The Leftovers

barely hear the words. “Don’t be mean to her.”
    “I’m not being mean.” Gary’s expression softened a little. “I just can’t stand to see her like this. Not today.”
    He gave his ex-fiancée a wide berth as he headed toward the house, as if he thought she might try to attack him, or at least block his way. Gina hesitated just long enough to shrug an apology, then set off after him. Neither one of them paid the slightest attention to Laurie as they trudged up the front steps, not a word, not even a glance in her direction.
    After Gary and Gina went inside, Laurie lit a cigarette and headed across the lawn to join Meg, who was still standing with her back to the house, staring at the Lexus as if she were thinking about buying it. Laurie held out the cigarette, and Meg took it, sniffling quietly as she brought it to her lips. Laurie wished she could say a few words— Nice going, or Good job— to let Meg know how proud she was. But all she did was pat her on the shoulder, just once, very gently. She hoped that was enough.
    *   *   *
    NORA HADN’T planned on going for a long ride. She was supposed to arrive at her mother’s between one and two in the afternoon, a timetable that only allowed for a fifteen- or twenty-mile spin, half her usual distance, but hopefully enough to clear her head and get her heart pumping, maybe even burn off a few calories before the big meal. Besides, it was freezing, only in the mid-twenties according to the thermometer outside her kitchen window, hardly ideal conditions for a strenuous workout.
    But the cold turned out to be less of an impediment than she’d anticipated. The sun was out, the roads were clear—snow and ice were the real dealbreakers for winter riding—and the wind wasn’t all that stiff. She had high-tech gloves, neoprene shoe covers, and a polypropylene hood beneath her helmet. Only her face was exposed to the elements, and she could live with that.
    She figured she’d turn around at the eight-mile mark, halfway out on the bike path, but when she got there she just kept going. It felt too good to be on the move, the pedals rising and falling beneath her feet, white vapor steaming from her mouth. So what if she was a little late to her mother’s? There would be a big crowd—all her siblings and their families, some aunts and uncles and cousins—and they wouldn’t even miss her. If anything, they’d be relieved. Without Nora around, they could laugh and open presents and compliment everyone else’s kids without wondering if they’d inadvertently said something to hurt her feelings, without giving her those sad, knowing glances or making those tragic little sighs.
    That was what made the holidays so exhausting. Not the callousness of her relatives, their inability to acknowledge her suffering, but precisely the opposite—their inability to forget it for even a second. They were always tiptoeing around her, so careful and considerate, so painfully sympathetic, as if she were dying of cancer or afflicted with some disfiguring disease, like her mother’s aunt May—a pitiful figure from Nora’s own childhood—whose face had been paralyzed into a permanent crooked grimace by Bell’s palsy.
    Be nice to Aunt May, her mother used to tell her. She’s not a monster.
    The dicey stretch of path beyond Route 23 was nearly empty today, no creeps or stray dogs in sight, no animal sacrifices or criminal activity, just the occasional rider traveling in the opposite direction, tossing her a comradely wave as they passed. It would have been close to idyllic if she hadn’t had to pee so badly. During the warmer months, the county maintained a Porta-John at the end of the path—it was gross, barely tolerable in a pinch—but they took it away for the winter. Nora wasn’t a big fan of squatting in the woods, especially when there wasn’t a lot of greenery around to block the view, but there were days when you had no choice, and today was one of them. At least she found a Kleenex in the pocket of her windbreaker.
    Before getting back on her bike, she dialed Karen’s cell phone and was relieved to be sent straight to voice mail. Like a kid playing hooky, she coughed once or twice, then spoke in an artificially congested voice. She said she was feeling a little worse than before and didn’t think it would be a good idea to leave the house, especially since whatever she had might be catching.
    “I’m gonna make some tea and get back into bed,” she