Sisters of Heart and Snow (25 page)

“Nothing exciting in it, but be my guest.” Rachel pours out her coffee, puts her mug in the sink.

•   •   •

My stomach hurts.
It's hurt off and on ever since Killian's lawyer e-mailed me, a persistent vague nausea not unlike the feeling I had when I was pregnant, in the early months, when I'd barf if I so much as smelled oatmeal. A lawyer e-mailing me telling me I can't even ask my own father to come to my daughter's wedding—well, that's sure a sign that our relationship is kaput for good, isn't it?

And now, on a Saturday afternoon, I've got this meeting with Quincy's adviser. The professor asked me to come. I don't know why, but I presume that having a meeting on a Saturday when I'm normally not a part of these things can't be good. Tom would have come, but he's finishing up a project that was supposed to be finished last week.

Professor Michelle Murphy's office is in a plain concrete building. I count the doors as I walk down. I'm looking for 214b. Professor Murphy teaches electrical engineering, and Quincy hit it off with her during freshman year.

Quincy is already taking up one of the two guest chairs when I arrive. In the other one, her fiancé Ryan sits. He leans over and cracks a joke that I can't hear, and Professor Murphy laughs, a booming, hearty sound that echoes down the hallway.

“Knock knock.” I lean against the doorframe. Ryan gets up from his chair in front of the desk.

“Mrs. Perrotti. Thank you for coming.” The professor stands up and shakes my hand. She's got short dark hair, no makeup, a kind face. She offers to look for another chair, but Ryan demurs, says he'll stand. So he does, sort of lurking behind us like a member of the Secret Service, and I've got the feeling something important is about to happen.

The office is small, all the walls covered in bookshelves which burst forth with books. I sink into the armchair and try to quell this feeling in my stomach, the acid in my throat. Professor Murphy takes off her reading glasses. “Well, Quincy.” She looks expectantly at my daughter and I realize—Oh. My kid has called this meeting. Not the professor.

Quincy takes in a giant breath and looks at Ryan. He gives her a small nod. She twists a ring around on her finger, white gold with a tiny diamond glinting in the center. Her engagement ring, bought on credit from the Navy Exchange. “There's no easy way to say this.”

Professor Murphy watches my face. She knows what's going on. So does Ryan. Everyone except me. Something about this reminds me of the time Quincy broke a crystal vase when she was about eight years old, playing softball in the house. Tom standing behind her, making her confess.
Mama, I did a bad thing.
“Go ahead,” I say gently. I want to add,
You won't get into trouble if you're honest,
like I did then, but I can't.

“I'm going to take a leave of absence.” Quincy slouches down and twists her ring faster. Won't meet my eyes. “It's too much with the wedding and I want to move in with Ryan.”

I look from Ryan to Quincy and back again, then to Professor Murphy. She nods as if to say she understands. She's got children, too, I remember, about Quincy's age. “You're quitting school?”

Quincy takes Ryan's hand. “No. Not quitting.
Leave of
absence
. I'll come back.”

I'll come back
. I've heard those words before. From my own mouth. I remember telling my history professor I was doing that. He'd been so encouraging—I'd gotten A's in his class.
You have keen insight into relating historical events with current,
he wrote on one paper. I still have it. He'd encouraged me to stay.
It'll be harder later.
I was going to major in history, partly because I loved it (and Killian would have hated it—he'd told me the liberal arts were “useless majors” and I should stick to science or business—but not Drew, with her exceptional talent). Then I told the professor I was pregnant and how it was all too much, too expensive. I'll never forget the look of deep disappointment that flashed across his face, before he controlled it. That made me feel worse than actually quitting school.

Professor Murphy leans over the desk. “I've let Quincy know, and I'll let you know, too, that if she's gone more than just one quarter, she'll have to reapply. If she's gone more than three quarters, she'll have new graduation requirements. That means she'll retake quite a few classes. And with engineering, you know, the curriculum changes quickly.”

I think about all the years Quincy studied math. How she worked day and night on the Lego robotics team in high school. Her science project about green energy making it into the state fair. All the clubs she joined and the advanced placement classes she took. I think about the day she got into UCSD, an e-mail showing up in her inbox. How she whispered, “Let's wait for Dad to get home before I open it.”
It was all worth it,
I thought then.
All that work paid off
. As if by getting accepted, the hard work had been done, and all she'd have to do was show up at UCSD for four years before she got a lucrative job.

