Sisters of Heart and Snow (10 page)

But Mom said she had something very important to give me. Entering my house, she stood nervously behind the couch, brightly striped gift bags held awkwardly in her hands. I hadn't seen her for two years, but she looked as if she'd aged ten, with deep new creases between her brows and at the corners of her mouth. Doing a lot of frowning, but not much laughing. My poor mother. Still, I didn't want to take the gifts. She was supposed to have fought for me. Determined to make this as uncomfortable as possible, I sat down and waited.

Tom swooped in, though, scooped up Mom's bags and enveloped her in one of the big warm Italian-family hugs he gives without reservation. “I'm so glad to meet you!” Tom squeezed my tiny mother. Only his parents had attended our wedding. I waited for her stiffness, for her to step back.

To my surprise, her arms flew up and she squeezed him back. When he stepped away, her eyes were bright. She let out a large sigh and smiled. “I'm happy to meet you, too.”

Was that all she was feeling? No sadness? No apologies? I gulped down the lump in my throat. She could not just waltz back into my life, I thought fiercely. I wanted something—for her to say she regretted what her husband had done. That she had missed me. Anything.

Tom touched my shoulder. “I'll be in the bedroom if you need me,” he whispered, and left.

Mom sat down, playing with the black pocketbook on her lap. She was dressed not in one of her customary Chanel suits, as I'd expected, but in sweatpants and a sweat jacket, the kind of thing she would have worn only while out walking. She stared at the rickety old trunk that served as our coffee table while she spoke. “Your father does not know I'm here,” she said slowly, enunciating each word.

My mouth went dry. “What will you do if he finds out?” Who knew when my father would embark on another crazy whim and force her away? She would comply. She'd shown me that.

Mom smiled wryly and spread her hands out. “It is not your worry. He cannot keep me from seeing you.” She reached into the bag, drawing out a large floppy gift wrapped in pink tissue paper. “I have something for you and Tom, and some things for the baby.” She bowed, as if I were a stranger. Which I was. I made no move to take the package.

“Mom. I don't need anything. We're set.” In fact, we were not, but if I took her gift, I'd be accepting her back into my life. I couldn't handle the disappointment if she left again, not while I was pregnant and vulnerable.

“Please.” In that low light, her irises blended into her pupils. I was looking at a dark reflecting pool.

I took the package and unwrapped it. I knew what it would be as soon as I felt the softness through the paper. It was the wedding ring quilt, repeating interlocked circles of blue and yellow and green. My favorite colors. I ran my hand over the stitching, admiring the tiny stitches that hadn't been touched by a machine.

“I did it by hand,” Mom said. “For you. It will bring good luck.”

“I don't need luck,” I said, still prickly. I felt Quincy move inside my stomach, pressing her tiny hands against my belly button as she flipped upside down. “Tom isn't Dad.”

Her face went still. She took out another package. “And for the baby.”

I unwrapped the other gifts. Knitted green booties, a cap, a soft pink receiving blanket. The booties looked vaguely familiar.

“They were yours.” Mom settled back in the couch and gazed at some spot behind me. “I made them for you.”

My chest felt like it was on fire. This was my mother's apology. Her love letter. She didn't need to use words. All at once I felt how much effort it must have taken for her to come see me, afraid I'd turn her away or be mean to her. I wiped at my eyes. “Thank you.”

We stopped talking then. Only a mantel clock ticked away.

“And some new clothes.” She pointed at the other bag. “Only yellow and green. Good for a boy or girl.”

“It's a girl,” I said.

Something akin to disappointment flickered over her face. “Oh.”

“I'm glad it's a girl,” I said. “I can't wait to raise a girl. She's going to do everything. Whatever she wants.”

“How about Tom?” She nodded toward the door where he'd gone.

“Tom's happy. He says he can do anything with a girl that he could have done with a boy. Take her camping. Play sports.” That had in fact been what Tom had said, but now I desperately wanted him to come out and confirm the story. “Tom!” I shouted.

He came running out as if he'd been waiting on the other side the door, his eyes wide. Those days, every time I called his name, he was afraid I was going into labor. “Are you okay?”

“Tell my mother you want a girl.” I grabbed his hand.

“Of course I want a girl,” he said, his voice laced with puzzlement. He glanced at my mother, her expression as unreadable as a doll's. “What's the question?”

After that, Mom came by sporadically. Always in the daytime and never staying for more than a couple of hours. She couldn't come on Christmas or other holidays; that would make Killian too suspicious.

But she appeared often enough for my children to call her 'Bachan, which means “Grandma” in Japanese. She always had candies in her purse, saltwater taffy and caramels, gooey stuff the kids loved. They were always glad to see her, though mostly Mom just sat on the couch and watched as they played. We never spoke of my father.

