Rose Smith dried her wet hands and, groaning from the pain in her back, went to open the door. The knocking was timid but persistent, this being the third time. She had been washing the window and didn’t rush to answer immediately. Standing at the door was a very young girl, charming but pale, with tired eyes.
“Rose, I heard you have a room to rent?”
“Oh, these neighbors, always sending people my way! I don’t rent out rooms, never have.”
“But I was told you’ve got three rooms.”
“So what? Why should I rent them out? I’m used to living alone.”
“I’m sorry. They said you’re a believer, and I thought…”
The girl, hiding the tears welling in her eyes, turned and slowly descended the stairs, her shoulders trembling.
“Wait, come back! I didn’t refuse you! Oh, youngsters these days, so sensitive, always quick to tears. Come inside, let’s talk. What’s your name? Let’s use first names, shall we?”
“Meredith.”
“Meredith, a sea name. Is your father a sailor?”
“I don’t have a father. I’m from an orphanage. And no mother either. Kind folks found me in the hallway and took me to social services. I wasn’t even a month old.”
“Well, don’t take offense. Let’s have some tea and chat. Are you hungry?”
“No, I bought a pie earlier.”
“A pie! Young people never think of themselves, and by thirty, they have ulcers. Come, sit down. There’s pea soup still hot, and we’ll warm up some tea. I have plenty of jam. My husband passed away five years ago, but I still prepare everything for two out of habit. After we eat, you can help me finish washing the window.”
“Rose, can I do something else? I’m dizzy, afraid I’ll fall off the ledge—I’m pregnant.”
“Even better! Just what I need—a pregnant woman. I’m strict about rules. Is the baby out of wedlock?”
“Why assume that? I’m married. Tim’s from my orphanage. They drafted him into the army. He visited recently. When my landlady found out I’m expecting, she asked me to leave, gave me a week to find a new place. We lived nearby. But, as you see, circumstances…”
“Ah, circumstances… What am I to do with you? Maybe move my bed to the spare room? All right, have my room. I won’t charge you rent—don’t even mention money or I’ll get upset. Go get your things.”
“I don’t have far to go. Tim’s and my things are in a bag at the entrance. My week’s up, I’ve been going door to door since morning.”
And so they became two. Meredith was training to become a light dress designer. Rose had been on disability for years after a major railway accident, so she stayed home, knitting lace doilies, collars, and baby booties, selling them at the nearby market. Her goods were imaginative: lace doilies, tablecloths, and collars like sea foam, delicate and seemingly ethereal, sold well. There was money in the house. Some came from selling garden fruits and vegetables. They worked in the garden on Saturdays. Sundays, Rose went to church, while Meredith stayed home reading letters from Tim and replying. She rarely went to church, not accustomed to it, complaining of backaches and dizziness.
One Saturday, they were at the allotment. The harvest gathered, they prepared the ground for winter. Meredith tired quickly, so Aunt Rose sent her inside to rest, listen to old records she had bought with her husband. This Saturday too, after working with a rake, the soon-to-be mother lay down to rest. Rose threw dry twigs into the fire, staring thoughtfully at the flames. Suddenly she heard Meredith’s cry: “Mom! Mom, come quick!” With a racing heart, forgetting her aching legs and back, Rose hurried to the house. Meredith was crying, clutching her belly. Within no time, Rose convinced a neighbor to speed them to the hospital, as fast as the old car could go. Meredith moaned, “Mom, it hurts! It’s too early! I’m due mid-January. Pray for me, please; you know how to!”
Rose cried, praying through her tears.
From the hospital entrance, Meredith was wheeled away. The neighbor brought the tearful Rose home. She prayed all night for the child’s safety. In the morning, she called the hospital.
“Your daughter’s fine. She called for you and Tim, cried, but calmed down and slept. The doctor says there’s no longer a risk of miscarriage, but she’ll need to stay a couple more weeks. Her iron’s low—make sure she eats well and rests.”
Once Meredith was discharged, they talked long past midnight. Meredith spoke of her Tim.
“He’s not a foundling like me. He’s an orphan. We were in the same orphanage all along. From school, we were close, then fell in love. He cares for me—that’s more than love. Want to see his picture? Here he is, second on the right. Smiling…”
“Handsome…” Rose didn’t want to upset Meredith. She had needed new glasses for some time. The picture of soldiers was crowded and small. She couldn’t see the second, third, or fifth. Just outlines… “Meredith, why did you call me mom in the garden?”
