When the Work Is Done

The lawn was thick with spring clover. It wouldn’t have looked that way when Sophie’s father was in charge. The front yard had been his territory, and it was immaculate. “An engineer’s lawn” he called it—the blades of grass cut at a precisely calculated height and in straight passes with a well-tuned mower. A series of heart attacks changed everything, and Mom’s domain extended from the back yard to the front. It was now a naturalist’s lawn.

Sophie wondered about the neighbors. This was a suburban development of quiet cul-de-sacs and older residents who once took pride in their lawns, flower beds, and shrubbery. Many had lived there for decades. Sophie had grown up with their children.

In their last call, Sophie’s mother told her that Mr. Garrett died. His son Robbie was a childhood friend, and Sophie glanced next door. That property also needed attention. Weeds grew among the roses, the boxwood needed trimming, and the paint on the shutters was peeling. Maybe the whole neighborhood was wearing out.

Sophie turned back to her childhood home to see the door fly open. Her mother had put on a few pounds and let her hair go gray since the last visit. “I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow!” she said, gathering Sophie into her arms.

“No, Mom. I flew in this morning and got a rental.” She clicked the key fob to lock the car.

“I could have picked you up.”

Sophie shook her head. “We talked about that. I didn’t want you to leave Dad.”

The pandemic kept Sophie away for a year. They spoke often and struggled through a few video chats. Sophie got regular updates on her father’s worsening condition along with pictures of his latest projects.

Dad built models and dioramas with the ship-in-a-bottle being his specialty. It was a hobby when he was working. In retirement, it became a passion and, after his heart attacks, an obsession.

The number of house plants had grown. The plants looked healthy and the living room was awash with green, but yellow and brown leaves dotted the carpet. A book of nature photography lay open on the coffee table alongside one of the many World’s Best Teacher mugs her mother had accumulated over the years. A stack of unopened mail was on the dining room table and breakfast dishes were piled in the kitchen sink. “You doing okay, Mom?”

“You must be tired after that long flight. Let’s get you settled in your room, and then you can visit with your father. He goes to bed early. We’ll have plenty of time to catch up after that.”

When Sophie was living at home, her father’s workshop was in the basement. After his heart trouble, they downsized to one car. The workshop moved to the attached garage where there were fewer steps to navigate. Bits of wood, tools and projects in various states of completion covered his new workbench. She paused for a moment to look at him hunched over his work. He needed a haircut and the clothes hung loose on his shrinking frame.

“Heard you got a special project?” Sophie said.

Her father turned and broke into a grin. “You’re here! Come look. It’s my biggest ship in a bottle yet. The Vasa, a Swedish ship that sank after launch. It’s a tricky one.”

“Amazing.” She examined a couple of the specialized tools he used. There were tiny saws, little clamps, long tweezers, utility knives, a Dremel, and more.

“I made you a new one.” He reached down, letting out a grunt, and came up with a bottle holding a red and white yacht on a blue sea.

“It’s like the one we saw the last time we went on vacation together,” she said. “Maybe ten years ago? I got some great photos that day.”

“Yeah,” her dad said. “I checked those for reference. That rigging was tough.” Sophie’s photos appeared in a regional magazine about New England, and she wasn’t surprised her Dad kept a copy. Her parents kept everything in which her photos appeared.

They chatted awhile longer, but Sophie saw her father’s head start to nod. She helped him into the main part of the house where her mom gave him an early dinner and got him to bed.

Later that night, as Sophie and her mother sat in the living room, her mother said. “I saw Carl Garret this morning. Walking his dog.”

Sophie froze, the wine glass halfway to her mouth. “Mom, you told me Mr. Garrett died.”

“Well, yes. But it was him. Walking Casper.”

Sophie carefully set down her wine glass. The Garretts had always kept poodles and entered them in dog shows, and Casper was their last. His registered name was much longer, but he was white so he became Casper. When Mrs. Garrett died, her husband swore he wasn’t getting any more. “I’ll take care of ‘em until they die,” he said. “Then it’s my turn to go.”

“Who’s living there now, Mom?” Sophie said.

“Robbie’s daughter. Jill? I think that’s her name. She’s young, but Robbie married young.”

It was her mother’s way of reminding Sophie that there might still be time for her to have children. She didn’t pressure, but Mom would drop little comments letting her know that grandchildren would be welcome.

“Maybe Jill was walking the dog.”

Her mother shook her head. “Jill’s a tiny little thing. Nothing like Carl.” Mr. Garrett had been a large man, tall and heavy, who looked delightfully out of place walking a toy poodle.

“Robbie, then,” Sophie said. “He takes after his father.”

“I’ve lived next to Carl Garret and his family for 40 years. I should think I know what he looks like.”

