**DISCLAIMER - This episode contains mention of smoking and death and may not be appropriate for younger children**
In today’s special episode we will hear the story of The Other Rachel. This story was inspired by my grandmother, who turned 106 years old earlier this week. I don’t want to give too much away, but rest assured that there is an unusual, somewhat spooky, and definitely mysterious element to the story.
Brought to you by: Phaeton Starling Publishing and Things with Wings Productions.
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FULL TRANSCRIPT:
Things with Wings productions presents – A Special episode of The Skylark Bell. I’m your host, Melissa Oliveri.
In today’s special episode we will hear the story of The Other Rachel. This story was inspired by my grandmother, who turned 106 years old earlier this week. I don’t want to give too much away, but rest assured that there is an unusual, somewhat spooky, and definitely mysterious element to the story.
Now, it’s time to grab a blanket and a warm drink, we’re getting started.
The Other Rachel
It will seem hard to believe, but the first time I saw her I didn’t recognize her. In my defense, I hadn’t seen her in nearly 50 years. People seem to think fifty years is a long time. Half a century. I am 105 years old now, my life has surpassed the length of an entire century. The world would be unrecognizable to her, if she could see it, but I have lived through the changes gradually, they aren’t as staggering as they seem when comparing today to my starting point of 1916.
But let me start at the beginning. Not the beginning of my life, that would take far too long, but rather the beginning of the unbelievable, inexplicable, most unlikely three decades of my life.
I had moved into a small ground floor apartment the previous week. The apartment was located inside a converted school, and the complex only rented out to people of retirement age. It felt like I had come full circle when I toured it; looking out the living room window I could see the second-story apartment across the street where I had raised my family, decades ago.
The first time I saw her she was on the balcony. I was sitting in my rocking chair by the window enjoying some quiet time before bed. I noticed the small orange light of her cigarette glowing as she smoked. I could see her silhouette outlined by the light of the window behind her. Something about her felt familiar, but I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was. The reality was far too unimaginable at this point. She finished her cigarette then lingered a moment, like she was relishing her time outside before going back through the door to whatever waited for her on the other side.
Nearly a month went by before I saw her again. This time it was daytime, and she was sitting on the steps that lead from the second floor to the street, listening to what sounded like a baseball game on the radio. She looked like she was talking to someone, but there was no one else there that I could see. I pushed my curtains aside and leaned closer to the window to get a better look. To my great embarrassment she lifted her head and met my gaze. I quickly stepped back and pulled the curtains closed. It was only a moment before I heard a soft knock on the window. I reluctantly pulled the curtains back again and slid the window open. “Hello,” she said, taking a puff of her cigarette, “my name is Rachel. My family and I moved into the apartment across the street last month.”
I stared at her, speechless, recognition washing over me like one of those rainstorms that comes out of nowhere, leaving you no option but to get soaked. I thought maybe I’d died, and my life is flashing before my eyes. Or maybe I was asleep and dreaming. Or maybe... maybe...
“Lovely to meet you,” I managed to stammer, “I only recently moved in as well.”
“I hope your children helped get you settled in,” she said, a smile curving her mouth as she stomped her cigarette out on the sidewalk with an old-fashioned kitten-heeled shoe.
I took a moment to look over her short-sleeved floral dress with buttons down the front. It was the height of mid-1940s fashion. Oh, how I had loved that dress. I remember sewing the buttons back on after a hard tug by one of the children made them pop off. “Yes, they are wonderful children. I’m very proud of them,” I replied, my heart pounding.
“That’s great to hear,” she said, looking back up at me.
“Do you have children?” I asked her, already knowing the answer.
“Yes, I have two boys and another little one on the way,” she replied, placing a hand on her abdomen. Of course! It was so long ago; I hadn’t thought about it in years. Everything had happened so fast; my father-in-law passing away, moving in with my mother-in-law, our two children in tow and another on the way. “Well, I should be getting back, it’s lovely to meet you Mrs...” her words snapped me out of my memories.
