The Fear We Tend

A small rambler sits on a large plot of land in a tiny town far away from other people. On the mailbox at the very end of the dirt road leading to the rambler are two names, chipped and written in sloppy cursive: Cecilia and Maeve. Mother and daughter, respectfully.

Cecilia is, to her core, a mother. She nurtures, protects, tends to. She’s been this way for as long as she can remember.

Maeve is seventeen and on the precipice of her life. Homeschooled with ten other kids, she’s learned everything she can from them, the town, and her mother. She stands at the ledge of life, looking out and away, ready to test her wings.

“Mom?” Maeve calls from the front porch. Cecilia isn’t in her usual chair. The faded swinging bench is also empty. Maeve walks over to the railing where a mug of black coffee sits. She cups her hands around the sides. It’s still warm. She looks out into the yard. A thwump in the distance catches her attention. She turns her head to the side of the house where their vegetable garden grows.

Shading her eyes against the morning sun as she makes her way over, she sees her mother. Cecilia is kneeling in the earth, plunging a hoe beneath a stubborn weed, leveraging it out, and dropping it into a bag. She’s wearing her floppy sunhat and gardening gloves. The knees of her pants are damp and covered in dirt. It’s early summer, the days are getting longer, and the sun is warm and golden.

“Hey, Mama,” Maeve says, crouching beside her mother.

“Hi, Mae.” Cecilia sits back, looking at her daughter, her only child.

“It’s kind of early for weeding, isn’t it? You left your coffee on the porch.”

“Oh, right,” Cecilia says, furrowing her brow. “I just needed to move, I guess. These weeds are growing like crazy right now.” She plunges the hoe back into the dirt.

“I wanted to see if you’ve thought anymore about my idea?”

Cecilia’s hands pause for a moment, one on a weed and the other on the hoe. She rips the weed out, then answers: “No, I haven’t. But you know how I feel about it.”

“I know you don’t want me to go.” Maeve twirls a blade of grass around her finger. “But you could come with me.”

At this, Cecilia stops. She gathers up the bag of weeds and stands, brushing dirt from her knees. Maeve stands too, watching her mother closely. They walk together to the porch. Cecilia takes off her gardening gloves and sunhat and picks up her still-warm coffee.

“Can we at least talk about it?” Maeve asks from where she hovers on the porch steps.

Cecilia regards her daughter. Honey eyes and dark hair, curling in the same pattern as her father’s. She cracks her knuckles when she’s thinking, like him. Her smile is lopsided, like his. Her curiosity matches his in every way: steady and insatiable.

A mother is always thinking, worrying, anticipating. But a single mother is doing so on double time.

“Sure, baby. What about exactly?” Cecilia sits on the swinging bench and pats the cushion next to her.

Maeve sits down, tucking one foot up and turning toward her mother.

“I’ve been doing a lot of research, and I’ve planned all my stops. I know where I’ll stay, and I already have a check-up scheduled down at Chuck’s to make sure the car is running well. It’s a long drive, but there are some really cool national parks along the way. You can write from anywhere. I’d–” Maeve looks down at her hands and then up at her mother. “I’d really like for you to come. It would be special to see Dad’s hometown with you. Where you guys met.”

Cecilia can’t look her daughter in the eye, so she takes a long drink of coffee and focuses on the yard instead. She remembers when she first saw this house. Maeve was nine months old. The porch was falling apart. The grass was a foot high, and the fence was rotting. You’d never know today. She’d hammered every nail, mowed every blade of grass, painted every brushstroke to turn this devastated house into a well-loved home.

“You’ve worked hard, Mae. I’m proud of you. You’re so resourceful and brave.” Cecilia finally turns to her daughter and gives her a small smile. “You have a wonderful plan, but my feelings haven’t changed. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why, though? I’ll be really careful. I’m being really careful.”

“It’s a road trip across the country. No matter how much you plan, there’s so much that could go wrong. You’ll be–.” Cecilia shakes her head. “You’ll encounter so many people. Many more than you’ve ever known and people very different from the ones we know here.”

“But weren’t these people new to us at one point, too?” Maeve gestures in the general direction of town. “You said you didn’t know anyone when we moved here.”

“Yes, but that’s different. This town barely has a hundred people in it. It’s technically a village.” Cecilia stands up and walks into the kitchen, Maeve following closely behind.

