Sisters of Heart and Snow (29 page)

B
ATTLE OF
K
URIKARA

C
ENTRAL-
N
ORTHERN
R
EGION

H
ONSHU,
J
APAN

Summer 1183

T
omoe checked her appearance in the round bronze mirror and patted her oiled hair. Her armor was in place. She was ready—but inside she quelled a jolt of nerves.

Yamabuki, standing behind her with the comb, smiled at the wavering reflection. “Not even a typhoon will move your hair, Tomoe.”

Tomoe frowned. She should stay here and protect the women. But Yoshinaka had ordered her to go. “If anything happens, if we don't return, take the children to Yoritomo's family in the Kanto.”

Yamabuki inclined her head. “We will drown ourselves in the river before we let ourselves be captured.”

Tomoe kept her gaze from meeting Yamabuki's. Let it not come to that.

She remembered the gift. After setting the mirror down, she went to a corner of the room and retrieved her old
naginata
. “I want you to have this. Remember how to use it.”

Yamabuki took the tall weapon in her small hands. She propped it upright and inclined her head toward Tomoe. “It is too fine for me. I am not an
onnamusha.
”

“Take it.” Tomoe wished Yamabuki would pick up the
naginata
with a yell, swing it around, demonstrate her vigor. Instead, the woman was barely able to hold on to the heavy wooden pole. Surely they would be overtaken if attacked. All the women and children killed. Tomoe squelched the thought.

“Arigato.”
Yamabuki bowed. She put the sword down and reached into her kimono, pressing something into Tomoe's palm. “I have something for you, too.”

An
omamori.
A good-luck amulet. A rectangular envelope made of red cloth, with thin white string knotted at the top of the narrower side. Paper crunched inside. Yamabuki had written a prayer for Tomoe.
To keep you safe from all harm,
it read. Tomoe tucked it inside her kimono, near her heart.

“Arigato.”
She bowed.

Yamabuki bowed back.
“Do-itashimashte.”
You're welcome. Her voice was as timid as it had been when she was a girl-bride. She reached up and hugged Tomoe fiercely.

Tomoe stepped back and looked into Yamabuki's round, worried eyes. “Don't be afraid. You are a warrior. You are of this family now. You understand?” She sounded fiercer than she meant to, and she feared Yamabuki would start crying, but Yamabuki simply drew herself up and nodded.

“I will remember.” Yamabuki clasped Tomoe's hand as Tomoe studied her face. It seemed only yesterday that Yamabuki had arrived, but nine years had passed. Yamabuki had long ago lost her baby fat and delicate air. Her bony hand, in Tomoe's own, was coarsened, the skin rough as pine bark. This was not the life she was born to live. Tomoe felt almost guilty for her own unchanged beauty.

Yamabuki reached up with her free hand and tucked a stray hair behind Tomoe's ear. She began to cry.

“Stop,” Tomoe said harshly, afraid she, too, would begin weeping.

Aoi, Yamabuki's two-year-old daughter, tugged at Tomoe's kimono. “Up,” she said in her high voice. Tomoe picked up the girl, snuggling her chubby body against her own, taking in the little one's sweet-smelling black hair. Would she see this girl live to womanhood? She felt something break inside her and quickly handed Aoi over to Yamabuki before the toddler could sense her distress.

Tomoe leaned down and pressed her forehead against Yamabuki's. “Take care of my mother and the children.” She straightened and took a step away. A retainer sounded a horn. They were leaving.
“Sayonara.”
Farewell.

“Dewa mata atode.”
Yamabuki smiled at her over Aoi's round face.

Dewa mata atode
. See you later. What a strange piece of optimism for Yamabuki to show. Tomoe didn't correct her.

Outside, Yoshinaka sat atop a snorting black Demon, in his full battle gear of bearskin shoes and grand iron helmet. Minamoto banners waved in the summer air. Hundreds of soldiers cheered when they saw her. “Tomoe! Tomoe!”

She lifted a hand and their voices rose. Without looking back at her family, Tomoe walked out from the porch and across the courtyard. Cherry Blossom waited, with her scarlet saddle, her silken blankets, her tasseled bridle.

“Let us go!” Yoshinaka shouted. “We will show my cousin who the true leader is!”