“Mrs.... Rachel, just call me Rachel,” I told her, hesitating only for a moment.
“Rachel it is, a lovely name.” She winked as she said it, then turned to walk back across the street. I watched her go up the steps, focusing on her shoes. I remembered those shoes, too; my sister Carmen had bought them for me for Christmas in 1945. It was a bittersweet Christmas that year as some celebrated with loved ones who had returned from the war, and others grieved those who had not. I watched as the apartment door closed behind The Other Rachel, then stayed in my chair for a long time, reminiscing about Christmases gone by in that second-story apartment. Back then I would wait until the children had gone to bed on Christmas eve, then pull out the tree, the decorations, wrap the gifts, and do the cooking and baking. I’d work into the wee hours of the morning to get everything ready, and they would wake on Christmas morning believing in magic.
I watched The Other Rachel, about a month later, walking home from the tramway stop down the street, carrying her bag on her arm. She must be coming home from her shift at Birk’s, I thought. I had spent decades working in the iconic Birk’s Jewelry store alongside my sister Marselle, earning $1/hour for my troubles. I would take the streetcar from Des Erables street around the corner from my apartment and get dropped off just steps away from the shop’s location in Old Quebec. The Other Rachel turned to look toward my window as she walked by, and I waved. She smiled and sauntered over. “Hello dear, how was your day?” I asked her.
“It was lovely, my friend Pierre stopped by the store to buy his mother a necklace. He told stories and we laughed and laughed until the manager gave me a stern look... and then we laughed some more,” she giggled.
I smiled fondly. Pierre had been a young boy when I first met him. Years ago, he and his family would come to the café where I was a waitress, and I would sneak him ice cream when his parents weren’t looking. He eventually moved to California and became a Hollywood actor, but he never forgot his roots. He would always make a point to stop by and say hello to me when he would come back to Quebec City to visit his family.
Another month went by, and I notice a pattern; The Other Rachel’s appearances seemed to coincide with the full moon. We continued our monthly visits over the course of many years, my small apartment window always between us. I was there to celebrate with her when her, my, our, eldest son got married, and I was able to celebrate the birth of my next 3 children once again. It was a strange, amazing, beautiful thing and I didn’t stop for a moment to question how or why. On the days between our visits, I would see the current residents of the apartment, the ones in modern clothes with their modern strollers, modern cars, and modern haircuts, going about their lives. I watched life outside my window like a carrousel, waiting for my favourite horse to pass by.
“I must tell you this story,” she had said to me one day, barely able to keep a straight face. I encouraged her with a nod, wondering which memory her tale would conjure. “Last night I got home late from work, we had a very special client who stayed for some time after we closed the store. I was a little frazzled making dinner and set the oven to a much hotter temperature than I meant to. By the time I peeled, cooked, and mashed the potatoes and trimmed and cooked the beans, I opened the oven to find the roast black and burnt! It was far too late to prepare a new dinner. The meat was tough and dry, and as I sliced it, I couldn’t help but think I’d never hear the end of it from my mother-in-law...” here she pauses, a mischievous gleam in her eye. She had told me a few stories about life with her mother-in-law. Never delving too deeply into just how challenging the situation was, but I remembered it well. Isabella and I never did get along. She would turn off the radio in the middle of the baseball game, or put away photos and trinkets I would display on dressers and bookcases. I would find the trinkets in drawers and put them back out, and she would hide them again, and the cycle would repeat until finally the trinkets disappeared permanently, presumably thrown away. “I held my breath as I served everyone dinner, and sure enough she had something to say...” The Other Rachel draws out the end of her story for suspense. I wait patiently, already knowing what she is about to say. “...and she told me it was the BEST roast she’d EVER had!” At this The Other Rachel roars with laughter. It was quite unlike her to step out of her more rigid, stoic stance. I sat in my rocking chair watching her, surprised, until finally I felt my shoulders shaking back and forth and I joined her in what the French call un fou rire. I was still chuckling about the whole thing when I went to bed and dreamed of all the lost trinkets that had been made to disappear by my mother-in-law over the years.
