkeys swinging through the trees…
She had never seen these things firsthand, yet her father’s tales, often shared after returning from research expeditions in South America, stayed with her. At home, he would regale little Dollie with stories from the Amazon Valley, sipping his strong brewed coffee, its scent always reminding her of him – the lean, weathered traveler. She always knew her parents weren’t her birth parents.
Doris remembered being a three-year-old, lost in the chaos of war, until a woman found her and took her in as her own daughter. Her life followed the usual path: school, studies, work, marriage, and a son. But in the end, she was alone. Her son had moved abroad to Brighton about twenty years ago at his wife’s urging and thrived there with his family. He visited his hometown just once during all that time. They stayed in touch regularly, and he would send her money each month, which she saved in a special account. Over twenty years, it grew to a substantial amount, which she planned to return to him someday.
Lately, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d lived a good life, full of love and care, but it wasn’t her own. Without the war, she would have had a different family, different parents, a different childhood home, and perhaps a different destiny. She barely remembered her biological parents but often recalled a little girl her age who was always by her side in those early years. Her name was Mary. Often, she seemed to hear their names being called together: “Mary, Doris!” Who was she to her? A friend, a sister?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a short beep from her mobile phone. She glanced at the screen – her pension had been credited! Perfect timing! She could head to the shop to get some coffee – she’d finished the last of it the previous morning. Carefully tapping the pavement with her cane to avoid autumnal puddles, she made her way to the store entrance.
A small, striped tabby cat huddled by the doors, warily watching both passersby and the glass doors. Compassion stirred in her heart: “Poor dear, must be cold and hungry too. I’d take you home, but who will take care of you when I’m gone? My days are numbered…not today, surely, but soon.” Still, feeling sorry for the cat, she bought a small packet of inexpensive cat food.
She gently squeezed the jelly-like food into a plastic tray, and the cat patiently waited, gazing at her with adoring eyes. As the shop doors swung open, a portly woman stepped out, her expression unfriendly. She kicked the tray of food, scattering its contents across the pavement.
“You tell them and tell them – no point!” she barked. “Don’t feed them here!” and stormed off angrily.
The cat, glancing around nervously, began picking up pieces of the food from the sidewalk, while Doris, breathless with indignation, felt the onset of an attack. She hurried to the bus stop where there were benches. Sitting down, she frantically searched her pockets for her medicine, but in vain.
The pain, relentless, came in waves, her head felt like it was in a vise, her vision dimmed, and a moan escaped her lips. Someone touched her shoulder. With difficulty, she opened her eyes – a young woman was looking at her anxiously:
“Are you alright, granny? How can I help?”
“In my bag.” Doris weakly gestured. “There’s a pack of coffee. Open it.”
She clung to the package, inhaled the aroma of roasted beans once, twice. The pain didn’t vanish but softened.
“Thank you, dear.” Doris whispered weakly.
“My name is Polly, but thank the cat.” The girl smiled. “It was next to you, meowing loudly!”
“Thank you too, my dear.” Doris petted the cat that was now sitting on the bench with her, the same striped one.
“What happened?” the girl asked with concern.
“A migraine, dear, stress…it happens.” Doris admitted.
“I’ll walk you home; it’s too difficult for you to go alone.”
“My granny gets migraines too,” Polly shared as they sipped mild coffee with milk and biscuits in Doris’s flat. “Well, she’s actually my great grandmother, but I call her Granny. She lives in a village with my gran, mom, and dad. I study here, in nursing school, training as a paramedic. Granny calls me ’dear’ just like you do. And you resemble her so much I almost thought you were her! Have you ever tried searching for your real family?”
“Polly dear, how would I find them? I hardly remember them. Not my last name, nor where I originally came from.” Doris explained while stroking the cat curled on her lap. “I remember the air raids, being on the wagon, then tanks… running so fast I couldn’t remember myself! Terrifying! Horrifying! For life! Then a woman found me, I called her mom all my life, and she remains my mom. After the war, her husband came back and became the best dad ever! All I have from my past is my name. But likely, my family didn’t survive, under those bombs. My mother, and Mary…”
She didn’t notice Polly’s startled reaction as she looked at her with wide, blue eyes:
“Doris, do you have a birthmark on your right shoulder shaped like a leaf?”
Caught off guard, Doris choked on her coffee, and the cat stared at her intently.
“How do you know that, dear?”
“My granny has the same one.” Polly calmly said. “Her name is Mary. She still sheds tears recalling her twin sister, little Doris, lost during air raids and evacuation. When the Nazis intercepted the route, they turned back home and endured the occupation there. But Doris disappeared. They never found her, though they searched…”
That morning, Doris couldn’t sit still. She paced from window to door, waiting for visitors. The little striped tabby, ever watchful, remained close, studying her face anxiously.
“Don’t worry, Molly, I’m alright,” she reassured her pet. “Just…my heart is racing.”
Finally, the doorbell rang. Doris, heart pounding, opened the door.
Two older women stood silently, looking into each other’s eyes with hope. They seemed to see reflections of themselves – the unchanged blue of their eyes, the gray curls, and sorrowful smiles at the corners of their lips.
At last, the guest exhaled with relief, smiled, stepped forward, and embraced the hostess:
“Hello, little Doris!”
And on the doorstep, wiping away tears of joy, stood her long-lost family.
