Sisters of Heart and Snow (6 page)

Drew's heart constricted. Her mind flew to what she'd do if he didn't pay tuition. “I'm sorry. I was busy,” she said lamely. “I have to practice a lot.”

Hikari sighed. “Just come. Two hours on Christmas. Your father will be happy.”

What about you?
Drew had wanted to ask, but was afraid to. She might not like the answer.

So Drew had gone over there, figuring a couple of hours making small talk with Killian and Hikari was better than forgoing a degree. After college, she continued to come home at Christmas, without fail. It wouldn't kill her, she thought every year.

“You don't have to go every time,” her ex-boyfriend Jonah said to her once a few years ago. “They're your parents, but look at how they treat you. You don't owe them anything.”

Drew thought about it, how Jonah blew off his family because he'd gotten a more fun vacation offer, or thought his uber-conservative mother talked politics too much (though, Drew pointed out to him, his mother tolerated his liberal views without kicking him out). After she was out of college, she had no compelling tangible reason to go. “They're my family,” was all she could think of to say. “I'm here and alive. Don't I owe them something?”

Drew taps her hands on the steering wheel. She tried all night to think of what book Rachel could be talking about, but she had no memory of it. Now the curiosity's eating away at her.

This home of Drew and Rachel's childhood is on a hill in La Jolla, a wealthy community north of San Diego, the houses on this hillside large and worth millions. This was not a separate city from San Diego, though the residents have tried to secede several times. Across the street, the trees that once blocked the house's ocean view have been cut down. The trees were Torrey pines, a rare and protected type of tree that grows only in certain coastal areas. The trees must have become diseased—it's the only way to have them legally cut down. That was another thing her father tried to do for years: have those “infernal trees removed.” Drew wouldn't be surprised if her father had planted some kind of destructive beetle on them, just so he could claim the trees were compromised.

Killian has been known to skirt the law to get what he wants. During one Christmas visit, Killian told Drew to go in his office and get his checkbook, so he could write her the gift check. On top of a stack of letters, she'd seen a notice from Killian's lawyer regarding the FCC investigating a company called Himalaya Telecommunications, which was owned by a company that was owned by a trust, which was owned by Killian. Drew stopped breathing—she'd seen Himalaya on the news—they'd roped phone subscribers into illegal contracts, charging them exorbitant fees. The upshot was that Killian had protected himself with layers of trusts and shell companies, enabling him to keep his money while preventing people from collecting.

If it wasn't cloudy, even at four o'clock, Drew would be able to see the ocean. October is actually a great time of year to go to the beach in San Diego—few tourists, warm water.

Liza's big message to Drew was that her cruise was taking longer than she thought. Drew asked her if she was okay, if she needed any help, and finally, bluntly, “You know there's not enough to cover rent.”

Liza shrugged, or Drew imagined she shrugged. Drew couldn't see her through the phone, obviously. “You know what, the business hasn't been profitable for a while. Give the keys back to the owner. I'll mail you your last check.”

And then Drew should have shouted at Liza, told her off for being so flippant with someone else's life. It shouldn't have surprised Drew. An employer who made Drew look like a sensible far-thinking thrifty person was definitely not someone Drew should have trusted. Berating Liza wasn't worth it—she'd just hang up. Drew's got enough in the bank, thanks to a few music jobs, to cover herself for a couple of weeks. And she could always ask her father for money. She hates doing that—has eaten ramen for days and sold her television to avoid it in the past—but the reality is that her father doesn't miss it any more than she'd miss pocket lint.

Drew still has a key to his house. She could just walk in without Rachel and look for the book. Her mother, still legally married to Killian Snow, has the right to get her stuff out of the house, does she not? Especially because Rachel has power of attorney.

Drew shifts on the leather seat, her backside sticking uncomfortably to the upholstery. Power of attorney is number fifty or so on a long laundry list of the reasons why Rachel and Killian are still bitter toward each other.

To outsiders, Killian Snow seemed like a genial, gentle man. With his cheerful baritone and big teddy-bear build, Killian charmed everyone who met him. He'd played high school football and skipped college, starting a business providing window glass to high rises, as well as many other investments they didn't really know the details about, like that telecommunications company. He was one of those guys who could sit down with a stranger in a bar and come away invited to the family reunion. Someone people didn't believe could do any wrong. “Your dad's so charming,” Drew's friends would tell her. “That's because he's a white-collar grifter,” she always wanted to reply, but of course did not. To his family, he was someone else. It was like he erected a new and happy public face every day that slowly crumbled into dust by the time he got home, revealing his true nature.

