Sisters of Heart and Snow (17 page)

I stretch my arms out across the table. “These are middle school kids. They don't care about fancy packages. I know my son doesn't. He just wants to eat a cupcake.”

“Mini pies.” Elizabeth squints at me. “Not cupcakes.” Elizabeth doesn't care about cupcakes or responsibility. She just wants to have something to do. She's kind of like me. Only way worse.

“Their own sale?” Susannah stares at me like I've got a horn growing out of my forehead. “But then it might be . . . crappy.”

“And then everybody will blame us,” Elizabeth says. “Everybody always blames the mothers.”

The others murmur agreement. I forge on. “Because you let them. So what if it fails? They'll learn from what they do.” I lean forward. I remember Tomoe Gozen and Yamabuki. The girl who was used to being catered to and cared for. We don't want to make them into Yamabukis. We want Tomoes.

Elizabeth's brow furrows. She's used to being the one who gets her way, even if her way's the wrong way. “The kids make the treats?” Elizabeth repeats. “I want my children studying, not baking cookies.”

“If they spent less time on their phones, they'd have plenty of time to bake a few.” I smile pleasantly at Elizabeth, but she glares at me. Fine. I stare right back at her. I'm right, and I'm not going to back down today. Let her do her usual arguing—she's a balloon that will run out of air eventually.

Maybe there
is
a samurai in my family tree, in my blood. Maybe that's why Mom left us the book. I mean, this is only a silly bake sale meeting, but darn it if I'm not going to stand firm.

Finally, Elizabeth looks away. I continue. “Don't you agree life skills are important? Listen. They can come over to my house. We'll knock it out in one morning. Boom. You don't even have to worry or do a thing.”

“I agree,” Laura says. “Make those lazy bums work for a change.”

“I don't know.” Elizabeth bites her lip. “My Luke throws a fit if he has to set the dining table.” She actually seems worried. Like really actually concerned that her tyrant of a son will tell her what to do. Some other mothers murmur their agreement.

I want to shake her, yell,
Grow a backbone
. I blow out a breath. I can't imagine one of my kids disrespecting me if I ask them to help. I'd been asking them to help since they could walk. “All the more reason for him to pitch in with this.”

“All right, Rachel.” Susannah flips her legal pad closed. “We'll try it your way.”

“Good luck with that,” Elizabeth says.

I smile at her, suppressing my suddenly overpowering urge to flip her off.

•   •   •

At home,
I slip off my flats, put them into the shoe cabinet by the door. The same mantel clock we had when we first got married ticks away, and my first thought is to wonder if my sister picked up Chase the way she said she would. Of course she did, I chide myself. Then I wonder if Drew stopped by to see Mom today. Whether Mom recognized her.

I don't remember Drew and my mother getting along well, but I don't remember them getting along poorly, either. When I called Mom, I often asked after Drew, and she'd say she didn't know. That Drew called only on holidays and visited at Christmas. “You could call her,” I said, to which my mother said nothing. Perhaps she was from a place that believed kids should call their parents. Perhaps Mom was afraid of rejection.

Now, I drink two glasses of water in the kitchen. This house is just so empty with only me in it. I stop by the guest room, peek inside. Drew's actually made her bed, which she never used to do. But her clothes are still scattered wherever she took them off, exactly as they were when we were growing up. I check the bathroom to make sure she has enough towels and TP, and close the door. I have to admit, having Drew here is different. In a better way than I thought. This morning she made the coffee before I got up and even scrambled some eggs for everyone. Of course, I note drily in my own special ultra-hypercritical manner, the pan's still soaking in the sink.

In my bedroom, three laundry baskets full of clean clothes wait on the bed. I dump it out, intending to fold. Screw it. I push the pile over and lie down.

I stretch out on top of the quilt, stare up at the ceiling fan, see how dusty it is. The red numbers of the clock stare at me accusingly. I feel guilty when I'm not doing what I'm supposed to. Like I'm a downstairs maid in
Downton Abbey
and the head butler's going to yell at me for shirking. I throw a sock on top of the clock. I need a nap.

