Rachel Dyer wiped her wet hands and, groaning from the pain in her back, went to answer the door. The knock was timid, yet it was the third time. She had been cleaning the window and didn’t immediately head to the hallway. Outside stood a young woman, quite charming but pale, with tired eyes.
“Rachel,” she inquired, “I heard you might have a room to rent?”
“Oh, these neighbors! Always sending someone my way! I don’t rent out rooms and never have,” Rachel replied.
“But I was told you have three rooms,” the young woman pressed on.
“So what? Why should I rent them out? I’m used to living alone.”
“Well, I’m sorry. They said you’re a believer, and I thought…”
The girl turned away slowly, tears welling up in her eyes. She began descending the steps, her shoulders trembling.
“Wait, dear, come back! I didn’t flat out refuse you! Young people nowadays, so sensitive, crying at the drop of a hat. Let’s go inside and talk. What’s your name, then? Shall we be on first-name terms?”
“Mary.”
“Mary, like the sea, have any sailor connections in the family?”
“I don’t have a father. I grew up in an orphanage. And no mother either. Good people found me in the hallway and brought me to the police before I was even a month old.”
“Don’t be upset. Let’s have a chat over some tea. Are you hungry?”
“No, I had a pie earlier.”
“A pie! Oh, youth, they don’t care for themselves, and by thirty, it’s ulcers. Sit down, I’ve got some hot pea soup. Let’s warm up some tea as well. I have plenty of jam; my husband passed away five years ago, but I still prepare as though for two. After we eat, you can help me finish the window.”
“Rachel, can I do another job instead? I’m feeling dizzy. Don’t want to fall from the window ledge—I’m pregnant.”
“Pregnant, you say? Just what I needed! Are you married?”
“Please don’t judge me quickly. I am married. Tom, from the same orphanage, is my husband. He was called to the army. He visited recently on leave. But when my landlady found out I’m expecting, she gave me a week to find new accommodation. We lived nearby, but, well, you see how it is.”
“Yes, I see… And what should I do with you? Perhaps move my bed to Sam’s old room? Alright, take my room instead. I won’t take any money from you, so don’t even mention it. Go collect your things.”
“It’s not far. Our belongings are in a bag by the building entrance. The week’s up; I’ve been knocking on doors since morning.”
And so there were two… Mary was finishing her studies in fashion design. Rachel had been on disability for many years after a major train accident, staying at home and knitting lace doilies and baby booties to sell at the local market. Her products were imaginative, delicate like sea foam, and highly sought after. They earned a decent living, part of the money also coming from selling produce from the garden, which she and Mary tended on Saturdays. Sundays, Rachel went to church while Mary stayed at home reading letters from Tom and replying to them. Mary wasn’t used to church yet, often complaining about her back aching and feeling dizzy.
One Saturday, while working at the garden, Mary quickly tired, and Aunt Rachel let her rest in the small house, listening to old records she once bought with her husband. On this particular Saturday, after some raking, the expectant mother lay down. Rachel tossed dry plants and branches into the fire, lost in thought when she suddenly heard Mary scream, “Mom! Mom, hurry!” With her heart pounding and ignoring her aching legs and back, Rachel rushed to the house. Mary clutched her stomach, screaming. Within minutes, Rachel convinced a neighbor to use his old car for a speedy trip to the hospital, as fast as the worn-out vehicle could manage. Mary cried out continuously, “Mom, it hurts! But it’s too early! I’m due mid-January. Please pray for me!” Rachel cried, praying fervently through her tears.
Mary was wheeled away from the emergency room, and the neighbor took the tearful Rachel home. All night she prayed for the child. The next morning, she called the hospital.
“Your daughter is fine. She called for you and Tom, cried, then calmed down and slept. The doctor says there’s no longer a threat of miscarriage, but she’ll need a couple of weeks to rest. Her hemoglobin is low, too. Make sure she eats well and rests.”
When Mary was discharged, she spoke at length about her Tom.
“He’s not a foundling; he’s an orphan. We’ve been together since we were kids in the same orphanage. We’ve been close ever since school, then fell in love. He’s kind to me, perhaps even more than loving. Look how often he writes. Want to see his photo? He’s the second from the right, smiling…”
“Handsome…” Rachel didn’t want to upset Mary. She’d needed new glasses long ago and couldn’t discern any detail in the tiny image of soldiers.
“Mary, I’ve wanted to ask, why did you call me mom in the garden that day?”