The earliest memory Drew has of her father is from when she was maybe three years old. Rachel was seven. Drew asked her father if Santa would bring her Spanish Barbie, a doll with a swirling red flamenco skirt and long brown curls.

“Nah. Santa's going to bring you a lump of coal,” Killian said, his eyes twinkling.

Drew began to cry. Back then, she'd believed everything her father told her. “I don't want coal.”

Killian turned the page of his newspaper. “Well, that's all you're going to get. A big lump of coal.”

Drew tried to remember what she'd done that was so bad. She couldn't think of anything. “But I've been good.”

Now Killian was unable to back away from the narrative he'd started. Never, not at anyone's expense, could her father cut his own pride. Never could he admit he was wrong. “That's how Santa works, Drew. What can I tell you?”

Her big sister, Rachel, reading a book across the room, put her book down. “That's mean,” Rachel said quietly. “You shouldn't make her cry.”

Killian looked at Rachel, his forehead wrinkling in surprise. “I'm just teasing her. I always say: hope for the best but expect the worst.”

Rachel curled her upper lip and Drew put a couch cushion in front of her, bracing herself. “That's not telling her to hope,” Rachel said. “That's just being mean.”

Drew looked around for their mother, but she was in the kitchen, out of sight. Drew heard her banging a pan in there. Besides, even if they told their mother, she couldn't do anything.

Annoyance settled over Killian's face. He ground his teeth lightly. “Well. Maybe you'll get a lump of coal, too, my smart little Rachel.” Back then Rachel was Killian's favorite. And Drew did find Spanish Barbie, wrapped up under the tree in white tissue paper that looked like it'd been pulled out of an old gift bag. She doesn't remember what Rachel got.

Drew's lesson from that was to keep low, out of her father's mind as much as possible. Be compliant. Let harsh words roll into one ear and out the other, the way you do if you're an Army private and a sergeant's yelling at you at boot camp. She never cried again at anything her father did.

Instead, she retreated into her music, staying in her room or at school to practice for hours on end. She ought to thank her father for giving her that discipline. That's how she got so good.

Rachel was another story. Rachel hadn't ever learned to keep to herself well. She'd always step in, tell Killian he was wrong, or do the things he told her not to do—and that was just like dangling a goat in front of a tiger. She pushed him too far.

Still, Drew thinks that Rachel should have gotten over their childhood by now. Sure, their father's kind of a sociopath. Sure, he was intelligent enough to know better, but it was just his personality. He couldn't harm Drew or Rachel.

Rachel's almost forty, a full-grown woman with a loving, devoted husband and two smart, capable children. Her sister has so much more than most.

She turns up her stereo, tuned to her iPod, to her current favorite song. “Time Won't Let Me Go,” by The Bravery. They could make a musical out of her life and this song would be playing right now, she thinks, then laughs at her own melodrama. But still.

Drew shuts off the music.

M
IYANOKOSHI

S
HINANO
P
ROVINCE

H
ONSHU,
J
APAN

Spring 1160

H
er father, Kaneto, ate the last of the rice. Tomoe waited, willing herself not to speak. Would she be punished for her actions against her brothers? Outside, her mother and her brothers laughed. At last Kaneto pushed away his empty rice bowl and spoke. “Tomoe, I have left off your education for too long. When the men are away, it is you who must defend our home.”

Tomoe blinked, surprised.

Kaneto rose and went to the large oak trunk in the corner of the room. This trunk held his possessions from his time as a retainer. None of the children were allowed to touch it. The boys did, of course, when their parents weren't around, so Tomoe knew what the trunk contained: swords and armor.

But it wasn't the trunk Kaneto opened. He shoved it aside and bent to the floorboards, prying one up with his fingertips and reaching into the depths of the house. Kaneto fished around for a minute, then straightened. He held something Tomoe hadn't seen before. It was a curved blade about two feet long, glinting in the dim light, set atop a wooden pole much taller than Tomoe herself.

“A
naginata
.” He gestured for Tomoe to come closer. She took the pole in her hands, holding it up. It was heavy, but she could manage. She hefted it and took an experimental swing. With this, one could reach far. It was like having an eight-foot-long arm.

