James tried to do those things, she remembers. He read the books, listened to the music. He called Ginny every Sunday afternoon, talked with whichever housemate answered the phone wherever Ginny was living — Seattle, Austin, Minneapolis — made jokes, tried to connect. And now Ginny was the one making the phone calls, trying to connect. If she ever got a tattoo on her forearm — and Margaret seriously hoped she wouldn’t — it would be of her father, not her mother. James was the hero. Margaret was the one always saying no.
By the time Margaret gets home, it’s almost eight o’clock. James and the children are watching a movie in the family room, Ginny is in the kitchen, on the computer.
“I thought you went to a meeting,” she says when she sees Margaret with her bags. “It looks like you’ve bee
