The Leftovers

by Tom Perrotta

The thing was, Kevin had been her last chance. From the very beginning—the night they’d talked and danced at the mixer—she’d had a feeling that he might be able to save her, to show her how to salvage something decent and functional from the ruins of her old life. And for a little while there, she’d thought it had actually started to happen, that a chronic injury was slowly beginning to heal.

Pamplemousse, when he tried to talk to her about his son, and all she’d felt was bitterness and envy so strong it was indistinguishable from hatred, a burning, gnawing emptiness in the middle of her chest. Fuck you, she kept thinking to herself. Fuck you and your precious son.

So what do you think I did when I got back to the dining room and found them gone? Do you think I screamed or cried or fainted? Or do you think I wiped up the spill, because the puddle was spreading across the table and would soon start dripping onto the floor? You know what I did, Kevin. I wiped up the fucking apple juice and then I went back into the kitchen, put the soggy paper towels in the garbage can, and rinsed my hands under the faucet. After I dried them, I went back to the dining room and took another look at the empty table, the plates and the glasses and the uneaten food. The vacant chairs. I really

The baby let out a wail from her bucket in the backseat. She was a tiny thing, barely a week old, and didn’t have a lot of lung power. All she could produce was a strained little mewling sound, but Tom was amazed by how viscerally it affected him, jangling

CHRISTINE’S INABILITY to connect with the baby had begun to frighten him. She still hadn’t given the child a name, rarely spoke to her, never touched her, and avoided looking at her whenever possible. Before leaving the hospital, she’d gotten a shot that stopped her from lactating, and since then she had been more than happy to let Tom handle all the feeding, changing, and bathing duties.

“Go away,” she told him, turning her head to keep from looking at the Miracle Child who no longer seemed like such a miracle. “Get it away from me.”

Terrence and Marcella gone. There was a note on the kitchen table—Hope it went okay. We’re out of town until Monday. Please be gone when we return!—along with an envelope containing a thousand dollars in cash.

Kevin comforted himself with the knowledge that he hadn’t crossed any irrevocable lines, at least not yet. But he’d been thinking about it all day, and no longer trusted himself to be alone with Aimee, not after what had happened that morning.

DON’T HESITATE. That was guideline number one. The martyr’s exit should be swift and painless. “Come on,” Meg pleaded. She was leaning against a brick wall beneath an outdoor staircase at Bailey Elementary, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. The barrel of the gun was only an inch or so from her temple. “Just a second,” Laurie said. “My hand’s shaking.” “It’s all right,” Meg reminded her. “You’re doing me a favor.”

Laurie took a deep calming breath. You can do this. She was prepared. She’d learned how to shoot the gun and had faithfully performed the visualization exercises included in the instructional memo. Squeeze the trigger. Imagine a flash of golden light transporting the martyr directly to heaven.

love you,” Laurie whispered as she handed over the pistol. “I love you, too,” Meg said, but there was an odd flatness in her voice, as if her soul had already left her body, as if it hadn’t bothered to wait for the deafening explosion a moment later, and that imaginary flash of golden light.

The baby was fast asleep in its car seat, a tiny newborn with squirrelly cheeks, vaguely Asian features, and a fine fuzz of black hair. A familiar smell rose from its body, the unmistakable sweet-and-sour fragrance of new life. There was a diaper bag next to the car seat, with a scrawled note tucked into an outside pocket. Nora had to squint to read what it said: This little girl has no name. Please take good care of her. She turned back to the baby. Her heart was suddenly beating way too fast. “Where’s your mommy?” she asked. “Where’d she go?” The baby opened her eyes. There was no fear in her gaze.

THE GETAWAY car was right where it was supposed to be. There were two men up front, so Laurie opened the back door and climbed inside. Her ears were still ringing from the blast; it felt as though she were encased in the hum, as though a solid barrier of sound had intervened between her and the rest of the world.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Can I help you?” The woman didn’t reply, but by now she was close enough for him to recognize her as Nora. The baby in her arms was a complete stranger, the way they always are when we meet them for the first time, before we give them their names and welcome them into our lives. “Look what I found,” she told him.