“Oh my god, you’re really going to pull a technicality? There could have been terrible people in this village when we got here. They could have shunned you or left you to figure everything out on your own, but instead, they supported you. They babysat me so you could start your freelance writing, and they loaned you tools, and you started a homeschool co-op with them! Maybe everywhere I go, I’ll meet more people like that. Maybe you could meet more people like that.”

Cecilia leans back against the kitchen counter, resting her hands on either side of her hips. “I got lucky. I’m not sure luck like that stretches across the country.”

Maeve cracks her knuckles before crossing her arms. She’s standing directly across from Cecilia. A patch of sunlight through the kitchen window illuminates her hair, making the faint red she inherited from her father glow.

“And what about Dad’s hometown? What about my grandparents? I’ve never met them. They send cards, and I know they’ve tried to call.”

“You’ve talked to them a few times. And you’re welcome to call them anytime.”

“It’s not the same, and you know it.”

“Mae, I’m not saying you can’t go. You’ll be eighteen in a week. I wouldn’t be able to stop you even if I wanted to. I’m just saying I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

She watches her daughter deflate at her words. “And you won’t come with me. That’s the thing you’re not saying.”

Cecilia swallows. She takes a steadying breath. “No, I won’t come with you.”

They look at each other for a moment, then Maeve turns on her heel and walks outside.

Cecilia carries on. She tends to her garden. She finishes an article she’s on deadline for and sends it to the editor. She prepares a casserole for Jodie, the neighbor who just had a baby. Tasks are completed, time moves, and yet Cecilia is somewhere else. She’s replaying her conversation with Maeve. She’s wondering for the millionth time if she’s doing it all wrong.

The screen door squeaks and she pops her head over, hoping to see Maeve. But it’s Libby.

“Hiya, it’s me!”

“Hey Libs, I’m in the kitchen.”

Cecilia wipes her hands on a kitchen towel and hugs her friend.

“I’m just cleaning up. I made a casserole for Jodie. Want some tea, water?”

“No thanks.” Libby shakes her head. “Thank you for reminding me – I meant to do a grocery run for her today.”

They sit next to each other at the kitchen island.

“You probably guessed, but Maeve has been at our house today. She and Zoey are talking about her road trip.”

“I figured as much. She and I had… a tense conversation this morning. I hope she comes home tonight.”

“Well, if not, you know she’s at our house.” Libby tucks a strand of dark blonde hair behind her ear. “So, how are you feeling about this road trip anyway? Mae seems pretty excited.”

Cecilia exhales and gathers her dark hair into a messy bun. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. But I’ve told Mae I won’t stop her.” Cecilia pauses. “She wants me to come with her.”

“And you don’t want to go?”

“I can’t, Libby. You know that.”

Libby nods slowly and presses her lips together, thinking. “You haven’t left this town in a long time, Cece.”

“Why would I leave? I have everything I need here. Friends, community, groceries.”

“Listen, I love this town as much as the next person, but even I know it’s too small to be someone’s whole world. Maeve certainly feels that. It’s lovely that she wants to see what’s out there, see her dad’s hometown, and she wants you to come with her. Most teenagers don’t want anything to do with their parents. I know Zoey can’t wait to get out of here.”

“I can’t face the world, Libby. It’s too– I just can’t do it.” Cecilia shakes her head and looks away from her friend.

After a pause, Libby quietly asks, “Does Maeve know the full story? About her dad? Maybe if she did she’d understand why you don’t want to go with her.”

“She knows he died when she was a baby, before we moved here. She knows it was an accident. She always assumed that meant car accident, and I never corrected her.”

Libby sighs. “It’s your choice, honey. She’s your daughter. You decide what’s best. But I think she’s old enough to know the truth.” She lightly rubs Cecilia’s arm.

“Now, I’ve been meaning to ask you about tomatoes. Mine just won’t grow, and I can’t figure out why. Can you show me your magic in the garden?”

That got a smile out of Cecilia. “Sure, let’s go.”

Later, the sun is setting, dinner is put away, and Cecilia is trying to read a book. She rereads the same page several times, half paying attention, half listening for the sound of car tires on dirt. She hears it finally, and a few minutes later Maeve sits down beside Cecilia on the couch.

“How’s Zoey?”

“Good.”

“Dinner is in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

“Thanks. I ate at Zoey’s.”

Cecilia puts her book on the coffee table and turns toward her daughter.