I look at my phone instead, at the e-mail from Joseph with the samurai book translation. Minamoto is the family name of the samurai in the book.

Minamoto is the name on the package. Was this a descendant of Yoshinaka? Someone who thought Mom could use the inspiration? The bookseller, perhaps?

I look up Hatsuko Minamoto. Nothing. Not even a Facebook profile or an ad for the white pages. Nothing in Japanese, either, but I don't have the ability to type Japanese characters in the search engine. Or understand them, for that matter.

I blow out a breath.

What I should do, to get it over with, is call my father. For Quincy's sake. Try to settle this whole mess once and for all. Maybe he's just waiting for me to make the first move. Maybe we're both too stubborn. Maybe there's a way we can mediate this thing.

I hold my phone in my hand, wavering.

Could Quincy's request have something to do with her wedding? Is she getting married because of our fractured family?

I want her to know that everything her father and I have done for her, we've done so she doesn't have to have the same struggles. And now she's
choosing
to have them, too.

Quincy doesn't remember this at all, but when she was small, Tom and I had gone through a rough time. There was a downturn in his father's business, and his father got sick and Tom had to step in years before he was ready. For years, there was never enough in the bank to quite cover all our bills. Some months we chose between eating and paying the electric bill.

She doesn't remember her father working eighteen-hour days, hammering nails himself, meeting with potential clients. That period when nothing seemed to work.

One night, Tom got home after ten. He had big bags under his eyes, though he was only in his early twenties. It'd been an especially hard day, one of those in which I questioned every life choice I'd ever made.

It'd been a rainy week, and my mood matched. No car, the grocery store too far to walk, I felt like putting Quincy in her stroller and running someplace until I couldn't run anymore. But it was too cold for her to be out in the wet.

Earlier that afternoon, a man from the electric company had knocked on the door and presented me with a pink bill. FINAL NOTICE. He informed me they'd need payment right then, or the electric would be turned off. I wrote him a check, praying there was enough in the account to cover it, knowing we were still three days off from Tom's payday.

I suppose when I married Tom, I thought he'd take care of me forever. I'm not sure why I thought that, exactly, except that of course I was really young. Why I thought I could skip the paying-your-dues time and go directly to the place where my only job would be taking care of my baby. That I'd spend my days driving to playgroups and lessons and preparing gourmet meals and not worrying about anything except my child's development. Instead, we were hard-pressed to afford mac and cheese. We had a house, but we'd been here for three years and it still looked like we'd just moved in. A card table for the dining room, beanbag chairs in the living room.

I should have finished college before I got married. I should have been more careful.
I watched my daughter stack blocks over and over, tried to get her to color with the crayons.
This is a crappy life for her.
I walked her to the park every day and schemed with the other mothers about moneymaking opportunities. Having Tupperware parties and whatnot all required start-up capital, and I didn't know of many who wanted to buy anything, much less extra stuff. The pay from any kind of job I could get would be eaten away entirely by childcare expenses.

I lay in the middle of the floor, half-naked dime-store Barbie knockoffs and blocks strewn around me, like a body in a toy crime scene. Three-year-old Quincy slept on the floor next to me. She was in the throes of the Terrible Twos, that period of defiance that pretty much stretched from eighteen months to, oh, seven years. She kept breaking out of her room, refused to be potty-trained, and caused general mayhem. That night, she finally passed out in the living room.

Tom locked the door behind him. “Why isn't she in her bed?”

I shook my head. “I can't go on like this.”

“Don't be so dramatic.” Tom sat on one of the beanbag chairs that served as a couch, whispering, too. “I'm sorry I'm so late.”

My stomach growled and my head throbbed. Either I was going to cry, or I was going to get really angry. I chose anger. “It's all your fault,” I said, not bothering to whisper. “That family business is going to kill us. You have to get a regular job.”

Tom looked stricken. I didn't care that he'd been up since dawn. That even if he got another job, it'd be entry level and probably pay even less than what he made now. My throat choked tight as I continued. “And did you forget to pay the electric bill?”

“Shit.” He shook his head. “I thought we had more time.”

