"I don't have a grandmother."

The woman sighs. "Everybody has a grandmother, dear."

Eleanor doesn't know what to say. There was a period, after watching the Princess Diaries too many times, where she'd dreamt of having a surprise relative show up unannounced and whisk her away in some grand adventure. It had always felt like an idle fantasy, based in too much young adult fiction, and Eleanor had given up on the idea after she'd turned 16.

Having it happen now, well, it leaves Eleanor floored.

On the other end of the line, there is another sigh; heavier, this time, almost disapproving. "So I see your parents forgot to mention me. I'd - your mother and I - we'd been estranged for some time, but I'm sorry. She was such a bright young woman." The woman, Eleanor's grandmother, pauses for a moment before politely coughing. "I was heartbroken to learn of her passing. I received a call from her lawyer, and someone with his office provided your contact information. I presume it's alright that I've contacted, it's always nice to hear from family during trying times."

"I. Yeah. That's cool," Eleanor manages faintly. She slumps down against her kitchen wall, staring at the fridge door.

"If I'd known I'd had a granddaughter I would have reached out sooner," she continues. "But this is the situation we find ourselves in."

"Yeah." Eleanor's vague feelings of surprise bubble over into a nervous laugh. "I'm not sure what to say."

"I can imagine how overwhelming this whole situation must be," she says. "What with you being so suddenly alone, so there's no need to say anything at the moment. Actually, in fact, there's something I'd rather you consider instead: we have, if my math is correct, a great deal of lost time to make up for."

"I'll say."

"So, provided you're amenable, I'd like to invite you to come stay with me for a time. That is, if you'd like."

Eleanor tries to say something, but what comes out is a prolonged "uh."

"There's no need to answer now," she carries on. "Just, promise you'll consider it."

"Okay." Eleanor picks at a loose piece of the vinyl flooring. "I'll..I'll think it over."

"Excellent. I'm sure you've got quite a lot going on at the moment, so I won't take up any more of your time, unless you've got any questions for me."

"Actually," Eleanor says, "Before you go, uh, Shaun - my mother's lawyer- he mentioned something about a Whitmore Manor? Do you know anything about it?"

"Oh, that old place?" She sounds surprised. "I suppose your mother didn't have the heart to sell it. Yes, I know all about Whitmore, my husband - your grandfather - bought it many years ago. I can send someone by to look at the old place, perhaps we could have it fixed up for your stay."

"Cool," Eleanor says lamely, feeling as if things have already been decided for her. This whole situation feels so surreal she is having a difficult time coming up questions, questions she should surely have after hearing from her estranged grandmother after over 23 years. Yet she thinks of nothing, and instead says, "I'll, uh, I'll think about it. I guess I'll talk to you soon."

After she hangs up, Eleanor sits and stares at her phone and tries to process what just happened.

"I didn't think you had a grandma!" Kaitlyn yells over the noise in in O'Flannagans. They're the only table in the bar not decked out in jersey's, mostly because they'd all forgotten it was hockey night. Luckily, Ruth had arrived early from work with Jason and Diggy, friends from her office, and claimed a comfortable corner booth. With the Toronto Maple Leaf's not only playing, but winning, the atmosphere is getting rowdier by the minute. Eleanor's never been a big hockey fan, but despite herself she cranes her neck to watch the game at the T.V. above the bar.

"I'm pretty sure everyone's got a grandma," Diggy chimes in.

Eleanor ignores Diggy. "That's what I said!"

"Are you considering going?" Ruth asks.

Eleanor has been asking herself that question over and over again all day and has yet to come up with a satisfactory answer. "How could I?"

Hypothetically, she could afford the flight if she used the money from her parents estate, but then what then? At some point she'd run out of money, and the job market in the English countryside can't be much better than the Toronto job market. Though at the same time, she supposes, it also couldn't be much worse.

Then there's the matter of her apartment, and her parents apartment, and a litany of other little things that begin to stack up in the 'con' column.

Eleanor downs the rest of her drink.

The Leafs score, and the bar roars in response.