Tomoe nodded and swung atop the horse. They began walking out of the fortress, the dust kicking up. Tomoe sat tall. Only once did she turn in her saddle and watch as the figures of the women on the porch grew smaller and smaller, waving at her until they shimmered and faded, like a memory.

 

S
AN
D
IEGO

Present Day

T
hey drive to Rachel's house wet, not bothering to peel off their wetsuits. Rachel is quiet, her hands gripping the steering wheel hard, and Drew doesn't talk, either. Both of them are in their own worlds, a mishmash of emotions for Drew.

“You shouldn't have taken such a big risk,” Rachel says when they pull into her garage.

“If anyone's going to get killed,” Drew says, slamming the door, “it should be me. I don't have any kids. We're alive, aren't we?”

“You know what I think?” Rachel glances at Drew. “You're Tomoe and I'm Yamabuki. I think that's what Mom wants us to know.”

Drew shakes her head. That's not right. It can't be. “No, Tomoe's the warrior.”

“You're the one who fought. I'm Yamabuki, the one who stays at home. All devastated and messed up.” Rachel goes into her house.

Drew follows. Her sister is just upset right now. She'll calm down. If anyone should be riled up, it should be Drew. She's the one who actually felt the slippery gelatinous eye under her nails. Shouldn't her sister be thanking her?

Instead, Rachel stands in the kitchen, dripping sand out of her wetsuit into small drifts on her clean kitchen floor, and ripping open a pile of mail. She tosses one toward Drew.

Addressee Unknown,
it's stamped.

The letter to Hatsuko Minamoto.

Drew's hands, holding the letter, sag down to the cold counter. She lets the letter go, palming the granite, holding herself up.

There is no Hatsuko Minamoto. No way to find her. Perhaps she's already gone, dead for who knows how long. Drew thinks of their mother. Even in these past few weeks, she's grown frailer and smaller. She cannot sit in the chair by the window anymore, but spends her days in the bed or being wheeled to the dining room, where she's fed by an aide.

Drew inhales. “I guess that's that.” It is as if they've reached another dead end in their small quest to help their mother. Drew wipes her eye. Why is she so emotional? What did she expect would happen—that Hatsuko would write back and spill everything Drew and Rachel never knew about Hikari? Ridiculous.

She tries to sit on the stool, wanting to talk to Rachel more about it. See how she feels.

“Don't sit there—you'll get it all dirty. Go take a shower,” Rachel says sharply.

Oh. That's how she feels. Same old prickly Rachel. Rather than argue again, Drew complies. It is not her house, a fact that she feels more keenly every day. Anyway, Rachel's right. She's itchy.

•   •   •

When she comes out,
Rachel's already dressed, stuffing a towel into Chase's sports duffel bag. “Can you hand me his phone?” Rachel points to the counter, where's it's charging. She tsks. “He never charges it and leaves it on all the time, then wonders why it dies. I don't know why we bothered getting him a phone at all.”

“Guess every kid has one these days, right?” Drew picks it up. Phones hadn't been necessary when they were growing up. If a parent didn't know where they were, well, they just had to keep worrying for a little while. Not have this instant gratification, the tracking apps that use satellites to tell you exactly where your kids are. You'd think people would be more relaxed, but everybody just seems even more wound up than in the past.

Drew unplugs it, turns it over, activates the screen by accident. There's a photo on it and Drew glances at it before she can stop herself.

It is a woman's completely, one hundred percent bare torso, reflected in a bathroom mirror with Wet
n
Wild nail polishes and Noxzema acne creams scattered over the counter. Just the body. Mostly her breasts, which the women—or girl—pushes together with one arm. The only parts of her head visible are her chin and lips, which are poised in that annoying fake pout like she's wearing waxen ones.

Drew clamps her hand over the phone, as if she's throwing a blanket over the girl. She closes her eyes and feels her face turn bright, hot red. “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” Drew mutters, and it's really a prayer. A plea for help.

“What is it?” Rachel comes over to her and takes the phone out from under Drew's hand. Her face pales. “Who would send him this? Is this a grown woman?”

