The Leftovers

blond pseudonymous future—but it had faded quickly, replaced by an all-too-familiar inertia. She couldn’t think of a new name for her new self, couldn’t decide where she wanted to go, hadn’t called the lawyer or the real estate broker to arrange for the sale of her house. All she’d done was ride her bike until her legs ached and her fingers went numb, and her mind was too tired to put up a fight.
    It was the prospect of selling the house that had tripped her up. She needed to get rid of it, she understood that, not just for the money, but for the psychological freedom that would come with leaving it behind, the bright line between before and after. But how could she do that when it was the only home her kids had ever known, the first place they’d go if they ever came back. She knew they weren’t coming back, of course—at least she thought she knew that—but this knowledge didn’t stop her from tormenting herself, letting herself imagine the disappointment and bewilderment they’d feel—the sense of abandonment—when a stranger answered the door instead of their own mother.
    I can’t do that to them, she thought.
    Just this afternoon, though, she’d hit on a solution. Instead of selling the house, she could rent it through an agency, make sure someone knew how to get in touch with her in the event of a miracle. It wasn’t the clean break she’d been fantasizing about—she’d probably have to keep using her own name, for one thing, at least for the rental agreement—but it was a compromise she could live with. Tomorrow morning she’d head down to Century 21 and work out the details.
    She picked up the pace as she neared Lovell Terrace. The sky was dimming, the night settling in on its lazy warm weather schedule. Kevin’s softball game would be over soon—she’d made sure to check the online schedule—and she wanted to be far away from this neighborhood by the time he got back. She had no desire to see him or talk to him, didn’t want to be reminded of what a nice guy he was, or how much she enjoyed his company. There was nothing to be gained from that, not anymore.
    She hesitated for a moment in front of his house. She’d never been there before—she’d made a point of staying away—and was startled by the size of it, a three-story colonial set way back from the street, with a gently sloping lawn big enough for a game of touch football. There was a small arched roof over the front entrance, a bronze mailbox mounted beside the door.
    Come on, she told herself. You can do this .
    She was nervous as she made her way up the driveway and across the stone path that led to the steps. It was one thing to have a fantasy of disappearing, of leaving your friends and family behind, and another thing to go ahead and make it real. Saying goodbye to Kevin was a real thing, the kind of action you couldn’t take back.
    You won’t see me again, she’d written in the letter.
    There was a lantern hanging in the archway, but it wasn’t lit, and the area below it seemed darker than the rest of the world. Nora was so focused on the mailbox that she didn’t notice the bulky object resting on the stoop until she almost tripped right over it. She let out a gasp when she realized what it was, then knelt down for a closer look.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see you there.”
    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.
    “Don’t you have a mommy or daddy?”
    The baby blew a spit bubble.
    “Does anybody know you’re here?”
    Nora glanced around. The street was empty, as silent as a dream.
    “No,” she said, answering her own question. “They wouldn’t just leave you here all by yourself.”
    The car seat doubled as an infant carrier. Out of curiosity, Nora raised the handle and lifted it off the ground. It wasn’t that heavy, no more unwieldy than a bag of groceries.
    Portable, she thought, and the word made her