M
IYANOKOSHI

S
HINANO
P
ROVINCE

H
ONSHU,
J
APAN

Spring 1160

K
aneto took them to the town of Kiso-Fukushima to buy supplies. They brought along Yoshimori Wada, the nine-year-old son of another local farmer Kaneto had recruited to the cause. “His grandfather was a Minamoto noble,” Kaneto said. “Descended from Emperor Kawa. He is like us. Samurai blood.”

Yoshimori Wada seemed unremarkable to Tomoe. He was barely her height, with a medium build and a placid face on a ball-like head, his straight hair falling into his eyes. He looked like a dull wooden doll. Tomoe greeted him with a small bow when they were introduced, then faded back behind Kaneto so she wouldn't have to talk. She focused instead on walking the horse they had brought to carry the goods back.

Tomoe loved going into town, which she rarely got to do. This town was tiny, only two streets long, but compared with the farm it was a bustling metropolis.

Kaneto paused at a stall where a man sold clothing, asking about woven bamboo body armor. “You may each buy a sweet,” he said, giving them each a Chinese copper. Tomoe grinned. Such a treat was usually reserved for special occasions, like New Year's. This was a noteworthy occasion indeed.

Tomoe and Yoshimori Wada walked slowly to the sweets stall. The two younger boys danced in front of them, kicking up plumes of yellowish-brown dirt in their wake. Tomoe sneezed. “Watch out!” Yoshinaka yelled to the townspeople, doing a high-kick for their benefit. “Minamoto coming through.” Several old people nodded approvingly at him with toothless grins. Tomoe doubted these people would state their support aloud, however.

Tomoe glanced back at her father, expecting a reprimand for the showy display. Kaneto did not turn. It was young Yoshimori Wada who stepped in and clapped Yoshinaka on the back roughly.

“Stop it,” he said sharply. “You are getting dirt in Tomoe's face.”

Yoshinaka glanced back at her, surprised. “She doesn't care if she gets dirty.”

“I care.” Yoshimori Wada put his face next to Yoshinaka's. “You're her brothers. You're supposed to protect her.”

Tomoe stepped forward. “It's all right, Wada-san.”

“Call me Yoshimori.” But he straightened from Yoshinaka.

“I like Wada. Wada-san.” She bowed with a smile. It wasn't polite of her to call him by his family name. Surnames were given as an honor by the emperor, and should not be bandied about so casually. He might have punched anyone else who tried it. But instead Wada's face brightened and blushed. Perhaps he wasn't dull after all, Tomoe thought. Of course, Kaneto would never consent to training a dull boy. Tomoe would watch the boys to make sure they didn't die by their own clumsy hands, and Wada-san would watch after her.

A group of little girls stood in front of the candy vendor. They were merchants' daughters, clad in cotton kimonos of light pinks and yellows, their hands soft and untarnished by heavy work, tall in their wooden
geta
sandals, platforms built on sideways blocks. They looked at Tomoe and giggled.

“Is that a boy or a girl?” one of them asked disdainfully.

“She's as dirty as a boy, and she's with boys,” another girl said.

Tomoe's face burned. But what did she care what these little girls thought? In Japan, merchants were below farmers in society. One day, they would pray for protection from people like her and her family. The real warriors.

Head held high, Tomoe walked up to the sweet vendor. Her mouth watered at the display of multicolored candied fruits and the mochi candies. The air here was sweet. She inhaled and looked over the prices. She had money for the fruit, but not for the mochi, her favorite.

The vendor, an elderly man whose wrinkles nearly pushed his eyes closed, leaned over.

“What would you like, pretty one?”

“One candied loquat, please.” To her left, Tomoe heard the girls continue to chatter about her. Loneliness welled up. She wished she had a girl for a friend. Just one girl, to play dolls or some other nonviolent activity. She had to put Kanehira in a headlock at least once a day to make him behave. She admired the girls' clean
tabi,
the socks worn with their
geta
. They had no dirt beneath their fingernails. She imagined what it would be like to stroll, instead of run, to giggle with friends.

The vendor handed her change. A thought made her heart pound faster; Tomoe bought several candied loquats, golden and juicy, and turned to the girls. “Would you like one?” she asked, holding them out on the palm of her hand.

The girls eyed her with distaste. They said nothing. They turned away.

Then Yoshinaka was there, muscling up alongside her. “Answer Tomoe.”

A girl with catlike eyes wrinkled her nose. “I smell dung and despair. It must be a Minamoto.” The others laughed openly, several little boys joining in as they sensed excitement afoot.