Drew gulps and shakes her head. “I'm pretty sure that's his girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend? What girlfriend?” Rachel scrolls through the other texts. She blows out a relieved breath. “That was the only one. Unless he deleted them already.” Then she looks sharply at her sister. “How do you know this is his girlfriend? Chase doesn't have a girlfriend. He still plays with Legos, for Christ's sake! He's not allowed to have a girlfriend.” Rachel's voice rises and bellows through the kitchen. “Fucking hell. What the fuck?”

Drew sits on the stool, feeling like she's about to throw up. She has to tell Rachel. Damn Chase for not keeping his end of the bargain. Damn Drew for not telling Rachel in the first place. Maybe she could have prevented this. Drew closes her eyes to block out Rachel's angry ones. “I saw a girl with Chase. I think it's the same girl.”

“What's her name? I'm going to call her parents.” Rachel's voice shakes.

Drew's eyes fly open. “No.” That girl at the Halloween carnival—a mother like that won't take this well. She swallows. “I don't think her parents are the understanding type. I think they're the type who'd kick her out or beat her.”

Rachel shakes her head. She reads aloud as she texts. “
This is Chase's mother. Do not contact him again or I will contact the authorities and your parents
. There.” She looks at Drew. “Well? You going to tell me who she is, since you know all about her parents? Why didn't you tell me any of this? What's been going on?” Her voice rises again, frantic.

Drew can't look her sister in the eyes.
Just say it to her.
But Drew finds herself afraid.

Rachel's never tried to get back at Drew when she was angry. Rather, she did something worse. She wouldn't let Drew make amends. When Drew was eight and Rachel twelve, Drew snuck into her sister's room to borrow Rachel's prized Madonna
True Blue
CD, one that Drew was expressly forbidden to touch. But Drew loved the song, “Papa Don't Preach.” She made a tape off the CD and returned it.

Later Rachel knocked on her door. “I know you touched my CD. Your greasy little fingerprints are all over it.”

Drew had apologized, but that wasn't enough for Rachel. Her sister didn't talk to her for three days. Frozen out. “Good night!” Drew would call out, like she always did, into the wall separating their rooms. Rachel would not answer. The coldness, the withholding, was the worst punishment Rachel could have thought of.

So Drew is mindful when she has to tell her sister bad news, or tell her sister that she made a mistake. They're adults now, Drew tells herself. Rachel's not going to do that. “I caught Chase making out with a high school girl. I assume it's the same one. Like, really making out.”

Rachel raises an eyebrow. She leans against the counter. “How old?”

“Seventeen.” God. It sounds even worse out loud. That is almost an adult, whereas Chase just started growing whiskers in the past year. “Look. I talked to Chase. He said he would cut it off with her. He
promised
.”

Her sister shakes her head. Clearly disgusted with her
. Drew, you're so gullible
. A hormone-addled teenage boy isn't going to give up on a girl so easily. Not a girl who'd send him a photo like that. When Rachel speaks, her voice is low. “You should have fucking told me.”

Drew spreads her hands out. “I'm sorry. We thought you'd freak out.”

Rachel blinks hard, several times, and familiar dread invades Drew. “No. I only freak out when people lie to me.”

“I never lied. I just didn't tell you.” It had really seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Why was Drew's judgment always so bad? She feels tears stinging her eyes.

“A lie of omission.” Rachel leans forward and glares at her. “Don't you go fucking crying at me. It's not going to work. You really screwed up. How do I know I can trust you with anything?”

Drew wipes furiously at her eyes. “Stop cursing at me.”

“I'll fucking curse all the fuck I want! This is my fucking house.” Rachel paces around the island.

“Calm down.” Drew puts her head on the counter, willing herself to stop crying.
What did crying ever solve?
Tomoe asked Yamabuki. Not a damn thing.

“You know what I'm really sick of?” Rachel says. “Everyone telling me to calm down. Maybe everyone around here needs to get more excited.”

“What are you going to do? Kick Chase out of the house?” Drew keeps her head down, the granite against her forehead. “Why is he doing this? Is it just hormones, or is something else going on with him? Too much stress at school? At home?” Or did the opportunity just present itself, and Chase went along with it?

Rachel laughs shortly. “Ha. I don't know. Maybe Chase can save some time and drop out of middle school instead of college, like his sister.”

