Stella is the proprietor of my favourite coffee house, a gentle lady, glowing warmly at the regulars. She could be anywhere between 35 and 60.
She's busy at the sink in the back corner, as I drop off my coffee cup and plates, along with those of elder daughter, who is reading her Kindle back at our table, awaiting my return from the washroom.
"You'll miss her," says Stella over her shoulder.
"I will," I reply.
"It's so nice she was able to have a long visit." The penny drops.
"Oh. You mean my daughter."
I then have to explain that my daughter hasn't been in Victoria since mid-December. She flew back to London, as scheduled, on Twelfth Night.
Demeter fell, catastrophically, four days later. We spent that day and the next in Emergency. Double-Leo Sister came down with her husband and her younger son, who texted his cousin during the "night watch" from the private room set up for palliative care. "End-of-life care," he told elder daughter, who phoned me at midnight.
I'd been deeply asleep, exhausted. She told me her cousin had said to come. "Is it all right if I come?"
"Darling," I mumbled drowsily. "You must do what's best for you."
She arrived the following evening, having thrown her things in a suitcase, still jet-lagged from her previous flight from a few days before.
I didn't tell Stella all this, of course. But she was chagrinned. I assured her that it hadn't been written across my chest; she was not to know.
While I was in the washroom, Stella sought out elder daughter to apologise. Earlier, Stella had called out cheerily to elder daughter, placing her order with the barista, saying how nice it was that she had been able to stay so long.
Elder daughter hadn't wanted to call out, across the coffee shop, that her grandmother had died. That she had been the one alone at the bedside, when Demeter drew her last breath.
Maybe we should bring back black armbands.
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