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Sandy had been surprised to find her mother giving in easily to her proposal to accompany her parents to their home in Westbrook. Now, having sent her own husband and children on the long drive home, she was steering her father's old Cadillac through familiar villages. Everett had fallen asleep in the back seat.

The two women chatted for a while, after which a long silence ensued. Sandy broke it by saying gently, "I noticed you looking tired. Are you okay, Mom?"

"I've got your Dad on my mind," said Lucille. "I'm all right, but I'm afraid you may not find the house up to snuff. It's been hard to keep up with things, I've been so busy with your Dad." Finally they turned into the familiar driveway. To Sandy the house she'd known as a girl looked somehow small and forlorn. 

Walking in the door, she looked around critically, noting evidences of her mother's warning: dishes in the sink, summer quilt still on the bed, dusty furniture. When she asked her mother what she could do to help, Lucille waved her off, helping Everett to bed. Sandy climbed the stairs to her old room. Standing and looking out the window at the leaves falling from the old backyard oak, she opened her cell phone and dialed her voicemail. "You have nine messages," the recorded voice announced. No wonder it's been four months since I've been back here, she thought. My life is a marathon.

After a long review of her calls, Sandy heard her mother bustling in the kitchen and knew she was done helping her father get settled for the night in the downstairs bedroom. She went to the kitchen, sat down and watched Lucille prepare tea. "Hope you don't mind store-bought cookies," Lucille said apologetically. "You always liked my peanut-butter squares."

Sandy decided to cut to the chase. "What's going on with Dad, really?" she ventured.

Her mother sat down heavily into her chair. Her wan smile suggested that the facade would continue; then Lucille put her forehead in her hands. "Your dad's not himself these days, Sandy," she murmured. "We've been to several doctors but they haven't found anything clear-cut that's wrong. Worrying about him and caring for him is taking it out of me. I just can't manage the house any more."

Sandy looked around the place with new eyes. "Why don't you get some household help?"

"We've tried, but it's hard to find someone reliable."

"Well, how about moving?"

Lucille sighed and shook her head resignedly. "I've tried to bring it up, but your father won't hear of it. He thinks of this place as his castle, and all the while we're living in three downstairs rooms."

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