By Charlotte H. Lee

The hospice room’s greige carpeting swallowed the beep of the heart monitor. Not that Stella noticed it. Instead, she listened for the finches. Greg had left bird seed on the window ledge, the pane open a crack.

She imagined herself sipping tea in the backyard garden. A gnarled apple tree, its fruit still only cherry-sized, shaded the wrought iron table set Greg had promised her for when she officially became a grandmother.

Stella pushed away a twist of bitterness. It wasn’t his fault cancer would break that promise. Nor did she want to dwell on the things she’d meant to do when she retired.

“Hey Mom,” Lulu said, her voice hushed as she came in, her perfume a breath of spring flowers.

Hi sweetness, Stella would have said. She managed to open her eyes.

Thankfully, Lulu had blinked away any tears. “I brought something to show you.” She dug into her oversized purse and pulled out a brown envelope.

Everything went well? Stella wanted to ask.

“It’s a girl, just as you hoped,” Lulu said, her voice catching at the end. “Here’s the ultrasound picture.”

Stella focused on the multi-coloured square, squinting to make out the little blobs that would one day be fingers and toes. Her fingers twitched, as if she could reach into that little bit of paper to touch her first grandchild.

Lulu, her voice low and soft, recounted the appointment, rattling off measurements and technician comments. Stella tried to pay attention, but her focus wandered as it so often did.

A flash of colour caught Stella’s eye. A strange old woman, wearing a deep purple felted hat that covered her hair, stood behind Lulu. A scarf printed with tumbling autumn leaves was draped over one shoulder, knotted on the other.

“Listen close to your daughter, Stella,” the old woman said. “Your winter is here.”

Lulu appeared not to have heard the woman.

I’m not ready yet. Stella tried to shake her head. I want to meet my granddaughter.

“You will, but not in this world,” Lady Winter said.

Lulu kept up her chatter, pretending to have Stella’s full attention. Sudden pain in Stella’s chest chased away Lulu’s words. An alarm whooped. Stella tried to drag in a breath, her fingers feebly fluttering in an unconscious effort to press the heel of her hand to her chest.

The room filled with white coats and pastel scrubs.

Through the jumble of voices, Stella heard Greg’s voice, intermittently pleading and demanding. A head appeared above Stella. The palliative resident. Not that his eyes looked at her. They were focused on the laryngoscope hovering above Stella’s nose. Something pushed its way down her throat. She knew it was the tube, that it would help her breathe, but her body rebelled, gagging in its effort to expel the foreign object.

There was a flash of purple in the corner of Stella’s eye, but she had no attention to spare for Lady Winter. A nurse’s face replaced the doctors. Her lips moved, silently counting off seconds, then pausing to squeeze the balloon that blasted air into Stella’s lungs.

It hurt, but Stella didn’t mind. It meant she was still alive. There was still hope. She only needed five-ish months. That wasn’t so very great a time. Just a few minutes to see and touch her granddaughter. Then she’d gladly wear a purple hat of her own. Maybe even a scarf, though Stella favoured spring colours over autumn ones.

Lulu’s perfume lingered in Stella’s nose, reminding her of the gardenias in her porch planter boxes, unfurling their bright white petals among the pops of pinks, oranges, and reds of the begonias.

Stella wouldn’t live to see another spring. She could accept that. Outside, the leaves had only begun to change from green to red. But she needed to make it to February.

Greg appeared in Stella’s line of sight, his face ashy. “The ventilator will give you another week or so.”

A week.

Not long enough to meet her granddaughter. The next blast of nurse-driven air hurt more than any of the others.

Tears slid down Greg’s cheek, but he wiped away the wetness tracking down Stella’s face rather than his own. Behind him, looming over his shoulder, Lady Winter watched.

Lulu appeared next to Greg, her face tear-stained, too. The nurse kept up her counting and squeezing. It hurt; the rhythm wrong.

“We’re here, Mom,” Lulu said, her voice breaking on the last word. “Don’t be scared. We love you.”

“She’s right, Stella,” Lady Winter said. “There’s nothing to be scared of. Except spending your final days in pain.” The old woman shook her head. “Do you want to take that with you?”

Stella’s gaze fixed on Lady Winter. She had so many questions, but she was afraid to ask them.

The rattle of cart wheels interrupted the nurse’s rhythm. Stella hadn’t realized how accustomed she’d become to it. She’d already learnt to anticipate the pattern, ready herself for the painful rush into her lungs. Each moment held an eternity, each whoosh a chill reminder that her life was no longer her own.

A week of this? For what? She’d said her good-byes. Everyone knew Stella treasured them. And she knew they treasured her. What more was there to say? Stella sought out Lady Winter. She gave the barest nod. The old woman laid her hand on Stella’s head.

Stella closed her eyes.

Alarms shrieked, drowning out Greg’s and Lulu’s protests. Whether Stella left them today, next week, in five months, or in thirty years, it would still be too soon.

Lady Winter took her hand. Reluctantly, Stella opened her eyes. She stood behind Greg and Lulu, aching to show them her pain had ended. Lady Winter held her back with only a shake of her head.

With an encouraging smile, the old woman presented Stella with a purple hat and a spring scarf. “There’s a maternity clinic waiting for your help. Sometimes babies need a little convincing to enter the world.”