Tomoe stiffened, sure that her young foster brother would retaliate. But Yoshinaka only laughed and stuck one hand into his kimono. “One day you'll wish to be a Minamoto, too, and don't think I won't remember who you are and what you said.” He stared at the girls with an expression that reminded Tomoe of their dog when he was hunting a rabbit. The girl blanched, unwilling to escalate a conflict with the unpredictable Yoshinaka, and wobbled off, her friends following. “You don't bother Tomoe, you hear?”

Wada, as she now thought of him, pulled her backward. “They're not worthy of you, Tomoe,” he said. “Come on, Yoshinaka. Kanehira. Let's find your father.” Linking her arm with his, they left the stall.

“Here.” Kanehira was at her side. He handed her a mochi cake, heavy, filled with candied fruit. This was the most expensive thing at the stall, because of the cost of the rice. Rice was so valuable in Japan that it was even used to pay taxes. Kanehira must have used his whole coin, maybe even two. She glanced at Yoshinaka and saw that he had no treat. Neither did Wada. All three of them had bought this for her. They did not acknowledge her, but kept walking, eyes forward.

These boys were her truest friends. Both by blood and by chance. They were the only ones she could depend upon, who truly understood her. When the world turned against her, they would form a shield.

They came from the same place, after all.

Tomoe knew they did not want thanks; it would embarrass them. Instead she held out the loquats. Each of the boys popped one into his mouth as they went back to locate Kaneto.

 

S
AN
D
IEGO

Present Day

D
rew does wonder, sometimes, what became of the quilt her mother made for her. When she thought she was going to get married, she imagined putting it on their bed. Then her mother tried to give it to her when Drew knew her boyfriend would never marry her. Every time she saw the quilt, she thought of her almost-fiancé. She feels guilty now, thinking of all the work her mother put into it; but getting the quilt then was like receiving a baby outfit after you know you can't get pregnant.

Besides, Drew had never been as close to Hikari as Rachel had been. Drew figured she'd been the boy her father never had—they gave her this unisex name, after her father's father, Andrew—and Killian generally gave Drew whatever she wanted. Maybe her mother had allied more with Rachel as a result.

Drew kept busy in school, with music lessons, gone from before dawn until late at night, and that had seemed to be fine with Hikari. After Rachel got kicked out, Hikari became more withdrawn from the family. Further away from Drew. Instead, her mother spent most of her days sewing in that room downstairs.

“How many quilts can a person make?” Drew asked her mother once, when she was twelve. No one else was home. She felt a vague irritation, seeing her mother so involved in the task. Not involved with her. She stood in the doorway, watching Hikari piece together a crazy quilt. “I mean, we're in California.”

Her mother hadn't even looked up from the sewing machine. “It is for the process, Drew.” She heaved a sigh. “Go someplace else. If you can't find something to do, then practice your music.”

Drew didn't understand what her mother meant by the “process.” She knew only that her mother preferred the company of her buzzing sewing machine to Drew's chatter. Drew didn't want to be alone, playing her viola. She watched her mother sew for another minute.

Hikari stood up, obviously struggling to be patient. “Do you need something?”

Drew shook her head.

“Then go.” Hikari shut the door in her daughter's face.

Drew paused, listening to the machine start up again. She banged on the door. “I hope those quilts keep you warm, when you're old and alone,” she yelled. Her mother hadn't even slowed down the machine. Quite possibly, she hadn't heard.

Still, it wasn't the nicest thing a girl has ever said to her mother. She was acting like Killian, petulant, selfishly angry at the loss of attention.

Drew shakes off the memory.

She pulls up in front of Rachel's house. Rachel lives in a split-level on a hill, with a partial view of Lake Murray. Like all the lakes in San Diego, this is a water reservoir—you can take out slow speedboats or fish from the shores, but not swim. They call it a lake, Drew thinks, looking at the low water level, but it's more like a really big pond. People who live by, say, a really big body of water, like Lake Michigan, would be disappointed.

Rachel and Tom bought this house right after they were married. It's a nice area. Homes built in the 1970s, remodeled and restuccoed and sometimes knocked down and rebuilt. Middle class. Far beyond what Drew can afford in her foreseeable lifetime.

What happened was this: Rachel got knocked up when she was just eighteen, and both of them quit school, so his parents used Tom's college money for the down payment. Tom's a contractor, employed at the company his father started; and it's a case of the shoemaker's kids having no shoes—the house still needs a fair amount of fixing up. The stucco's peeling off and the deck surrounding the house needs to be sanded and stained. Every time Drew visits, Rachel complains about the house, about its various leaks and cracks and termites. It's annoying, Drew thinks. Like somebody complaining about their secure job to someone who's been unemployed for years.