“It was three months' overdue! It was humiliating!” I said, too loud. Quincy started in her sleep, her limbs flailing. “The neighbors all saw it. My God, Tom, why would you do that to me?”

“Oh, yeah. I did it on purpose. Against you. Just to spite you.” He stood up and stuck his hands into his jeans pockets and stepped on a block. “Ow!” He kicked it, pinging it against the wall. “I'm working my ass off all day and you can't even be bothered to pick up the room. What the fuck do you do all day?”

I glared at him. “What do I do all day?” Both of us, frustrated, exhausted, wanted the release of a fight. “Let me see. I cleaned shit off the bedroom walls, because Quincy is an artist. I read
Chicka Chicka Boom Boom
literally forty-two times. I kept your daughter alive, Tom.”

“I'm keeping her alive, too. I'm working.” He sat down again. “I don't even tell you half the crap that goes on, Rachel, because I don't want you to worry.”

“Do you think your parents would help?” I sniffled.

Tom crossed his arms and all the emotion fled from his face. Stoic. I hated it when he turned into a wall. “No.”

“No?” My voice rose. Hysteria. Not a good look. “I know your dad's sick, but they saved while the business was doing well. We can pay it back. We need a little help. We have no food.”

Tom turned on the television to the news, and muted it. “I can't. They can't help us, Rachel, and it'll destroy my mother if she knows.”

Quincy tapped my leg. “Mommy?” Her little face had marks from the carpet pressed into it, and her rosebud mouth turned down. “Mommy okay?”

“I'm okay.” I put my arms around her neck, inhaling the smell of generic baby shampoo.

Tom's shoulders slumped. He got on the floor and crawled over to us. “I'm sorry, Rach.”

“Stay 'way!” Quincy said, holding her little hand in Tom's face, her voice loud and distinct. “You are a bad man. Don't make my mommy cry.”

I rocked her. “It's okay, Quincy,” I said into her ear. “Mommy's fine. Daddy's fine. We just had a tantrum.”

But Tom's face collapsed. It was too much for him. Too difficult to keep this family going. He'd put on weight—too much work, not enough sleep, not enough healthy food. My Tom, the happy-go-lucky Tom from biology class, was gone.

He picked up his car keys.

“Tom, wait.” My heart pulsed in my throat. “Don't go away mad.”

Tom walked out the door.

I closed my eyes into Quincy's hair and said nothing. Not only had I failed myself, I'd made Tom into a failure, too. How much better he'd be without us, I thought. With only himself to worry about. He'd go back to being his old self instead of this defeated golem. Quincy fell asleep in my arms again.

I called Mom, crying. Told her everything. The electric man. How we had nothing to eat now but half a jar of peanut butter and a bag of plain pasta. “Dad was right,” I said. “I'll never be anything. It's too hard. I don't know what to do. Maybe I can take Quincy away, go to college, get loans. They have financial aid for single mothers. Scholarships.” I was babbling.

Mom hesitated. I heard Killian's show blasting in the background, some announcer shouting scores. “You wait,” she whispered.

She showed up not an hour later, her arms full of groceries, a raincoat thrown on over her pajamas. I couldn't believe she'd snuck out away from my father. In the rain and dark.

“I can't do it,” I said later, at the kitchen table. I was feeling better, finally, with a belly full of canned chicken noodle soup. “He wanted to take care of us, but we're a burden.” I teared up again. “It's too hard.”

Mom leaned over and took my face in both her hands. “Rachel.”

I looked into her dark eyes. “What?”

She held on to my cheeks. “You're young. Pretty. Maybe you can find a rich man. Like I did. I have a roof and food and clothes. I can buy all the material and thread I want.” She releases my face and looks away. “But look. I have to sneak out to see my own daughter and grandbaby.” I heard her swallow hard. “I have to be quiet when he's home. Even though he's not.”

“Will it get better?” I asked.

“For you, yes.” She smiled, her nose widening. I hadn't noticed that before. Like a Buddha. “You must be strong. Stronger than I am.”

I didn't ask her what that meant. I buried my face in my arms. Now I wished I'd asked. Maybe she would have told me about Tomoe.