They stay until the end of the game, then stumble out through a sea of celebrating blue jerseys. Jason's vanished after being adopted by a nearby table of friendly American tourists and Diggy's wandered off with some pretty stranger from the bar, so it's just Ruth, Kaitlyn, and Eleanor stepping out into the bracing Toronto air.

It hits Eleanor like a slap in the face.

The rum-induced warm haze fades, replaced by a stiff breeze and a faint feeling the world is shifting in front of her. The slight slant of the road doesn't help matters, nor does the hazy glow of the streetlights bouncing off the layer of fresh snow.

Still, despite the bad weather, there's a bar across the street with a patio, full to the brim of patrons in coats trying to sit closest to the space heaters spread out between the tables. A small road separates Eleanor and her friends from the patio across the street, as taxi's and cars vie for parking spaces.

"Let's hail a cab," Ruth says. "El, you want to come back to our place? Kait got that cider you like. I can't remember the name, but we've got two bottles."

She should go home, Eleanor thinks, but her mouth betrays her. "Okay, sure. Should I chip in for the fare?"

They cram into the backseat of the taxi; Eleanor, somehow, winding up sandwiched in the middle seat. Being drunk eases her anxiety some, about being in a car, and she finds it easier to focus on the oldies station the cab driver's playing or Kaitlyn's idle chatter. Still, she feels her chest tighten each time the cab stops or skids or makes any of the usual sudden movements cars are prone too.

It is a relief to arrive at Kaitlyn and Ruth's apartment. It's further away from downtown Toronto, away from the clamour of weekend traffic, and closer to Ruth's new office and otherwise entirely unremarkable. It is the kind of plain 1940s apartment construction that you can find just about anywhere in North America, with beige brick exteriors and concrete hallways.

Apparently Eleanor retained something from dating an aspiring architect in her first year of university.

Once inside, Kaitlyn finds a bottle of the promised cider and pours Eleanor a generous glassful. Ruth puts a record on, some old jazzy record they'd found at a thrift store ages ago. The three crowd around the small kitchen table, drinks in hand.

"Are you seriously not considering going to England?" Ruth asks, abruptly.

"I dunno," Eleanor manages. Her head feels muddy and her list of cons feels increasingly murky.

"C'mon," Kaitlyn interjects. "It could be like...what's that Anne Hathaway movie? Princess Diaries? You could be like the Princess Diaries!"

"I'm pretty sure I'm not a princess, Kay." Though, actually, Eleanor can't be sure. She knew very little of her family history, after all. "And I've got stuff to do here."

"Like what?" Kaitlyn challenges.

Eleanor thinks. She'd made a list earlier. She should know it still. "I dunno, like find a job? Pay rent? Life stuff."

"Okay." Ruth nods, slowly, unsteadily. "But like, you want to go right? Because I'd be jumping at the chance to go." She reaches out, finds Kaitlyn's shoulder, and gives it a squeeze. "With you, obviously."

"I'd," Eleanor starts, then stops. There's a coherent thought in her somewhere and it takes a moment to dredge it up. "I'd love to go - I'd love to be anywhere else, honestly. It's...god, I think my parents did everything with me in Toronto. I can't go anywhere without dredging up some memory. It's like they're...they're...ghosts, but they're haunting street corners and buildings and not just their apartment." This is not a planned confession, and admittedly, Eleanor would like it to stop but apparently her body has other plans. Like most painful truths, once articulated there's no way she can pretend it doesn't sting. "I saw a busker that looked like dad near a streetcar stop and cried on the streetcar. The driver asked if I was okay!" Both the driver and Eleanor knew the answer was 'no'. "I can't go anywhere near the park, or the florists where mom worked."

Eleanor shrugs, weakly. "It feels like the city is off-limits."

There is a long moment of silence.

"Oh, El," Kaitlyn says softly. "I'm sorry."

"It is what it is, I'm sure I'll get over it." Eleanor clears her throat and wishes for a magic word or phrase that would make Kaitlyn stop looking at her so sympathetically. "Or maybe I'll never go back to Cabbagetown again." It's meant as a joke, but it doesn't land like one.