I twist my head around to look directly at Ryan now. I don't care if he is a Navy SEAL capable of breaking my neck with his pinkie. The image of Tomoe pops into my head, unbidden. Tomoe pretending to be someone she's not, to please men. Getting attacked at the wedding, how she had to be ready for anything. If I had a samurai sword in my hands right now, there's no telling what I'd do. “What do you have to say, Ryan? Do you agree?” My voice sounds pretty calm. I'm impressed with myself. I'm practically huffing and puffing, as if I'm back in that useless Lamaze class. “Is this what you want her to do? Quit now? She's almost halfway done.”

Ryan shrugs and looks, I have to give him credit, absolutely miserable. He turns Quincy's hand over and kisses it. “You know as well as I do that nobody can tell Quincy what to do. I told her to stay in school.”

I blink. Suddenly, it occurs to me that maybe my daughter is the stubborn one. The one insisting they get married now. And Ryan's just going along with it because he wants to make her happy. “How will you pay rent? Ryan doesn't get the housing allowance and all the benefits until you get married.”

Quincy shakes her head and looks into a corner of the room. “We—I—I was hoping you'd help us out until we got married.”

My heart sinks. As much as I want to help her, I don't think this kind of assistance will benefit anyone. It'll be like she's playing house. Not facing real-life consequences for her choices. “Quincy, your father and I won't pay for you shacking up with Ryan. Especially if you're not even in school.”

“Shacking up? He's going to be my husband.” Quincy, finding something to be angry about, to take the focus off herself, flares.

Wrong word choice. I hold up my hands and look at Professor Murphy in desperation. She shakes her head slightly as if she, too, has given up. I also notice she didn't answer my question. Which probably means she doesn't have a really great answer. “Well, you'll be a married adult, and therefore we won't help you financially.”

“I will get a job. Don't worry about it.” Quincy stands up. “I knew you were going to be like this. Why can't you support me?”

“I always support you, Quincy.” I remain sitting. Keep my voice calm.

Quincy puts her purse over her shoulder, the Coach bag I got her for Christmas last year. “You know what? I didn't even want to be an engineering major. You made me.”

“You chose, Quincy. You're an adult.” She's off the rails.

“This is true,” Quincy says calmly. “That's why I'm wondering why you need to be here. It's my decision.”

Both Ryan and the professor look at me solemnly. I take another breath. “Honey. Look here. Let's talk about this tomorrow. Sleep on it.”

“There's nothing to talk about.” She turns to Ryan. “Let's go.” Quincy offers her hand to Professor Murphy. “Thank you for everything. I appreciate it. Come on, Ryan. Mother, I'll talk to you later.” She leaves, Ryan in tow.

I watch her leave. I can't do a thing. “What would you do?”

Professor Murphy smiles sympathetically. “I don't know. I don't know. Just hope for the best, I suppose.”

I put my chin on my hand, thinking of Tomoe Gozen. What would she do? She would have done whatever her father told her, that's for sure. I stand up and thank her and I dash into the hallway, hoping to catch Quincy, really talk to her. As if I could get through on my umpteenth try. They're already gone.

M
IYANOKOSHI
F
ORTRESS

S
HINANO
P
ROVINCE

H
ONSHU,
J
APAN

Summer 1177

T
omoe sat in the dirt courtyard of the fortress and waited, shielding her eyes against the warming morning August sun with one hand. A dozen farmers had appeared so far for their training session. New ragtag soldiers that Kanehira had recruited from the surrounding area.

There were two ways to become a samurai. During times of peace, one had to be born into a samurai family. At other times, as needed, farmers could volunteer as soldiers, and a few of the best might become samurai.

Kanehira stood in the center of the courtyard, his sword already strapped on, his back to her. He didn't want her there. He wanted her to stay inside with Yamabuki and make him his dinner. But Yoshinaka had asked Tomoe to help, and so her brother could say nothing.

Yoshinaka at last emerged from Yamabuki's house, his face flushed, his chest bare. He wore only short underpants. Tomoe swallowed. It was obvious what he'd been doing. Even while the girl was pregnant, Tomoe thought. He had not been to see Tomoe like that in a month or more. Yoshinaka could see whomever he pleased, legal wife or concubine or dance house girl. Yet if Tomoe sought solace with another man, she'd be outcast. The farmers chuckled among themselves, whispered about Yoshinaka's prowess. Tomoe watched for the door to close again, but it did not.