Drew looks at her sister. “Quincy dropped out?”

Rachel nods.

“Why didn't you tell me? When did this happen?” This hurts, too. Rachel withholding.

“Why didn't you tell me about this? Shut up. I don't need to tell you anything.” Rachel points at Drew's face. “You are just their aunt. Not their mother. You haven't bothered to get to know them in all these years. It's too fucking late for you to butt in.”

Drew grabs Rachel's hand. “I haven't bothered to get to know them? You barely let me see them.” Drew recalls all those truncated family visits. The quick birthday calls.

“I let you be around as much as you wanted.” Rachel crosses her arms. “It wasn't much.” She takes a breath and finishes packing Chase's bag.

“Yeah,” Drew says. “But you had to
watch
me the whole time. With your judgy eyes.”

“Judgy eyes? What does that even mean?” Rachel sighs and stands up. She brushes off her pants like she's brushing off her tirade. “Drew. Be serious.”

“I am.” It wasn't the best choice of word but Drew forges on. “When they were babies, you'd tell me I was doing things wrong. That diaper is wrong. And redo it.”

“You did it wrong. The diaper would have leaked.” She sticks Chase's phone into her purse. There's Rachel again. So reasonable and mature. While Drew's the one who's enraged and shaking now. “You have to do things a certain way.”

“You mean your way.” Drew crosses her arms to keep herself from jumping up and rushing at her sister, pushing her, the way she did when she was little. “Everything's got to be your way.”

Rachel roots around in the papers on the counter, looking for something. “I know I didn't go to college, but I actually know what I'm doing sometimes.” She finds a form, puts it in her purse, too.

“College? Why are you bringing that up? Who said anything about college?” Drew watches her sister. She needs to get Rachel's attention. She's always felt that unless she screams or cries, Rachel ignores her. Just like with her parents. Maybe that's what's up with her kids. She grabs her hairbrush out of Rachel's hands. “If it's anybody's fault you didn't finish, it's your own. Nobody made you get pregnant except you.”

Rachel pauses, not looking at Drew, and Drew knows the blow landed. She expects a feeling of triumph, but instead she desperately wishes she could pluck those words out of the air and stuff them back down her own throat.

Then Rachel draws out a sigh. “Well, your life hasn't exactly turned out great, Drew. At least I worked hard and fixed mine.”

“You think I don't work hard?” Drew glares at Rachel. They always knew where to cut deep, didn't they?

Rachel shakes her head and now looks right into Drew's eyes. She gets close. “We're a soft landing spot for you. You've always had soft landing spots. You're Daddy's little girl.”

“I'm not.” Drew's nostrils flare.

“You are. Always have been. You know what, Drew? You're thirty-four fucking years old. You've never had a relationship or a job work out.” Rachel points at her. “Maybe at some point you should say to yourself,
Hmm, maybe the problem isn't everyone else. Maybe it's ME. Maybe I'm doing something wrong.
But you don't. You always blame everyone but yourself.” Rachel's practically spitting in Drew's face. “Take some responsibility for once in your life.”

A hot little flame of rage flares up. She wants Rachel away from her. Drew shoves her sister in the upper chest. Not hard. The way she did when she was little. Only they're not little anymore. “Stop it, Rachel.”

Rachel glares at her and picks up the duffel bag. “I need to go pick up my son now.” She walks toward the door, then pauses and addresses Drew again. “I don't need a stranger telling me I'm a crappy mother.”

Drew turns her head away. Rachel knows which words will hurt the most. And so does Drew. The words hang in front of her. She chooses to say them even as her heart screams at her to stop. “You know what, Rachel? It's so ironic. You hate our father, but you've turned out exactly like him. Mean. Controlling.”

Drew watches her sister's face crumple at the sting. Maybe they're both like him. They tried not to be him. They have become him anyway. Nasty and bitter. A lump fills Drew's throat. Drew holds up a hand. “I'm sorry, Rachel.”

Rachel's mouth clamps shut. Her whole body seems to drop thirty degrees in temperature. “Okay, then.” Rachel looks down for a second, then speaks calmly. “Go back to your own home, Drew. I don't really need any more of your help. Such as it is.” She opens the door, her form silhouetted by the sun, before she shuts it.