"Your apartment is in Cabbagetown," Ruth points out.

"I think she knows that," Kaitlyn says.

"Can we talk about something that isn't my family tragedy?" Eleanor asks. "Just for five minutes, maybe."

"Ruth's mom has gotten really into some JFK conspiracy nonsense lately," Kaitlyn says. Ruth groans and buries her head in her hands, mumbling something incoherent. "We could talk about how weird that is."

"Yes, please."

Ruth is the first to excuse herself, after dozing off at the table, and Kaitlyn is quick to follow. Eleanor has been here so often she's no longer considered a guest, and as such she's left alone and unattended as she curls up on the couch and falls asleep.

Eleanor wakes several hours later to a familiar noise: that of someone trying too hard to be silent to the point of being as loud as possible. A cabinet door opens with a prolonged creak, then some sort of dishware clatters around noisily.

Not for the first time, she wishes she had the alcohol tolerance she'd possessed at 18. There's a fuzzy feeling in her head that will become a splitting headache the moment Eleanor opens her eyes. Eleanor shifts and buries her face into the throw blanket she's using as an improvised pillow. As she moves she feels the sharp edge of her phone digging into her hip from it's place in her jean pocket. A kettle begins it's tell-tale whistle in the next room.

It has to be Kaitlyn in the kitchen; Ruth's never up before noon after a night out.

With a heavy groan, Eleanor decides to take pity on Kaitlyn's poor attempts at silence. She swings her legs off the edge of the couch and uses the momentum to force herself up. The room spins, the unsteady stack of books on the television console looking even more unsteady than ever.

"Morning," Kaitlyn calls from the kitchen. She sounds about as good as Eleanor feels.

Eleanor grunts in response.

"Coffee?"

"Please."

When Kaitlyn shuffles into the living room, two novelty mugs of coffee in hand, Eleanor is feeling just a little more like a human being. Just barely.

Kaitlyn places a mug of coffee on the table in front of Eleanor. It's a commemorative mug from a 1985 curling bonspiel in Saskatoon, that neither Kaitlyn nor Eleanor were alive for, and purchased at a thrift store near Yonge Street. "Pre-sugared," Kaitlyn says, "You heathen."

Three years working at a café that roasted its own coffee beans has taken a toll on Kaitlyn; back in high school, it'd have been a triple triple for every order. Now it's straight black coffee and she bullies Eleanor for each teaspoon of sugar she adds. Still, as Eleanor takes a sip from her cup, she has to admit, it's good coffee.

Kaitlyn slumps back into the armchair in the corner. "We've been thinking."

"How did you have time to think between being really drunk and painfully hungover?" Eleanor moans.

"Ruth's got that restless leg thing. She kicked me awake at like five in the morning." Kaitlyn shrugs. "Once I'm up, I'm up. Anyway."

"Anyway?"

"You deserve to go to England, El." Eleanor starts to speak, but Kaitlyn quickly cuts her off. "No, if anyone should be Princess Diary'd, it's you."

"Not a princess," Eleanor says.

"Not the point. Look, Ruth's got a cousin from Manitoba who's going to Ryerson. He's living in an old house that's like a hundred years old with 8 dudes who never wear shirts, and I think he'd kill for his own apartment - even if it's as shitty as yours."

Eleanor takes a long sip of her coffee before responding. "Are you subletting my apartment for me?"

"If you want. And I talked to Shaun, we can keep your parents stuff in a storage locker until you've got the time to go through it. I know a guy who has good rates on them."

"When did you talk to Shaun?"

"I called him a few hours ago," Kaitlyn says airily. Eleanor checks her phone for the time. It's barely 10 a.m. "He's happy to help. C'mon, El, I owe you a thousand times over anyway. Take this trip of a lifetime, find out some hot gossip about your parents, marry a prince or something."

Admittedly, Eleanor's resistance to taking the trip is low; Hell, a strong breeze could knock her con's column over. And Kaitlyn is right, it is the trip of a lifetime. 

"Okay, fine, I'll go."