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dark man who stood by the stairs with the
luggage. It didn't seem unlikely that Thompson wasn't aware of the
situation or her father's illness, yet Louise acted as though she
really couldn't speak freely in front of him.
    "I'll see ta yer unpackin’ Miss Julia," he
said quickly. His southern drawl echoed in his deep tone, as he
hurried up the stairs. The two women watched the man ascend the
winding staircase, disappearing like a dark shadow around the
corner and down the hallway. Years of trust and service assured
them they were safe to continue speaking; he would not be eaves
dropping just out of sight.
    "Okay mother, now tell me; what's wrong with
father?" Julia's urgency for knowledge was wearing thin on her
tired nerves and weary emotions as she confronted her mother. Her
sharp tone was the result of too many long hours on a smoldering
hot locomotive and the need for a long, luxurious bath; maybe even
a glass of bourbon.
    "Let's get you something to eat dear," the
older woman hesitated in the details as she edged closer to the
kitchen. "I'm famished, aren't you? The train must have been just
dreadful. Why on Earth, can't they make those things less trying;
it’s beyond me. Why I remember when your father and I went to New
York, in seventy two...."
    "Mother, stop it!" Julia snapped, grabbing
the woman's arm and putting a halt to the irritating chatter as she
turned her around. "I'm not a child. I have a right to know what's
wrong with him." Louise stopped just inside the kitchen door and
lowered her head.
    "He's dying," she whispered; her voice was
weak and her tone shook with the threat of unshed sobs.
    "What do you mean, dying? What's wrong with
him?" Julia held onto her arm mother’s arm and stared at her
lowered head. She wasn’t sure whether her mother was exaggerating
or telling the truth; it just all seemed so unreal. When Louise did
look up, tears brimmed her eyes and sorrow gripped her mouth,
pulling the corners down.
    "He has emphysema," she told her daughter
painfully. "He was told about it several years ago, but chose not
to listen to the warnings. I suppose he thought himself immortal.
He just kept working as though nothing was wrong. He never slowed
down, he didn't even tell me until it was too late. We could have
spent these last years together instead of pretending everything
was fine." Louise was near hysterics when she finished, causing
Julia to pull her into a reassuring embrace, offering her all the
strength she possessed.
    “ He’s very weak,” she
continued with a few sniffs to fight the tears back. “You won’t
recognize him; he spends so much time sleeping. I know he’s
depressed and scared, but he won’t show it; instead he sits around
talking about the future as though there was one.”
    They walked together to the small worktable
in the center of the kitchen and sat down. Julia tried to
concentrate on what her mother had said, but thinking of her father
in the terms presented before her wasn't easy. It was as though her
mother spoke of a stranger; the man she knew and loved was far
stronger and more determined than anyone she had ever before met.
With the way her mother described him, he appeared to be barely
more than a forbidding stranger
    "What does the doctor say?" Julia found her
own voice thick and strangled in her throat as she confronted the
situation with both determination and disbelief.
    "He's out lived what was originally
predicted," Louise informed her, accepting the tea, Mrs. Lester,
the family cook poured for them. She wiped her nose and eyes on the
embroidered handkerchief she always kept tucked inside the sleeve
of her dress, before taking a sip of the hot liquid. They waited to
speak further until the woman had left the room, to protect
Victor’s privacy.
    "Isn't there anything we can do?" Julia felt
numb; her heartbeat was thrumming between her ears, her hands
slightly sweaty.
    "It's too late. I don't think praying would
even help at this point. If only he had told