The Leftovers

Ask them.”
    “How can I ask them? They’re not allowed to talk.”
    “I don’t know. Check the website.”
    Rosalie checked the website a lot that winter. She developed a close I.M. friendship—evidently, the vow of silence didn’t extend to electronic communications—with the Director of Public Outreach, a nice woman who answered all her questions and walked her through her doubts and reservations.
    “Her name’s Connie. She used to be a dermatologist.”
    “Really?”
    “She sold her practice and donated the proceeds to the organization. That’s what a lot of people do. It’s not cheap to keep an operation like that afloat.”
    Laurie had read an article about the Guilty Remnant in the local paper, so she knew that there were at least sixty people living in their “compound” on Ginkgo Street, an eight-house subdivision that had been deeded to the organization by the developer, a wealthy man named Troy Vincent, who was now living there as an ordinary member, with no special privileges.
    “What about you?” Laurie asked. “You gonna sell the house?”
    “Not right away. There’s a six-month trial period. I don’t have to make any decisions until then.”
    “That’s smart.”
    Rosalie shook her head, as if amazed by her own boldness. Laurie could see how excited she was now that she’d made the decision to change her life.
    “It’s gonna be weird, wearing white clothes all the time. I kind of wish it was blue or gray or something. I don’t look good in white.”
    “I just can’t believe you’re gonna start smoking.”
    “Ugh.” Rosalie grimaced. She was one of those hard-line nonsmokers, the kind of person who waved her hand frantically in front of her face whenever she got within twenty feet of a lit cigarette. “That’s gonna take some getting used to. But it’s like a sacrament, you know? You have to do it. You don’t have a choice.”
    “Your poor lungs.”
    “We’re not gonna live long enough to get cancer. The Bible says there’s just seven years of Tribulation after the Rapture.”
    “But it wasn’t the Rapture,” Laurie said, as much to herself as to her friend. “Not really.”
    “You should come with me.” Rosalie’s voice was soft and serious. “Maybe we could be roommates or something.”
    “I can’t,” Laurie told her. “I can’t leave my family.”
    Family: She felt bad even saying the word out loud. Rosalie had no family to speak of. She’d been divorced for years and Jen was her only child. She had a mother and stepfather in Michigan, and a sister in Minneapolis, but she didn’t talk to them much.
    “That’s what I figured.” Rosalie gave a small shrug of resignation. “Just thought I’d give it a try.”
    *   *   *
    A WEEK later, Laurie drove Rosalie to Ginkgo Street. It was a beautiful day, full of sunshine and birdsong. The houses looked imposing—sprawling three-story colonials with half-acre lots that probably would have sold for a million dollars or more when they were built.
    “Wow,” she said. “Pretty swanky.”
    “I know.” Rosalie smiled nervously. She was dressed in white and carrying a small suitcase containing mostly underwear and toiletries, plus the scrapbooks she’d spent so much time on. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
    “If you don’t like it, just give me a call. I’ll come get you.”
    “I think I’ll be okay.”
    They walked up the steps of a white house with the word HEADQUARTERS painted over the front door. Laurie wasn’t allowed to enter the building, so she hugged her friend goodbye on the stoop, and then watched as Rosalie was led inside by a woman with a pale, kindly face who may or may not have been Connie, the former dermatologist.
    Almost a year passed before Laurie returned to Ginkgo Street. It was another spring day, a little cooler, not quite as sunny. This time she was the one dressed in white, carrying a small suitcase. It wasn’t very heavy, just underwear, a toothbrush, and an album containing carefully chosen photographs of her family, a short visual history of the people she loved and was leaving behind.
     

Part One
    THREE-YEAR ANNIVERSARY
     

HEROES’ DAY
    IT WAS A GOOD DAY for a parade, sunny and unseasonably warm, the sky a Sunday school cartoon of heaven. Not too long ago, people would have felt the need to make a nervous crack about weather like this— Hey, they’d say, maybe this global warming isn’t such a bad thing after all! —but these days no one