That night, in her childhood bedroom, Sophie fell into a restless sleep wondering if her mother needed help. By morning, she convinced herself it wasn’t serious. It was late when they had the conversation and her mother was tired. Her family had been close to the Garretts for many years, so naturally her mother expected to see Carl. Robbie did look a lot like his father, and Mom was probably overdue for an eye exam.

Her mother had been up for several hours by the time Sophie came downstairs. The kitchen was clean and the books put away. The backyard bird feeders were filled, and the finches gathered to eat. From the garage came the sound of her father’s tools cutting away at the tiny pieces of his next ship-in-a-bottle.

“Casper is moving so slow,” Mom said. “I don’t know how much time he has left.”

“He’s an old dog.” Sophie chose her next words carefully. “You saw him walked this morning?”

“By Carl. He used to deny it, but he doted on those dogs.”

“He complained, but you’re right. He loved them. How about I take a cup of coffee to Dad?”

In the garage, she set down the cup and pulled up a chair. “Mom said she saw Carl Garrett walking Casper.”

Her father was hand-carving a piece of his latest ship with the tiniest blade Sophie had ever seen. “Carl died a few weeks back,” he said without taking his eyes off his work.

“I know, Dad. But that’s what she said. I’m a little worried about Mom.”

“Carl would have arranged for someone to take care of Casper. Probably Robbie.”

“Maybe,” Sophie said.

“Kind of like I’m going to finish this last model before I go because I don’t know who else would do it.” He looked up and there was a twinkle in his eye. “Unless you take over?”

Sophie shook her head. “I don’t have the patience. And don’t talk like that. We’re not ready for you to go.”

He put the knife down. “It’s true, though. I know my prognosis. I don’t have much longer. The parts are wearing out and can’t be replaced. It’s basic engineering.”

That ended the discussion about whatever Mom was seeing. Sophie spent the rest of her too-short visit trying not to worry about either of her parents and to enjoy their time together. Every morning, her mother told her that she saw Carl Garrett walking his poodle. Sophie set the alarm on her phone and got up earlier and earlier. Each time, she had just missed Carl.

Her father spent time in his workshop until he got too tired to work. He set aside his model of the Vasa to carve Sophie a ball in a cage. “I don’t have much time left,” he said. “And I’m going to finish the Vasa. But you always liked these.”

Sophie nodded. She did like the ball in a cage. She had several in her apartment and gave many away to friends when they marveled at the intricate carvings. She teared up a little thinking this would probably be the last one he carved.

On Sophie’s last day at home, Robbie was next door painting the shutters. She asked him about walking the dog.

“I come over when I can,” he said. “But Jill’s doing most of the work taking care of Casper and cleaning up the house. We’re going to sell, but Dad hadn’t done much since Ma died. There’s work to be done first.”

“Mom says she sees Casper being walked early in the morning.”

Robbie laughed. “Jill’s good about taking care of the dog and the house, but if it’s early it must be some other dog. Jill doesn’t do mornings.”

After she returned t0 California, Sophie made a point of calling more often. She tried to gauge her mother’s cognitive ability while getting increasingly poor reports on her father’s health. When she heard he hadn’t gone into his workshop for a week, she knew the end was near.

During that call, her mother reported not having seen Carl walking Casper for a few days. “I finally saw Jane outside,” her mother said.

“You mean Jill?”

“Jill? Maybe you’re right. I asked her about the dog and she said Casper died. I guess Carl doesn’t need to walk her anymore.”

“I suppose not,” Sophie said. After that phone call, she began researching assisted living facilities—a project she’d been putting off for too long.

The funeral was well-attended. Neighbors, former co-workers, fellow hobbyists all turned out on a crisp, fall day. Mom was composed throughout while Sophie found herself tearing up at every kind word.

“We knew it was coming,” Mom said that evening. “And I know he won’t really be gone until that last ship-in-a-bottle is finished.”

After her mother turned in, Sophie was sure she heard the whir of a Dremel coming from the basement. When she went downstairs, there was nothing. Her father’s old workbench was there, but his tools were in the garage. The room still smelled of cut wood. “Must have been the furnace or the water heater,” she thought.

The next morning, Sophie brought up the possibility of her mother moving. “Because it’s just you in the house,” she said. “It’s a lot to take care of.”

She expected resistance, her mother only shrugged. “Maybe,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”

A few weeks later, on one of their regular calls, Mom said, “The ship-in-a-bottle must be done.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t hear him working on it anymore.”

“You heard him?” Sophie had never mentioned what she thought she heard.

“Late at night in the basement workshop. Like before he retired. It’s done now.”

“Maybe I can come back soon,” Sophie said. “Would this be a good time to look at places you could live?”

“I’m not quite ready. I know what a mess Carl Garrett left behind for Robbie and June.”

“Jill,” Sophie said automatically and mentally kicked herself. She shouldn’t correct her mother, but just let her talk.

“Jill. Anyway, I’m not going to leave you with a mess like that. My work here isn’t done until the house is ready to sell.”