She is seventy-three and she watched her brother do something unforgivable and now he is not available to be forgiven, and I don’t know what a person is supposed to do with that either.

Chapter 15 — Thursdays

My father died in February, at Cottonwood Ridge, of pneumonia, which is how most of them go.

I was there. Marcus flew in and got there four hours after. That’s not a moral failure; it’s a flight schedule, and I have told him so twice and will probably have to keep telling him.

There were eleven people at the funeral.

Marcus and Sydney. Linda. Two men from his old firm who were genuinely fond of him and who told me stories I had never heard, in which my father is funny.

A neighbor. Three staff from Cottonwood Ridge, who came on their own time, which I have not gotten over.