Yoshinaka tossed a sword to Tomoe, spinning it through the air. He intended it to land at her feet, but Tomoe stepped forward, caught it by the handle. The farmers gasped and went quiet.

“Let me be clear,” Tomoe said, “that is not the proper way to handle a sword.” Why couldn't Yoshinaka be a little more circumspect in how he did things, a little less . . . Yoshinaka-like? She held the sword tightly. Why weren't they going to use the wooden practice swords?

Yoshinaka ignored her gibe. He tilted his head back to the sun. Practically beat on his chest like a monkey. “Ah.” He grinned. “Nothing like a good lay to begin the day.” He winked at Tomoe. The farmers chuckled again. Tomoe's face heated.

Yoshinaka surveyed the dusty farmers, who gripped their farm tools. “Before you earn your swords,” he said, “you must prove yourself. All of you. Come at her at once. With your rakes or whatever you have. Go ahead.”

Tomoe glared at Yoshinaka. He was insane. Did he want her to kill all the farmers?

The farmers hesitated for a moment, then one ran up to her with a shout, a shovel swinging toward her. She sidestepped him, tripped him, and kicked the shovel away.

“If you're disarmed, you're out,” Yoshinaka shouted, his hands on his knees.

Now the other farmers raced toward her, their sorry implements held aloft. She blocked each one in turn, careful not to stab any of them. They were slow and unsure, either firmly middle-aged or so youthful they still looked like twigs. She broke the wooden handles of their tools, shoved the men away with her foot as though they were overlarge gnats. She felt sorry for them. Surely they'd all perish in the next battle, whether or not they had swords. Yoshinaka would take on anyone.

“Ha!” Yoshinaka clapped his hands. “Now that Tomoe has properly humiliated you, the real training can begin.” He snapped his fingers. Kanehira gestured. The men followed him.

“Yoshi,” a female voice called. Yamabuki appeared on her porch. She slipped her feet into her sandals and walked, swaying gently, over to Yoshinaka. Her long straight hair smooth as a doll's. She touched Yoshinaka's arm. “Please. Do not have Tomoe fight. She is my attendant now.”

Yoshinaka's brows furrowed, torn between wanting to please Yamabuki and not wanting to appear weak.

Tomoe pointed the sword down into the dirt, breathing heavily. Yamabuki intended to own her, body and soul. “I can do both.”

Yamabuki narrowed her eyes. She slipped her arm through Yoshinaka's. “Nobody can be the servant of two masters.”

“I am the servant of one,” Tomoe said. “Yoshinaka.”

“Then I want to learn how to fight, too!” A dagger appeared in her hand. “I've already done well once.” She approached Tomoe, her belly unwieldy.

Yoshinaka grabbed his wife from behind. “Don't be ridiculous. You're pregnant. Go rest.”

“You always tell me to stay inside,” Yamabuki shouted. “Both of you.” The woman broke into hysterical sobs, wrenching away from Yoshinaka. She sank to her knees, wailing.

Yoshinaka looked at Yamabuki helplessly. He'd never seen a woman carry on so, Tomoe thought. Neither had she. She strode over to Yamabuki and slapped her soundly across the cheek.

Yamabuki stopped wailing. Tomoe glared down at her. A red welt appeared on her pale face. “You ungrateful brat.” She'd helped Yamabuki so much. Made sure she got sunshine when she was depressed. Helped her with the most mundane tasks. Apparently all she'd been doing was feeding Yamabuki's ego. “Get up and fight me, then,” Tomoe said. Yamabuki wouldn't do it. “You cannot take the pain.”

But Yamabuki launched herself up toward Tomoe. She caught Tomoe in the chin; Tomoe bit her tongue, tasting blood. Tears blinded her. The woman windmilled her arms furiously at Tomoe. Tomoe caught one arm in each of her hands and held them still, as though a toddler had attacked.

The two women stared at each other for a moment. Then Yamabuki's face crumpled like a wet origami crane. She went limp. Tomoe released her. The woman's wrists were as red as if rope had been tied around them.

“Leave me alone,” Yamabuki whispered. She swallowed. “I thought you were my sister.”

Anger flickered up again. “And I thought you were mine.”

Yoshinaka put his arm around Yamabuki. “Go back into the house now, Yamabuki.”

Yamabuki erupted into tears again, burying her face in Yoshinaka's chest. He stroked her back soothingly. No comfort for Tomoe, she thought with some bitterness. Nothing but crumbs. She turned and walked away.