Fated Convergence

Maeve · Chapter 1 of 12 · 9-minute read

“Soon enough, we’ll be turning that earth for you,” the life insurance salesman says, “just like you’re turning it for those flowers.”

Kneeling in my garden, I don’t even look up, but his shadow blocks the morning sun on my hands in the dirt. The vibrant red geranium petals in my grip suddenly appear dull, the contrast of light and shadow playing havoc with my aging eyes. I focus on the feel of the cool, damp soil between my fingers, the grit under my nails, and the delicate stem of the flower.

“You looking to bury me already?” I say, without looking up, the smile fading before it fully forms. I squint up at him, blinded by the sun as he shifts uncomfortably in his shiny black shoes.

Before I can raise my hand to block the sun, he intentionally moves to put me in shadow again, but now his shoes gleam in the sunlight and blind me from below.

“Um, no, ma’am. I didn’t mean it like that.”

He tugs at the wide lapels of his suit as though he wishes the Florida spring wasn’t so oppressively hot this early in the year or that I was a more enthusiastic target for his sales pitch.

“I just meant—” He kicks at the dirt, scuffing the polished leather of his shoes, a small cloud of dust rising. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“You didn’t.”

The stench of rot clings to the air, mixing with the earthy smell of fertilizer from the nearby feed-and-seed store, and it’s impossible to tell if the decay comes from the soil or something deeper, hidden, and festering just below the surface. The smell stings my nostrils as I scoop a palm-full and nudge it around the base of a second geranium.

He’s not even an amateur at hurting my feelings. He’s still a baby. He can’t be over twenty-five or thirty. Surely younger than Veronica that last time I saw her back in the twenty-first century.

“Please, ma’am, you don’t understand how important it is to leave something behind for your loved ones.”

My breath catches in my throat. I know better than anyone, but I can’t exactly tell him that. I’ve spent the last forty-five years—twelve of them here at the T.Y.M. Casey Archive— writing, acquiring, curating precious books that my daughter will one day use to help lead what’s left of the human race through an extinction event. I’ll never have to see the apocalypse myself because I chose to live out the rest of my days in the past, but Veronica doesn’t have that choice.

“You’ve built this beautiful library, ma’am. You and Mr. Spencer.” His voice takes on a pleading tone that’s not quite sincere. “People come from all over the United States, even as far away as New York City, to look at all the genealogy books you’ve gathered here. If you’ve got debt on this place, then a life insurance policy could pay it off, so the bank doesn’t take it and your family still owns it. Aren’t you worried about losing it?”

If only he knew. No amount of paper or promises could insure what’s already lost. I’m a ghost, walking through these days. All that’s left is the waiting, for time to catch up to me.

Sighing deeply, I backhand a thickening layer of perspiration from my hairline, the salt burning my eyes. I’ve always known I would lose this library. Sometime this year. The day after I die. Nothing Johnny can sell me will stop the future Spencer has seen. Still, I gaze in the distance at the three-story Southern mansion at the top of the slight hill and the gardens I’ve planted with dark red roses and bright red geraniums. The colors seem to vibrate in the sunlight, a testament to the life I’ve built here.

I love this place. I love everything we’ve built here. Even though it will all be underwater one day. The three story half-library half-home where Spencer and I work. The carriage house next to where Spencer and I sleep and cook. The gardens I’ve planted. Eventually, our graves. The pole shift will change everything, but the landscape is the least of it. I wish Veronica could have come back in time to visit us here, to see the beauty we’ve created, to feel the love that went into every book, every flower, every moment.

Tilting my head back—the bones in my neck sound like cereal when cold milk hits it in the bowl—I smile up at Johnny. I’m positive he sees me as an old woman with gray and brown hair and one foot in the grave. If so, he’s not wrong. I’ve spent too much time lately thinking about my own mortality, especially since I had a heart attack a few years ago and had to stop stressing my body with time travel. The doctors in this era have no idea that a woman’s heart attack has different symptoms from a man’s, and they’d angrily sent me home for wasting their time with a bad case of indigestion that wasn’t indigestion after all.

Spencer’s always known how I’ll die, but he’s spared me the details except to say “in my arms.” I wonder sometimes if he’s lied to protect me—or if he fears what knowing the exact moment might do to my sanity. Some nights, I can almost feel it, the closing in of time itself, suffocating me like heavy Florida air before a storm.

But it’s 1972. I’ll be dead within the year. I’ve resigned myself to that, made my peace with it. The universe has a way of balancing things out, and my time is almost up.

“You don’t understand, do you, Johnny?” My voice is gentle, tinged with a profound sadness. “Life is short. Anything I could leave behind will be overcome by time and Nature, and everything I’ve done will be forgotten, even my existence.”

He bites his lower lip, squinting at the old mansion. If he looks closely enough, he’ll notice that it’s shifted on its foundation, the white paint peeling in places, the shutters faded by the relentless Florida sun. It may look fine from a distance or to a casual visitor, but its old bones creak, too, in a way that only a spirit who lives within would know.