“Mae, I want to tell you more about your dad. About how he died.”

Maeve looks at her warily. “What do you mean? You said he died in a car accident.”

“I said he died in an accident, yes. But not a car accident. It wasn’t an accident at all, actually. It was on purpose but not his fault or choice.”

Maeve adjusts, furrowing her brow and crossing her arms. “What are you talking about?”

Cecilia takes a deep breath. She hasn’t spoken these words aloud, or even thought them, in many years. They stick in her throat, raw and clawing.

“You were four months old. We needed diapers. It was late in the evening. I was so tired.” She shakes her head and looks down at her hands. “Your dad was too, but he said he would run to the store so I could sleep. He grabbed the keys, kissed you on your head, right here.” Cecilia lightly taps Maeve’s forehead.

“He said, ‘I love you. I’ll be back–.’” Cecilia’s voice catches. “‘I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.’ I fell asleep. When I woke up it was dark, and I’d been asleep for two hours. Your dad wasn’t home. I was confused at first, then relieved that you were still sleeping, then worried. I called him over and over and it kept going straight to voicemail.”

Cecilia puts her hand on her chest, feeling her heart race as her stomach drops at the memory.

“Someone walked into the store, the same one we’d been to a hundred times, and killed nine people. Your dad was one of them. It was senseless. To this day, I can’t make it make sense. The most benign task, the simplest thing. He was supposed to be gone for fifteen minutes.” Cecilia’s eyes burn. She sees her husband’s honey eyes in their daughter move from shock to sadness.

“I don’t know what to say. I– I don’t understand,” Maeve manages before her words cut off.

Cecilia scoots over to her daughter and holds her, feeling her shirt dampen with tears.

“I don’t either, honey. I’ll never understand.”

They sit like that, mother and child. Cecilia watches the shadows grow on the wall. In that moment, she’s in two places: she’s holding her infant daughter as she sleeps, wailing quietly despite feeling like her heart has been ripped from of her chest and crushed; and she’s holding her teenage daughter as she cries, quietly letting tears fall into her dark curls and feeling her heart’s fragile stitches coming apart. Time folds together as the two moments meet.

After a long while, Maeve asks, “How did we end up here? In this town?”

Cecilia wipes her face with the heels of her hands. “I needed to escape. I just– I just became so fearful of people, of strangers. Everywhere felt dangerous, but especially the most mundane places. I couldn’t go to the grocery store. I couldn’t go anywhere. So, I sold everything, packed us up in the car, and drove away. I landed here because it was so small. I felt like if I could know everyone, see everyone in a way, then I could keep us safe.”

“What about my grandparents?”

“My parents died before you were born, as you know. Emmett’s parents – I mean your dad’s parents – they are lovely people. They were grieving but wanted to help us. I just couldn’t look at them. I only saw him in their faces and grief in their eyes and every time they called or came around I felt like I was going to drown from it all.”

Maeve nods. Quietly, she says, “I wish I could have known him,” and it rips another fragile stitch from Cecilia’s heart. “You’ve always said we look alike. Was that hard for you? Is it hard for you?”

“It was at first. But now I’m just grateful. I get to keep the very best parts of him in you,” Cecilia says, smiling and stroking her daughter’s hair.

Maeve looks at Cecilia through her lashes. “So is that why you don’t want to go with me on this trip? You’re afraid?”

Yes. Cecilia is afraid. She’s been afraid for seventeen years. From the moment a police officer said her worst fears aloud, fear became a companion. At first it was demanding and loud. Eventually, with every passing marker of time, it grew quieter. Now, it follows her, but at a distance. Now, perhaps, it’s small enough that she could bring it along and it wouldn’t take up so much space.

Cecilia is, to her core, a mother. She nurtures, protects, tends to. She’s been this way for as long as she can remember. And right now, looking at her daughter’s face, seeing her husband’s echo, she knows it’s time to nurture her child in a new way.

“I am afraid, yes. But that fear is mine to carry, not yours. I’ll come with you. I would like to come with you.”

A week later, on Maeve’s eighteenth birthday, mother and daughter drive away from their small rambler on a large plot of land in a tiny town far away from other people. They drive past their mailbox with their names, chipped and written in sloppy cursive. Cecilia sits in the passenger seat, worried and uncertain, but smiling. Maeve turns the wheel on to the road out of town, spreading her wings.