The Leftovers

Heights, where she’d remained until a year ago. She’d been married for a short time to a man named Jamie, who’d disappeared in what she naturally referred to as the Rapture. They hadn’t had time to have kids, which was something Holly had mixed feelings about. She’d always wanted to be a mom and was sure that she and Jamie would have made beautiful babies, but she knew that this was no time to be reproducing, bringing new people into a world without a future.
    I guess it’s a blessing, she wrote to Jill in one of their first exchanges. To not have to worry about little ones.
    They’d met a couple of months ago, at the height of the murder investigation. Jill had gone to Ginkgo Street with Detective Ferguson, who’d arranged for what he called a “beauty pageant,” in the hope that she might be able to spot the asthmatic Watcher he was so keen on questioning. It had turned out to be a waste of time, of course, and a weird one at that—fifty grown men, all dressed in white, parading in front of her like contestants in a creepy religious version of The Bachelorette —but it had been redeemed at the very end by the reunion with her old teacher, whom she happened to pass on her way out of the main building. They recognized each other right away, Jill crying out with delight, Ms. Maffey spreading her arms, wrapping her former student in a long and heartfelt embrace. It wasn’t until Jill got home and found the handwritten note that had been slipped into her coat pocket— Please e-mail me if you want to talk about anything ! —that she realized it hadn’t been a chance encounter at all.
    Jill wasn’t stupid; she understood that she was being recruited—probably with her mother’s blessing—and resented the fact that someone so important to her had been given the job. Ms. Maffey had even decorated the note with a smiley-face emoticon, the same little flourish she used to scrawl at the top of fourth-grade homework assignments. Jill took the note and tucked it away in her jewelry box, promising herself that she wouldn’t get in touch, wouldn’t allow herself to be manipulated like that.
    It would’ve been easier to keep this vow if she’d had a little more going on that spring, if she’d found some new friends to replace Aimee and the gang, but it hadn’t worked out that way. Most nights she was stuck at home, no one to talk to but her dad, who seemed a little more distracted than usual, depressed about Nora, consoling himself with dreams of softball glory. Max had been texting her a lot, encouraging her to come back to Dmitri’s, or maybe just hang out with him sometime, but she never replied. She was done with all that—the sex and the partying and all those people—and she wasn’t going back.
    After a while it started to feel inevitable, almost mathematical—Jill was looking to fill the vacuum in her life, and Holly was the only plausible candidate. It had been such a shock to see her that day, looking so washed out and dreamy in her white clothes, so unlike the vivacious woman Jill remembered. Please e-mail me if you want to talk about anything ! Well, there was a lot Jill wanted to talk about, questions she wanted to ask about Ms. Maffey’s spiritual journey and her life at the compound. She thought it might help her to understand her mother a little better, give her some insight into the G.R. that so far had eluded her. Because if a person like Holly could be happy there, maybe there was something Jill was missing, something she needed to find out about.
    Do u like it there? she’d asked when she finally worked up the nerve to get in touch. It doesn’t seem like much fun.
    I’m content, Ms. Maffey had replied. It’s a simple life.
    But how can u live w.o. talking?
    There’s so much to let go of, Jill, so many habits and crutches and expectations. But you have to let go. It’s the only way.
    *   *   *
    THE DAY after she became a blonde, Nora sat down to write her goodbye letters. It turned out to be a daunting task, made even more difficult by the fact that she couldn’t seem to sit still. She kept getting up from the kitchen table and wandering upstairs to admire herself in the full-length bedroom mirror, this blond stranger with the oddly familiar face.
    The dye job was an unqualified success. It wasn’t just that the unfortunate outcomes she’d been warned about had failed to materialize: There were no bald spots or greenish undertones, and her bleached hair felt as