Kaneto grunted approvingly. “You may think this is a sword for women and therefore less useful, but this is what the fierce warrior monks use.” He looked at her appraisingly. “Your being female has advantages, Tomoe. You are nimble and light. And you have more natural fortitude. You will make the boys work harder. They will fear being shamed by a girl.”

Tomoe swung the sword up, stopping short of the ceiling. She had no wish to shame anyone.

Kaneto knelt and looked her in the eye. “You understand, Tomoe? I give you permission. Be yourself. Be the best. Nothing done by half.”

Permission to be herself.

A weight lifted from her shoulders, a weight she hadn't even known existed. Her breath came easily. She smiled up at Kaneto, and he touched her cheek gently as he stood.

Her father glanced toward the door; Chizuru had gone. The boys chased a squawking chicken. Tomoe couldn't tell which was making more noise, fowl or boy. Kanehira slipped and fell on his face in the mud, laughing and pulling Yoshinaka down with him. Kaneto sighed. “Tomoe, go clean them up.”

Tomoe handed the sword back to her father and bowed.

 

S
AN
D
IEGO

Present Day

R
achel's minivan pulls up behind Drew's car, and Drew watches as her sister kicks open the door with her sneakered foot. Though she's wearing just yoga pants and a tank top with her hair pulled back, she's still as beautiful as ever, with her lean, curvy build. Drew supposes this is the eternal way of younger sisters, to admire the elder. Rachel had always seemed so poised, holding her head erect and regal like the ancient Nefertiti bust. Drew was certain she could never be as great as Rachel. When Rachel grew breasts, eight-year-old Drew had been awed, stuffed her own shirt with oranges, wondering when it'd be her turn. “You don't want your period,” Rachel said flatly. “Do you think it's fun to bleed out of your vagina for a week?”

“I don't know. Is it?” Drew asked, not knowing. Bleeding without dying seemed kind of miraculous. Maybe it was fun, too, in a way she couldn't understand. After all, she was only eight.

“Dope.” Rachel shook her head, laughing. “You'll believe anything.”

Drew has always looked at her sister and hoped it would be her turn next. Drew's turn to leave. To fall in love and get married and have kids. Some things didn't happen.

Drew opens her car door, waiting for Rachel to leave hers. Would Rachel still be her champion? From the stiff smile on her sister's face, Drew suspects not.

•   •   •

My sister sports dark hollows
under
her eyes that I don't think have anything to do with her makeup. She looks like she could use a big bowl of soup and a long nap. I wonder if she's taking care of herself, working too much or partying too hard. With Drew it could be both. If I had nobody to take care of, I think, I'd sleep for about twelve hours a night. I put my arms out. “Hey. Thanks for coming down so quick.”

“No problem. I'm sort of dying to know what book Mom's talking about now.” Drew steps forward and we hug awkwardly, leaning into each other like old fence boards crushed by wind. Neither of us were huggers. I splay my fingers along her back, the way I do with Quincy. Secretly checking the meat on their bones. Yes. She needs soup and probably a big juicy steak. Drew's always been a grazing, forgetful eater. A handful of baby carrots here, a few peanuts there. Ever since she was a toddler, Drew was more interested in action than in sitting down for a proper meal. I want to ask if Drew's taking a calcium supplement, if she's getting enough vitamin D, if she's sleeping well. Drew releases me abruptly.

Once I left home, I rarely talked to Drew. I rarely talked to her in the last years I was still home. But she had her music and Killian's good graces. It could be worse. Sometimes she'd call me when nobody was around, or I'd pick her up someplace so my father wouldn't find out. After I had a baby, we could barely relate. I knew we'd never be as close as we were when we were little. No matter how much either of us wanted to be.

Mom brought her to see me for my twentieth birthday. Drew was sixteen, and all she could talk about was high school, the music competition coming up.

“Dad said he was going to buy me a car. He wants me driving in something safe and new,” Drew said, and though I knew she wasn't specifically saying it to brag or hurt me, it was just a fact, I still felt a raw pang. Killian didn't care if I had something safe and new.

“Not an expensive car,” Hikari said.

“He said Mercedes.” Drew ate a piece of pizza. “He said that's the best. Built like a tank.”