“Oh, just a slip from fear. An orphanage habit. We called all adults there mom and dad. I’ve gotten mostly over it, but when worried or nervous, it slips out sometimes. Please forgive me.”
“I see…” Rachel sighed, feeling a bit let down.
“Aunt Rachel, can you tell me about yourself? Why aren’t there any photos of your husband or children? Did you have any kids?”
“No, no children. I had a little son, but he died before he was a year old. After the accident, I couldn’t have more children. My husband was like a child to me. I spoiled him, cherished him like your Tom for you—my only one. But when he passed, I put away all the photos. Though I believe in God and know my husband is with Him now, it was too painful for me—seeing the photos would make me cry. I hid them to avoid temptation. My prayers are what he needs now, not my tears. Mary, why don’t you ask Tom to send a bigger photo of himself? We could frame it. I have a frame somewhere.”
On Christmas Eve, Rachel and Mary prepared for the holiday, decorated the rooms, talked about Baby Jesus, and looked out for the first star. Mary kept shifting uncomfortably, rubbing her lower back.
“Something’s off with you, dear. You’re not listening to a word. Why are you fidgeting like a child?”
“Aunt Rachel, call an ambulance. It’s time.”
“What are you saying? Aren’t you due next week?”
“Must have been a mistake. Please call quickly; I can’t bear it anymore.”
Within half an hour, the ambulance had reached the hospital. On the 25th of December, Mary gave birth to a daughter. That day, Rachel joyfully sent a telegram to the young father.
January was hectic. The baby brought joy but kept them on their toes, causing sleepless nights, bouts of colic, and endless fussiness. With Tom’s consent, Mary named the baby Rachel. The elder Rachel was moved to tears, and little Rachel brought them plenty of delight, though sleep was a luxury.
One unseasonably warm winter day, Rachel decided to make the most of the fine weather and went shopping. On her way back, she saw Mary walking with the pram, the young mother having taken the opportunity for a stroll with the baby.
“Enjoy your walk. I’ll go start lunch,” called Rachel as she went inside.
Once inside, Rachel glanced at the table and noticed a framed photograph of her husband. She chuckled, “Ah, she found it! And chose one from his younger days. Young people don’t want to look at old folks.”
The soup was bubbling on the stove by the time Mary returned with Rachel. The neighbor’s lad followed with the pram. The two women gently unwrapped the baby, her tiny button nose sleeping soundly. They tiptoed into the larger room.
“Mary,” Rachel smiled, “how did you know where to find the photos of Alex?”
“I don’t understand… what do you mean?”
“Then what’s this?” Rachel gestured to the photo.
“This? You asked Tom to send a larger photo. He went to a studio. The frame was just on the bookshelf.”
Rachel picked up the photo with trembling hands. Only then did she realize it wasn’t her husband. A young sergeant smiling back. She sat on the sofa, pale, her eyes distant. Turning to Mary, she saw her crying, standing with a cloth scented with ammonia.
“Mum, look at me, please! Look in my eyes! What’s wrong, Mum?” Mary sobbed.
“Mary, open the wardrobe; the top shelf has the photos. Bring them all.”
Mary brought some albums and a few framed pictures. From the top of the pile, Tom’s face looked at her.
“My goodness! Is this Tom? But this photo’s so old. Who is this, Mum?”
“It’s my Alex. Mary, darling, where was Tom born?”
“I don’t know. He was brought to our orphanage from London. He was sent there after some train accident. They told him later his parents had died.”
“God, what a terrible mistake! Sweetheart, they showed me a body, and I identified him. He was wearing a shirt just like yours. But his poor little face was gone. My dear boy, you’re alive! Your wife and daughter live here, and I didn’t know. The Lord brought you to me. Mary, dear, hand me the photo.”
Mary, utterly confused, didn’t understand what was happening. She handed over the photo in its frame. Rachel kissed it, covering it with tears.
“My sweet darling, my baby!”
“Tom,” Mary gently corrected.
“Let him be Tom, but it’s my son, Mary,” Rachel said. “Look at the photo of his father—they’re identical!”
The young mother was hesitant.
“Mary, what about his birthmark? Is there a star-shaped mark above his right elbow? The only reason I identified the baby at the crash site as mine was because of the age and the shirt. But his arm… I couldn’t check for the mark. Well, aren’t you going to say anything? Is there a birthmark?”
“There’s a birthmark. Star-shaped! Mom, dear Mom, there is a birthmark!”
Both women wept in each other’s arms, as little Rachel cried in the other room, demanding her mother’s embrace.
