The Baby at St. Michael's
698 Words
Chapter Two
The Baby at St. Michael’s
Lidya stared at the screen for a moment.
Then she shrugged.
It was probably meant for someone else.
She deleted the message and put her phone aside.
She didn't think about it again.
At least, not until her phone vibrated a second time.
This time, the number was different.
She looked at the screen.
Your mother left you for a reason.
Lidya's expression changed.
She read the message again.
Then again.
Her smile disappeared.
Her apartment suddenly seemed very quiet.
The hum of the refrigerator, the faint sound of traffic outside, and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall seemed louder than before.
The first message could have been a mistake.
But this?
This couldn't be a coincidence.
She typed:
Who is this?
She waited.
Nothing.
She lowered the phone and looked toward the window. The rain had almost stopped, leaving the glass covered with tiny droplets that caught the yellow glow of the streetlights.
Her mother.
The word felt strange.
Not painful.
Not yet.
Just unfamiliar.
Lidya had never known her parents.
She had been told only that she was found as a baby and brought to the orphanage.
That was all.
For years, whenever people asked about her family, she simply said:
"My parents died when I was very young."
It was easier than explaining that she didn't actually know.
She didn't know whether they were dead.
She didn’t know their names.
She didn't know whether they had been poor.
She didn't know whether they had loved her.
She didn't even know whether she had been born in Ethiopia or somewhere else.
She knew only what she had been told as a child.
She had been found at a church.
St. Michael's.
That was where her surname came from.
Michael.
For years, she had never thought much about how she arrived at the children's home.
It was simply the story of her life.
A baby found at St. Michael's Church.
A nun had cared for her for several days.
Then the baby was brought to the children's home attached to the church.
That was it.
At least, that was what she remembered being told.
She suddenly thought of the woman who had raised her.
Marta.
She had been one of the caregivers at the children's home for as long as Lidya could remember.
Marta had been there when Lidya took her first steps.
When she fell sick with fever.
When she lost her first tooth.
When she cried after another girl made fun of her.
And when she turned sixteen, Marta had told her something she had never forgotten.
"You were such a beautiful baby."
Lidya had laughed.
"You say that about everyone."
"No," Marta had insisted. "You were different."
"How?"
"You hardly cried."
Marta had smiled at the memory.
"You were so tiny. The nun who brought you said you had been at St. Michael's for several days."
Lidya had frowned.
"Who found me?"
"A nun."
"Do you remember her name?"
Marta had shaken her head.
"It was many years ago."
"Did she know my parents?"
"I don't know."
"Did anyone come looking for me?"
Marta had been silent for a moment.
Then she had smiled gently.
"My child, you were very young. Don't fill your head with questions that have no answers."
Lidya had accepted that.
She had never asked again.
Until now.
Her phone vibrated.
Lidya looked down.
A different number appeared on the screen.
Not a name.
Not a number she recognized.
Just another unfamiliar Toronto number.
She opened the message.
Do you want to know the truth?
Her heart skipped.
She typed:
Lidya's thumb hovered over the screen.
She typed:
How do you know about me?
The three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Lidya's heart began beating faster.
She stood up.
Outside, a streetcar passed through the wet intersection, its windows glowing warmly against the darkness.
Inside those windows were dozens of strangers.
People going home.
People meeting someone.
People returning to families that knew their names.
Lidya looked back at her phone.
A final message appeared.
Because I know where your story began.
Lidya stared at the words.
She immediately pressed call.
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