A few years later, The Other Rachel asked if any of my children had served in the armed forces. I told her my eldest son and his boys were part of the military, which was not exactly an answer to her question, but also not a lie. People rarely spoke about World War II once it was over, but for some reason it was on The Other Rachel’s mind that day. She told me a story about her brother-in-law, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at the mention of his name, not out of spite but out of an almost comical sense of exasperation. My husband had been unable to fight in the war, but his three brothers did, and the one The Other Rachel was referring to had a tendency to go AWOL.
“So here we are, riding the train from Montreal, and Donn tells me to go sit with him. At first, I didn’t understand why, then it dawned on me that appearing to be part of a couple would help him avoid suspicion. My husband sat a few rows back and I sat in silence next to my brother-in-law, hoping no one would ask for our papers. In all those years he never did get caught!” She sighs the sigh of a mother with a hopelessly naughty son. Perhaps this brother-in-law explains some of the mother-in-law’s moodiness, I thought with a quiet giggle.
“My mother-in-law passed away yesterday,” she added, as if reading my mind. I sat silently for a moment, waiting to see if she would say more, but that was that. I offered her my condolences, which she accepted with a nod before slowly walking back up the steps to her apartment.
My mother-in-law had passed away in the late 1950’s. I still remember the dress I wore to her funeral, and the cold wind at Mount Hermon Cemetery in Sillery, standing at the family grave nestled between two tall Scotch pines planted in honour of their Scottish heritage. I sat for a while thinking about Isabella and the constant state of conflict we had lived in for the better part of 13 years. My husband had been planted squarely in the middle of that small-scale war. I would ask him to pass along my message to her and she would do the same, and he would nod and smile at each of us and keep all the information to himself, a sort of makeshift peacekeeper. In hindsight, perhaps the loss of her husband, that terrible grief settled deep in her soul, had turned here into such a difficult person. Perhaps before she had been a brighter, lighter, happier person. Perhaps she felt like her life was in a tailspin, like the life she had known was disintegrating before her eyes, like she had completely lost control. Perhaps I simply didn’t have enough life experience to empathize back then...
“Those suitcases better be packed by the time I get back!”
The sound of her voice made me instantly perk up. I had been in a slump for a few of weeks, having broken my leg in a fall while walking to the market on Cartier Street. I painstakingly made my way to the window and pushed the curtains aside to see her weary but smiling face on the other side. I scanned my memory for a trip we may have made around this period in time, but my brain was a little foggy from the pain medication. “Where are you off to?” I finally asked, giving up on my quest.
“We’ve promised the kids a trip to the World Fair in Montreal,” She replied, a mixture of excitement and exasperation in her voice. Of course, Expo ’67! How could I forget?! It was such a magical trip; the cutting-edge technology and design, the crowds milling about with a look of amazement on every face, the sights and sounds, the food... We would talk about that trip for years to come. The unusual structures like the Terre Des Hommes and Habitat 67 that were part of the pavilions at the exhibit still stood to this day, iconic pieces of Montreal architecture.
“How exciting!” I breathed, envious of the adventure that awaited her, an adventure that was so distant in my past.
“It will be if I can get everyone packed up and out the door! On that note, I need to go pick up my pay cheque. It’s lovely seeing you,” she waved before rushing off down the street.
I didn’t see her for a few of months after that. I spent some time with my sisters, and celebrated Easter with my family. When summer came, we drove to the Island of Orleans to buy fresh-picked strawberries, the best berries in the world, no contest! I made jam and marmalade for everyone; my children, my sisters, the Sgobbas who lived down the street, Mme Méo who lived around the corner and had been a friend to me for years, and Mrs. Maher who lived upstairs. The warmer months passed by so quickly, it wasn’t until the cooler weather returned that I realized how much time had gone by since I’d last seen The Other Rachel.
“Gordie, don’t you eat the tops off those mille feuilles! Linda, keep an eye on him!” I heard her shout from outside my window one day. I laughed and laughed. My son, Gordon, had a habit of stealing the iced tops off the flaky custard pastries when no one was looking.