Drew locks the car, following her sister in through the garage, passing through the laundry area. “Sorry the kitchen's a mess,” Rachel calls over her shoulder. FRESH LINENS, a Pottery Barn–type sign proclaims in antique cream. The washer and dryer are cherry red, pristinely clean, with a deep spotless white sink on one side and a white Formica counter on which to fold laundry on the other. Drew, having spent most of her adult life doing laundry in laundromats, is impressed with her sister's attention to tiny details. If Drew ever owns a house, she decides, not a word of complaint about anything, ever, will cross her lips.

Seeing Rachel makes Drew look back on her missed opportunities. Most of the people Drew counted as financially successful now had partnered up early, gotten responsible jobs, and bought a house before the prices shot up out of reach. Or they'd struggled in their twenties, or had a lucky break that let them climb up out of their debt hole. When she was younger, Drew hadn't understood how difficult it could be to attain middle-class-dom. How fast opportunities slipped away.

But Drew also remembers Rachel encouraging her after she finished college and she was thinking about joining Out Stealing Horses. “I just don't know if I can do it,” Drew had said. “What if they make me play the tambourine forever and ever?” It was Thanksgiving, and Drew had stopped by to give the kids matching stuffed turkeys that squawked. (
Thanks,
Rachel said in her cool, polite voice, and Drew knew she'd made a mistake with the noisy toys.) Her parents were taking her out to dinner. “Besides, I see people more talented than I am every day.”

Rachel sighed impatiently. She stood at her kitchen counter—then a broken yellow Formica—mashing potatoes for dinner in a big ceramic bowl with what looked like an entire package of butter. Both toddler Chase and little girl Quincy clung to her legs. “Don't be such a . . .” she glanced at her kids, “frickin' Eeyore.”

“I'm telling the truth.” Drew felt a wash of self-pity. Even though she knew Rachel would tell her to suck it up. Her parents would just look at her uncomprehendingly.
So marry somebody rich and quit chasing that Jonah guy,
Killian would say.

Chase wiped his nose on Rachel's jeans. Rachel grimaced. “Go see Grandma Jean, you guys.” Quincy stood up and grabbed her brother, hauling him off with her. Rachel stopped mashing. “Are you saying you don't know any working musicians who play worse than you?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Drew can name a dozen offhand, and that doesn't include the pop stars who sing off key when they're not autotuned.

“Somebody is always going to be better than you, Drew. That's true for everybody.” Rachel smiled with the kind of benediction Drew craved. “But all I know is when you play, I get goose bumps. And I don't get goose bumps for pretenders. If they won't let you play the viola, you can always quit. Talent doesn't mean anything if you don't use it.”

“What's your talent?” Drew asked curiously, and immediately regretted it. Rachel took it wrong. A shadow fell over her sister's face.

Rachel attacked the potatoes with renewed vigor, fluffing them into mounds that almost looked like whipped cream. “See what I mean?” her sister said. “Talent means nothing if you don't use it. Or lose it.”

•   •   •

Now Drew follows her sister
into the kitchen. The old yellow countertops and decrepit cupboards are gone. The kitchen's been remodeled, expanses of tawny spotted granite with soft spotlights on the big gas stove and farmhouse sink. The large island is covered in letters from school, flyers about bake sales, and library books. The kitchen smells like marinara sauce, tomatoes and basil and garlic, coming from a bubbling Crock-Pot plugged in next to the coffeemaker.

Tom sits at the island, eating a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. “Drew!” He stands up, enfolds her in his arms. “Good to see you.”

“Tom, why are you eating cereal? It's almost six o'clock.” Rachel hangs her purse on a hook by the door. She holds out her hand and Drew gives her her purse, too. She puts the samurai book, in its bag, on the counter.

“If it's good enough for breakfast, it's good enough for dinner.” He takes another bite.

“But I'm making dinner.” Rachel points at the Crock-Pot. “If that was a snake, it would've bit you.”

“Oh. Didn't see it.” Tom shrugs. “Don't worry. This can be a snack. I'll digest this in six seconds, and then I'll eat your spaghetti.”

This makes Rachel smile. “Okay, then.”

Drew sits next to Tom, the stool squeaking. “Six seconds? What's that mean?”

Rachel waves her hand in the air. “It's something Chase used to say when he was a little boy. He'd get full at dinner, and we'd say,
Oh, you better wait a while for dessert
. He'd say,
Don't worry. I digest food in six seconds
.”