The pizza cheese turned to glue in my gut. Drew and I were in such different places in our lives. I shared an ancient Maxima with Tom, which he drove to work. If I wanted to take Quincy anywhere, I walked or took the bus, which in San Diego is like waiting for a covered wagon. “Good,” I said quietly. “Good for you.” I put my fork down. At that moment, I realized how much of the carefree high school experience I'd missed. How I was jealous of Drew for still being able to go have fun at the drop of a hat, have no responsibilities. I looked over at Quincy, shoving pizza in her mouth with her chubby hands, and told myself you can't have everything.

Mom reached over and touched my hand.

Drew frowned. But my mother was just letting me know she understood me—I was never her favorite, like Drew thought I was. Parents can't have favorites, I thought. Shouldn't, anyway. Mom was just trying to make up for my father.

My sister shoved a fat slice of pepperoni into her mouth. “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Did I tell you? I got into the Juilliard summer program.”

“That's wonderful.” I meant it. I'd always loved hearing her play. I'd often wondered where the musical talent came from—perhaps some people way back in our lineage.

I waited for Drew to ask me how things were going, how things were for me, but she just talked about herself without taking a breath. Now, as an adult, I know that I was hoping for too much from a teenager. But our relationship had begun its downhill slide.

So my sister and I stand on the street in front of my father's house. Eighteen years later and nothing's changed. “Fog's not burning off here,” I remark. Drew nods. A silence settles between us. “How's work?” I ask, to fill it. “Any new gigs?” Drew works with some big-name bands sometimes, whenever somebody wants to add a bit of classic zip to rock, which seems popular now. She posts pictures of herself on Facebook posing with the band members, with captions like
So much fun!
“How's the dog-washing business?” Even this job is interesting—Drew's washed the dogs of some actors. Not A-list, but regular working actors you'd still recognize.

“Fine. Got a few days off.” Drew blasts me with one of her smiles, looking like the old Drew, shaking off any hint of exhaustion. “And how are the kiddos?”

I inhale, thinking of Quincy and her fiancé. Chase and the bake sale. Drew doesn't want to hear all the boring nitty-gritty. “Great. They're great.”

“Your kids are perfect.” Drew walks briskly in front of me. “I saw Dad jetting out of here. It's safe to go in.”

I suspect that my father is heading downtown to yell at his attorney. Hence his e-mail to me. I wonder all over again what he could be talking about. Is there a secret will? Maybe it's enough to overturn the decision.

But I will carry out Mom's wishes as best as I can, no matter what. Right here and now. I swallow down the rising acid in my throat. Everything is fine. I'll do this and I'll go back home to my own house, my own family, whom I love and who loves me.

Drew watches me expectantly, a key in her hand. My younger sister doesn't understand all that is between me and Killian. The way I still feel so helpless where he's concerned. She thinks it's all in my head, because she's his favorite, and she can still call him and ask for help whenever she gets in too deep.

The house where we grew looks so American, so
Leave It to Beaver.
From the outside, you'd never know our mother was from Japan. Or the inside, for that matter.

Drew jiggles the key in the lock and swings the door open into the living room. Everything's quiet, dust floating in the air. I look over the dark, heavy leather furniture, the brown paneling that's unchanged since the 1970s. My father's tastes. He's wealthy, but frugal. The only sign of modernity is the eighty-inch television screen that hums lightly against one long wall.

I switch on the light in Mom's sewing room, then sneeze four times in succession, big sneezes that threaten to empty my bladder. I stand perfectly still, clenching unseen muscles, until the fit passes. More than a decade after my last child, you'd think I'd be totally recovered from pregnancies, but sometimes it feels like my body's This Old House: creaky and leaky.

“Are you all right?” Drew pushes past me.

“Fine.” I sniffle, too embarrassed to tell Drew the truth. No kids—she won't understand.

This room is packed to the brim with boxes. White cardboard file crates, big plastic bins. A bulletin board holds fabric squares. The sewing machine is set up on a long table below, navy blue thread ready to go. I pick up a quilting project, hanging off the sewing machine. She made wedding ring quilts for Quincy and Chase, big enough to fit on king beds, given to us five Christmases ago. “For the future,” Mom had said. It was almost like she knew she wouldn't be around long enough to see them get married.

Drew has a wedding quilt in here someplace, too. Mom made it for her right after I got married. Drew didn't want it. She said she wasn't ready for it, but she clearly hated it. I was there when Mom gave it to her on her twenty-first birthday. The stiff smile on Drew's face. “Gee, Mom, it's so beautiful, but I'm a long way from getting married,” Drew said, putting the pink and yellow and purple quilt back into its enormous box. “Maybe you could keep it for me until then.”