“Good afternoon, Rachel,” I said, joining her by the window.
“That boy, he’s a handful!” she laughed, her love for him clearly present in her voice. “Say, I was wondering, have you ever travelled to Europe?” she asked. In an instant I knew precisely why she was asking.
“Yes, I’ve travelled to Spain,” I told her. “Why do you ask?” I added, trying to keep our incredible situation to myself.
“My sister and I are travelling to Spain and Portugal next month!” she answered excitedly. I smiled at her attempt to keep her giddiness in check. She was usually so serious, and no-nonsense, I relished these almost childlike moments of wonder in her, they were far too few and far between.
“You will have a wonderful trip. The food, scenery, and people are all lovely,” I told her, drifting off into memories of that very trip with my sister Marselle. We had eaten late at night, enjoyed the most amazing coffee on the hotel balcony first thing in the morning, watched the sun rise from the beach...
“Well, I should be going before Gordie gets into some other kind of trouble,” she said, still grinning from ear to ear. I waved goodbye as she scurried home to check on her mille-feuilles. I made a point to walk down to Paolo’s Patisserie on Rue Cartier that evening to pick up a mille-feuille for myself, and that night I went to bed with visions of flamenco dancers and Portuguese sunsets in my head. Just before falling asleep, I made a mental note to call my sister Marselle the next morning to check in, we hadn’t spoken in a few days.
I didn’t see The Other Rachel the following month. I knew she was on her trip, so I didn’t think much of it, but I didn’t see her again for several months after that either, and began to worry until I remembered what happened at the end of that trip. A vicious bout of sciatica had put me in a wheelchair, a condition that took nearly eight months to resolve.
When I finally saw her again it was autumn. I heaved a sigh, relieved the spell had not been broken after all. She walked more gingerly, but still held her head high, and looked impeccable in her long coat and a pair of leather gloves. “Hello Rachel,” I said through the open window. She jumped a little, as if I had startled her. She turned toward me, a look of distraction on her face.
“Oh hello,” she said, regaining her composure.
“Is everything alright?” I asked her, scanning my memory for the events which transpired fifty years prior that may be cause for her concern. Before I could put my finger on it, she filled me in.
“Have you been listening to the radio?” she asked, “they’re saying the army is coming. There will be curfew. They’re saying a politician has been kidnapped!” Of course. The October Crisis. So much time had gone by I had put it behind me, but it was a frightening spell in Quebec History when some extremists took things too far. My heart sank as I thought of the politician who would later be found dead. I quickly reminded myself to keep quiet about it.
“Ah yes, very concerning indeed. I’m sure you and your family will be safe,” I smiled at her reassuringly. She nodded, still a little unsure, and bid me farewell as she carefully crossed the street, her gait noticeably affected by the sciatica. I watched her with a sinking heart, knowing there was something far more terrible coming her way than the October Crisis.
A few months later she came to my window, her face ashen and streaked with makeup where tears had run down her face. My stomach clenched. I thought I was prepared. I knew it was coming. I had thought of nearly nothing else the past three months, yet I couldn’t help but feel my heart break all over again. As much as I tried to forget, I remembered this day as if it were yesterday. This horrible, tragic, traumatic day.
“Oh Rachel, I don’t know what I’m going to do...” she had whispered through my window.
“Listen to me very carefully. It may not seem like it today, but it’s going to be okay. You will be okay, and your children will be okay. Life will be okay. Trust me.”
She had looked at me then, her gaze even with mine as if, for a moment, she knew exactly who I was. I stayed perfectly still, unsure of what would happen next. She nodded quietly and turned her gaze to the ground. Eventually she took a deep breath and looked up to the sky before whispering “My husband died today.”
