The Leftovers

her expression, a premature wisdom that seemed heartbreaking in such an innocent face. The girl—she was a thumb-sucking beauty with a wild tangle of dark hair—stared at Nora with such solemn curiosity that Nora stopped and stared right back, probably for a little too long.
    “Can I help you?” her father asked, glancing up from his BlackBerry. He was around forty, gray-haired but fit-looking in a rumpled business suit.
    “You have a lovely daughter,” Nora told him. “You should treasure her.”
    The man placed his hand protectively on his daughter’s head.
    “I do,” he replied a bit grudgingly.
    “I’m happy for you,” Nora said. And then she walked away, before she had a chance to add anything that would upset him or ruin her own day, the way she had too many times in the past.
    *   *   *
    THE FEEL Better Store had an interesting motto—Everything You Need for the Rest of Your Life—but it turned out to be one of those yuppie emporia specializing in self-indulgent products for people who had way too much to begin with, things like heated slippers and bathroom scales that offered hearty personalized congratulations when you met your weight-loss goals and constructive personalized criticism when you didn’t. Even so, Nora made a long, slow journey through the interior, examining the hand-cranked emergency radios, programmable pillows, and noiseless nose-hair trimmers, appreciating the pleasantly austere environment—New Age soundscapes instead of Christmas carols—and the advanced age of the clientele. No beautiful little kids staring at you in the Feel Better Store, just middle-aged men and women nodding politely to one another as they loaded up on towel warmers and high-tech wine accessories.
    She didn’t notice the chair until she was on her way out. It occupied its own dim corner of the showroom, an ordinary-looking brown leather recliner resting like a throne on a low, carpeted pedestal, bathed in the soft glow of an overhead light. She wandered over for a closer look and was startled to discover that it cost nearly ten thousand dollars.
    “It’s worth it,” the salesman told her. He had sidled up and spoken before she even realized he was there. “That’s the best chair in the world.”
    “It better be,” Nora said with a laugh.
    The salesman nodded thoughtfully. He was a shaggy-haired, youngish guy in an expensive suit, the kind of suit you didn’t expect to see on someone who worked at the mall. He leaned forward, as if to tell her a secret.
    “It’s a massage chair,” he said. “You like massages?”
    Nora frowned—this was a complicated question. She used to love massages. She’d had a standing twice-a-month Integrative Bodywork appointment with Arno, a squat Austrian genius who worked out of the spa in her health club. An hour with him, and it didn’t matter what ailed her—PMS, bad knee, mediocre marriage—she felt reborn, able to meet the world with positive energy and an open heart. She’d tried going back to him about a year ago, but found that she could no longer stand to be touched so intimately.
    “They’re okay,” she replied.
    The salesman smiled and gestured toward the chair.
    “Try it,” he said. “You can thank me later.”
    *   *   *
    NORA WAS alarmed at first, the way the headrest lurched so violently into motion, the hard rubber balls—or whatever they were—swirling up against the soft leather upholstery, digging into the knotty muscles surrounding her spine, grabby fingerlike devices pinching at her neck and shoulders. The vibrating seat cushion was undulating indecently, shooting warm, intermittent pulses of electricity into her butt and thighs. It was all too much until the salesman showed her how to work the control pad. She experimented with the settings—speed, temperature, intensity—until she hit upon the optimal combination, then cranked up the leg rest, closed her eyes, and surrendered.
    “Pretty nice, huh?” the salesman observed.
    “Mmmm,” Nora agreed.
    “Bet you didn’t realize how tense you were. This is a stressful time of year.” When she didn’t reply, he added, “Take your time. Ten minutes of this and you’ll be as good as new.”
    Whatever, Nora thought, too pleased by the chair to be irritated by the man’s presumption. It really was a remarkable piece of equipment, unlike anything she’d ever tried before. In a normal massage, what you experienced was a slightly alarming sense of being pressed