“Oh, I forgot from fear. An orphanage habit. We called everyone from the head to the janitors moms and dads. I mostly broke it, but when anxious, it slips. Sorry.”
“Understood…” Rose sighed, disappointed.
“Aunt Rose, tell me about yourself. Why are there no pictures of children or your husband around? You have no kids, right?”
“No, no children. We had a son, but he died as a baby, under a year old. After my injury, I couldn’t have more kids. My husband was like a child to me, I spoiled him, adored him. He was my world, just as Tim is yours. After he passed, I put away all photos; though I believe he’s with God, life was unbearable without him. Looking at his pictures made me cry, so I hid them to avoid temptation. I should pray for him, not weep. Meredith, get a larger photo of Tim, we’ll put it in a frame. I’ve got some frames somewhere.”
On Christmas Eve, Rose and Meredith prepared for the holiday, decorated the rooms, talked about baby Jesus, and looked out for the first star. Meredith shifted often, rubbing her back.
“You seem not yourself, dear. You’re not listening to a word I say. Why are you fidgeting like a child?”
“Aunt Rose, call the ambulance. I’m going to have the baby.”
“Oh, my dear! Isn’t it a bit early, like a week?”
“Must’ve miscalculated. Call them; it’s unbearable now.”
Within half an hour, the ambulance reached the hospital. And on January 7th, the day of Christ’s birth, Meredith had a baby girl. That same day, Rose joyfully sent a telegram to the proud father.
January was busy. The little one brought joy but also kept them on their toes. With Tim’s consent, Meredith named the baby Rose. The elder Rose was moved to tears. Little Rose kept them on their toes with sleepless nights, thrush, and random fussiness, but it was joyful chaos. Rose’s ailments seemed to lessen.
One unusually warm winter day, Rose took advantage of the weather and went shopping. On her way back, she met Meredith with the stroller by the entrance—the young mom decided to take the baby for a stroll.
“We’ll walk a little longer, okay, Aunt Rose?”
“Walk and enjoy, I’ll start on lunch.”
Entering the room, Rose caught a glance at the table and noticed a framed photo of her husband. She smiled: “Found it, did you? Chose the youngest picture of him. Young folks never care to look at old faces.”
The borscht simmered enticingly on the stove when Meredith brought little Rose inside. The neighbor’s lad helped carry the pram. The two women gently unwrapped the baby; her button nose sweetly snored. They tiptoed to the main room.
“Meredith,” smiled Rose, “how did you know where to find Alex’s photographs?”
“I don’t know what you mean?”
“And this?” pointed Rose to the photo.
“That? You asked for a larger photo of Tim. He went to the studio for it. I found the frame on the bookshelf.”
With shaky hands, Rose took the picture. Only now did she realize it wasn’t her husband. A young sergeant was smiling cheekily at the camera. She sat, pale and lost in thought, staring into the distance. When she turned to Meredith, the young woman was sobbing, holding a cloth smelling of ammonia.
“Mom, look at me! Look at me! What’s wrong, Mom?” cried Meredith.
“Meredith, open the cabinet, top shelf, the photos. Bring them all.”
Meredith brought down several albums and framed pictures. From the top one, Tim looked at her, surely?
“Oh my goodness! Who is this? Is this Tim? But no, the photo’s old. Who is this, Mom?”
“That’s Alex, my husband. Meredith, where was Tim born?”
“I don’t know. He was sent to our orphanage from London after a railway accident. They told him he was orphaned.”
“Oh God, what a terrible mistake! I was shown a body, and I identified him—based on a shirt like yours, no face to recognize. Son, my child, Tim, your wife and daughter live with me, and I had no idea. Oh Lord, you brought Meredith to me. Sweetheart, hand me the photo.”
Completely bewildered, Meredith had no idea what was happening. She handed the framed picture. Rose showered it with tears and kisses: “Mikey, my sunshine, my boy!”
“Tim,” Meredith corrected gently.
“Let him be Tim, yet he’s my son, Meredith. Look at the father’s picture—exactly alike!”
The young woman still had her doubts.
“Meredith, the birthmark above his right elbow, does it look like a star? I identified the baby at the accident as mine because the age and shirt matched. His arm was crushed, but I never found the birthmark. Why are you quiet? Is there a birthmark?”
“It’s there, like a star. Mom, dear mom, it’s there!”
Both women embraced and cried, not caring that little Rose in the next room was fussing for her mother’s attention.