“I remember,” I whispered, too quietly for her to hear. Fifty years I had lived on without him. I wanted to hold her then, to comfort her, but we had only ever talked through the window, and I was afraid to break the spell. After a while she squared her shoulders and lifted her head. She bid me goodnight and walked proudly back to her apartment. I remember the moment, half a century ago, when I decided there wasn’t time for feelings and pity, that I would swallow it all down and continue moving forward and raising my family. I stared out the window well into the night, remembering the pain, the tears, the fear filling up the walls of the second-story apartment across the street. As I watched I saw a hazy figure take shape on the balcony. I recognized him instantly, looking dapper in his limo driver uniform with a cap on his head, leaning on the railing smoking a cigarette. He blew out a plume of smoke and his silhouette dissipated along with it. “Goodbye Don,” I whispered for the first time in 50 years.
I spent the next several months letting her lead the conversation. Some days she would focus on the children; another getting married, another grandchild being born... other days she would be very quiet, the grief she had swallowed down finally rising to the surface. Over time our conversations returned to what they had been: She sharing current events while I reminisced.
“My dearest Rachel,” she said one day, a look of nostalgia on her face, “I’m moving.” The announcement hit me like a kick in the gut. “Our landlord has decided to sell the building, and the new owner is requiring us to leave so he can make renovations,” she continued. “I’ve found a place for us down on Ste Foy Road.”
My heart sank. We had been meeting almost monthly for nearly thirty years. It never occurred to me that our conversations would end at some point. I hadn’t calculated which year it was, exactly, that I had been forced to leave the small apartment that members of our family had occupied for nearly seventy years. I remembered my son had tried to purchase the building, but the bank had denied his loan application. The new apartment The Other Rachel was moving to cost nearly double the rent and I remembered the stress and financial worry of those subsequent years. I shook my head back to the present moment. I wasn’t prepared to say goodbye, not only to her, but to the life I had lived in that second-story apartment across the street. I swallowed the lump in my throat as tears sprung up in my eyes. “I wish you the very best, Rachel,” I whispered to her.
“I’m only moving a few blocks away. I will come back to visit,” she said, clearly emotional about the home she had known nearly three decades, and perhaps a little sad about leaving me, the old woman in the window. Little did she know...
I nodded quietly and watched as she walked across the street for the last time, the sound of her shoes echoing off the sidewalk. “Goodbye Rachel,” I whispered.
I never saw her again. Every full moon I stayed up late into the night, looking for that silhouette and the small orange fire of a cigarette, but the balcony remained silent and empty. A few weeks ago, a For Sale sign appeared on the railing, quickly followed by a Sold sign. Then, last week a construction crew arrived and began filling a dumpster with pieces of wood and drywall as they gutted the interior of the apartment. Once they finished, the next crew came in to rebuild, then movers brought furniture and appliances, and finally a new family arrived: Two adults with a small child and another on the way.
To this day, I sit in the living room of my small apartment staring aimlessly out the window as yet another new family goes about their life, oblivious to my existence, or to the existence of those who came before them. I sit and remember my children when they were children, my husband, my mother-in-law, the burnt roast, Expo ’67, the flamenco dancers, long workdays at Birk’s, the magic of Christmas morning, my sisters - now long departed, and the few moments of quiet sitting on the balcony after the children had gone to bed... I sit and dream. I sit and reminisce. I sit and recall the life I lived in that second-story apartment, when I was The Other Rachel.
Thank you so much for listening. I look forward sharing the next chapter of Wingspan next week so you can find out what Magpie and Lucas have been up to. Remember, Patreon subscribers get early access to all podcast episodes, and downloads of all my original music as Cannelle, plus illustrations, behind the scenes videos, and more. You can subscribe for as little as $1 per month to access all my content. Check the show notes for links to Patreon, my website, and social media accounts, I love interacting with my listeners.
If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a review on Apple Podcasts, and/or a rating on Apple podcasts or Spotify. This helps my story gain visibility among the numerous podcasts out there, and it also makes me smile.
Lastly, I’d like to wish everyone who does, or can celebrate Mothers Day a lovely day. My own mother passed away when I was young, but since I became a mom over 13 years ago the day is no longer a sad one. That said, I know it can be a difficult day for many, and my heart goes out to you.
Thank you, as always, for listening.