“Sure,” Mom had said, an identical polite smile on her face. Why was I the only one who knew what they felt and didn't hide behind this mask? All I could do was watch and pretend, too.

I exhale a long, slow breath and let the quilt fall. “I'm surprised Dad hasn't packed up her stuff yet.”

“He says by Christmas.” Drew slides the closet door open. “If you want any of it, I could probably ask him for you.”

I make a noncommittal noise. Drew lives in a different city, but she knows more about our father's day-to-day existence than I do. He may as well be a stranger. “Are you going to help him?”

“Dad and I aren't close, no matter what you think, Rachel.” Drew sounds irritated. I stop talking. If I pretend that Drew and I get along, then we will. It's my coping method.

The closet's just stacked with boxes, too, no clothes hanging from the bar. I can see the clear boxes are full of material, so I take out a cardboard one and look inside. Papers, ancient water bills and warranties. “Great. Looking through all these is going to take about six months.”

“Are you sure Mom didn't give you more of a description?” Drew glances at me from where she's dug out boxes.

“I would have told you if she had,” I retort, taking out another box. I'm not going to bicker with my sister, as if I'm twelve and she's eight again.
Be calm! I can't tell whether you're fighting or playing,
Mom used to say.
It all sounds the same—like somebody's going to get hurt.
My kids have a bigger age gap, six years, and Quincy's almost like a second mother to Chase. From the time he was born she was able to carry him and change his diapers. Drew and I were either best friends or bad rivals. Nothing in between.

An aroma like a museum storeroom, musty and woodsy, wafts up. I take out a different box. This one has recipe clippings and citizenship awards from elementary school, fading Mother's Day construction-paper flowers and other random bits. Swimming medals for me, fancy embossed certificates for Drew's viola competitions. I hadn't known Mom was so sentimental. I run my hand over it. “Drew. Did you know Mom saved all this?”

Drew glances in. “Junk. Not important.”

I put my hand around a heavy bronze medal. First place, CIF state champion, freestyle. The trophy for the team is still displayed in a glass case in the high school office. “Mine are.”

“Well. I don't need mine.” Drew turns away with a shrug.

She'll want them one day. Drew often talks first, thinks later. I dig into the bottom layer of the box. A sturdy but slightly crushed brown cardboard shipping box, about eleven by fourteen, held together by disintegrating brown packaging tape, emerges. It's covered in stamps and postmarks with Japanese writing as the return address, and my mother's name and address printed in careful English. I wish I could read the Japanese, but as I said, I'm Asian in heritage only.

Who sent this to her? My mother kept in contact with nobody in Japan; as far as I knew, her whole family was gone. Her parents died when she was a young adult, in a train accident, I think. No siblings. Not even any cousins.

The shipping box is postmarked June 20, 1972, the year my parents married. I open the side and slide out the contents. A book. Or a big antique photo album, brown leather softened by the touch of hundreds of hands, bound with delicate red silken thread. A book, I realize, turning it over. The back of the book to us is the beginning in Japan. I'd learned that from looking at Chase's manga, Japanese comic books.

“What is it?” Drew peers over my shoulder, her breath on my ear, loud and moist. I twitch in annoyance, the way I did when she used to read over my shoulder.
Whatcha reading, Rachel? You're not really reading, because your mouth isn't moving. You're pretending. Stop ignoring me. Why won't you read to me?

“Recognize it?” I say.

Drew opens the cover with an awful crackling sound. We freeze. “Let's be careful.”

We sit on the floor and hold the book between us, resting each side on one of our knees. The cover features an embossed horse with a samurai astride it, accented in gold leaf, no color. The samurai has long, flowing hair and waves a sword. A story about a warrior? A history book?

“It looks vaguely familiar,” Drew says. She twists her mouth into a pout and taps her chin with her left index finger, the Drew thinking pose she's had ever since she was about two. She used to do it for the drama, and it stuck. Sometimes I do it, to imitate her.

I open the album to the first page. It's made of yellowed parchment, the edges rough, and smells of ink and old paper. The characters are handwritten, each symbol a work of art in and of itself. I, of course, have no idea what it says. I turn the page.

On this one, all by itself, is a painting like an image out of an illuminated manuscript. A young Japanese girl holding a sword stands in front of a full-grown samurai, as if she's fighting him. Two little boys are in the background, grinning. Farmland stretches behind them to a nearby mountain range.