“No, ma’am, I don’t understand. If life is that short, then why waste your time planting flowers?”

I chuckle, a low, throaty sound that seems to rumble up from the earth itself. “Because everything withers eventually, Johnny. But it’s not about how long they last—it’s about how beautiful they are in the moment. Even if they bloom for just one day, that single, perfect moment is enough.” I look at the roses, already drooping in the harsh sun, their brief beauty fading faster than they should. They’ll be gone by morning. “Because even if the world ended tomorrow, it’s worth planting them. Even if I died tomorrow, I’d still plant them. It’s what I love to do. It’s what makes life worth living, even in the face of the inevitable.” I pat the soil around the geranium, its red petals swaying gently in the warm breeze carrying the sweet fragrance of the nearby roses.

Johnny shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly at a loss for words. I can feel his eyes on me, trying to understand, to make sense of the old woman kneeling in the dirt, planting flowers as if they were the most important thing in the world. And in a way, they are. Because they represent hope, love, and the unbreakable spirit of life itself. The books I’ve penned for Veronica and left scattered across time for her are my legacy, my gift to the world, even if the world will never know my name. But the roses in my garden are for the only man I’ve ever loved, and the geraniums are just for me.

Johnny clears his throat. “Ma’am, with all due respect,” he starts, his voice strained, “your husband might see things differently. Maybe I could come back next week and talk to both of you?”

He means he thinks my husband will make the decision I won’t, but Johnny’s thinking of proceeds for beneficiaries and a commission for himself. What he will never know is that everything we’re doing here, in the past, is a form of insurance for Veronica, all to help her fulfill her destiny in the future.

I push myself up from the ground with a groan, my knees protesting the movement. I brush the dirt from my hands and fix Johnny with a steady gaze.

“Spencer and I understand insurance better than you realize. We’ve made our choices, and we’re at peace with them.”

He opens his mouth as if to argue, but something in my expression must give him pause. The stubborn tilt of my chin, the steely resolution burning in my eyes—remnants of the fiery spirit that still smolders within despite my frail exterior. He seems to think better of it, swallowing his protests with an audible click of his throat.

“If you change your mind, ma’am, you know where to find me.” His tone is polite but laced with thinly veiled frustration. “I’ll check in with you next week anyway, just to see how you’re doing.” He nods, a bit uncertainly, and reaches into his pocket to pull out a business card.

I take the card from him without looking at it. “Thank you, Johnny. I appreciate your concern.”

I almost feel sorry for him, this bright-eyed boy trying to peddle hope and security to those who know that the future can never be guaranteed. I’m much more of a pushover than my husband. Spencer will have far less patience with platitudes and empty reassurances. He’s run off door-to-door salesmen with his shotgun twice in the past year, the thunderous sound still ringing in my ears like a warning shot. It’s all for show, though—a cantankerous old man guarding his piece of paradise with hollow threats. Spencer may have aged thirty years by his thousands of trips across time, but if he truly wanted to hurt those unlucky enough to be branded as pests or trespassers, he could do it without lifting a finger or raising his gravelly voice.

Johnny turns and strides toward his electric blue Firebird Trans Am, a bright flash of contrast to the lush greenery of the gardens between the house and the seashell-paved parking lot. As he slips behind the wheel, the engine rumbles to life with a powerful growl that seems to shake inside my bones. He backs out of the driveway hastily, tires spitting gravel and broken shells, only narrowly avoiding a collision with a beat-up station wagon with faded simulated wood paneling as it pulls into the visitor parking area.

I watch as Johnny drives away, the morning sun glinting off the polished chrome. A cloud of dust behind him settles on my roses.

Visitors to our secluded home aren’t unusual. The archive’s guise as a quaint genealogy research center attracts its fair share of curious retirees and history buffs. It’s a convenient facade, masking our true purpose: safeguarding knowledge for a future teetering on the brink.

I drape my hand in the air to shield my eyes from the sun. That decrepit station wagon looks achingly familiar, though not out of place amid DeFuniak Springs’ aging fleet of wood-paneled suburban relics. But this one has a deep dent marring the rear fender, the metal chassis crumpled inward like. . .

A strange heaviness smothers my chest, a sensation I haven’t felt since the heart attack that almost took me. I stand, wiping dirt from my hands as the beat-up station wagon pulls into the lot. A shadow falls over my garden, deeper than the sun could cast at this hour.

No. Not now.

My breath catches in my throat. That distinct curvature of buckled steel could belong to only one vehicle.

Yes, that’s undoubtedly⁠—

My vision blurs, and a wave of nausea rolls through me as the station wagon idles in the lot. It shouldn’t be here. Not yet. Not now. But there it is—the harbinger, sitting in the sun, waiting. My heart drums in my chest, my breath coming too fast.

This isn’t how I’d expected Death to come calling.

But it’s here.

And it’s early.

Chapter 2: The Weight of Remembrance →

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