Inside joke. “Oh.” Drew wonders what other family-specific sayings they have. She can't remember any that she and Rachel had, from growing up. Maybe it takes a certain kind of family to have those.

She watches her sister bend to kiss Tom, how his hand still grabs the back of Rachel's head to pull her in close. Tom the Steady. She still doesn't know her brother-in-law very well, even after all these years. She knows he's friendly, and that you should never mention foreign cars around him—the man was obsessed with Corvettes and Mustangs and American-made engines. He keeps an old project Corvette in the garage that he'd been working on for the last decade.

“He's so boring,” Drew had said to Rachel after she and Tom first started dating. Drew was fourteen, Rachel eighteen. “A football-watching, American beer–drinking, early-to-bed early-to-rise typical . . . dude.” She trailed off for lack of a more descriptive word. She pointed at Tom's old New Orleans Saints T-shirt that Rachel was wearing as a maternity shirt. “You're going to turn into one of them.”

“One of who?” Rachel asked.

“One of those super-boring suburban PTA moms.” Drew shuddered. “You'll be old before you even have a chance to do anything with your life.” Drew wanted adventure. She wanted to be free of her family. Of all obligations.

“I
am
doing something with my life.” Rachel patted her belly. “Just in a different order than I thought I would. I'll finish college when this one's in school. I'll only be twenty-three.”

Twenty-three seemed ancient. Drew persisted. “Has he ever been in an art museum, or to the symphony? Or does he just watch football and drink beer?”

“Of course.” Rachel's neck got blotchy. She was getting angry. “He's not morally opposed to culture.”

Drew should have backed off, but she kept going. She was kind of prone to doing that. “I think he's just pretending to like the stuff you like,” she said. “Men do that. Then you marry them and you find out that you've been tricked.”

“Where on earth did you get that?” Rachel asked.

Drew stared hard at her. “Um, to begin with, Mom and Dad.” She didn't know this for certain, but she imagined it couldn't have happened any other way. Killian must have pretended to be far nicer than he actually was, for Hikari to agree to marry him.

“Well, Tom's not like that,” Rachel said. “He's the worst liar you'll ever meet. Even white lies. He turns red.”

Remembering this, her naive snobbery, makes a flush creep up to Drew's hairline. She'd followed her own advice for a while. Kept up with Jonah because she thought he was going places, clinging on to him like Yoda clinging on to Luke's back as he did his thing, trying to shoehorn her way into his life and music. Tried out some accountants and engineers, but never clicked with them. Rejected other guys because they were too low on their job totem pole—she wanted someone who was already successful, not somebody who
might be
successful. Because you couldn't count on “might be.”

Now all her friends have children or partners, or both, had moved to the Valley or other distant suburbs. Drew could use a dose of something true and solid in her life. It's worked for Rachel.

Drew leans over to her sister's husband. “Hey, Tom.”

“Hey, Drew.” He leans toward her, too. At forty, he's still got all his hair, and his active job's mostly kept away any middle-aged spread. He's wearing a white T-shirt and faded flannel pajama pants decorated with snowmen. “What's up?”

“Do you know anybody I could, you know, go out with?” Drew leans her elbows on the counter. “Who doesn't drink too much?”

“So the only criteria are sobriety and a pulse. That shouldn't be too hard.” Tom laughs, puts his bowl in the dishwasher.

Rachel shakes her head and pulls off the Crock-Pot lid, stirs the contents. “Drew, you live in L.A. How can you date someone here?”

“I've tapped out the L.A. dating market. I'm too old.” Drew takes a paper napkin out of the chrome holder and folds it diagonally. Her heart pounds. She looks at Tom's kind face and decides what the hell. Just tell the truth. “Besides, my employer kind of quit on me. The shop's closing.” She keeps her gaze on the napkin, folding and refolding it until it forms a crane, or a semblance of one.

Tom clucks sympathetically. “Oh man. That's tough. I'm sorry.”

Rachel drops the Crock-Pot lid with a clang. “Drew! You just told me work was going fine.”

“My work
was
going fine. The business wasn't.” Wetness springs into her eyes and she wipes at them, embarrassed. Rachel purses her lips and puts her hands on her hips. Drew knows what she's thinking. Rachel figured out decades ago that Drew often cried just to get attention, even when she didn't do it on purpose. When she was tiny, Drew would make huge fusses over tiny scrapes, just so Hikari would comfort her. She made up nightmares and monsters when she couldn't sleep, so Rachel would let her sleep with her. And truthfully, Drew's feeling a teensy bit sorry for herself. It'd be nice if someone could put a metaphorical Band-Aid on her. Tom obliges, patting her hand, which only makes Drew even more teary.