Sisters of Heart and Snow (37 page)

I put down my still-full teacup with a shaking hand. “Here's the deal. I highly doubt that anybody is going to deport an elderly woman with dementia.”

Killian snorts. “Really? We deport kids' parents all the time.”

I lift my hand in a stop signal. Put on my best, calmest poker face. Tomoe, you're up. “Okay. Like you said—Mom probably isn't going to live for much longer. This is what we do. Put her in hospice care. Her doctor thinks that's the best bet. Call off this hearing. It's pointless and it's already costing you too much.” I hold my breath.

Killian's mouth thins into a hard line as he considers this, probably going over his checking accounts in his head, the probable short life of my mother versus the costs. “Fine. You learned one thing from me.” He sighs and glances at the clock on his cable box, as if he's bored with this whole interview.

It's over. I breathe in and out slowly through my nose, folding my hands carefully in my lap. I've gotten what I wanted. More than I wanted. “Thank you,” I say, with genuine gratitude in my voice. “Thank you for telling me about Mom.”

He nods. “She wasn't the saint you thought she was, huh? Guess I'm not so bad.” His tone is a bit gleeful, and I realize he told me all that only because he thought it would make me hate my mother.

I don't respond to that. Won't engage that kind of emotion. “Do you ever feel regret?” I ask him. “For how you treated us?”

“Regret is a useless emotion, Rachel.” Killian shakes his head and puts his hand back into his lap. “I told you what I expected and what the consequences were if you made the wrong decision. And both you and your mother did.”

“Ichi-go, ichi-e
.
”
I thought I'd feel sad or bitter, but all my emotions collapse. This person sitting before me is who my father is. However he came to be this way. Even in his old age, he has no grace. I watch him with a kind of pity. Resignation. What a waste.

I remember one more thing from the Tomoe story. The latest installment, in which Yoshinaka loses his mind and tries to take over Kyoto, defying his clan. Nothing Tomoe can do will stop him. Nothing she can say will change him. She can only back off and watch the palace burn.

He'll never change. It's useless to hope otherwise.

Tomoe learned from Yamabuki that she didn't have to be all warrior. She learned how to nurture. To find joy in her daily life. And Yamabuki learned to be brave. To defend herself with tooth and claw, if need be. Like these women, I am a combination of both. A fighter and a mother. Imperfect. But loving. With a family I love, who love me, too.

My father has nothing compared with what I have.

Killian picks up his mug and drains it. “So, Rachel, do you ever go looking for gold anymore?” He smiles, the flash of that once kind father flitting across his face. The afternoon sun has begun to slant in the windows behind us.

I shake my head, my muscles weak. I suppose I should feel victorious, but all I want is to go home and cry into Tom's neck. Is this how Tomoe felt after a battle? Empty and worn out? “Never.”

“There's still some out there. If you know where to look.” He sets his empty mug down. “Lucy! Come shut these curtains! I can't see the television.” Abruptly Killian extends his hand again and I take it. It will be the last time, I already know.

He grips hard, a firm businesslike handshake. “Thanks for coming by, Rachel. Lucy will see you out. I'm glad we could settle this favorably, without any hard feelings.”

And with that, I'm dismissed. “Good-bye,” I say, and he releases my hand. Entering the room, Lucy pulls the drapery strings, blacking out the world beyond. She walks me to the door, her sock feet soundless on the dark hardwood.

“Thank you for coming.” Lucy opens the door.

I step onto the porch. “You know, Lucy—if you ever need help . . .”

She draws herself up straight, meeting my eyes. “I know how you see me, but it's what I want.”

I take a step away. Shouldn't she want more than for her material needs to be met? But it's not my business. Not at all. “Take some of that clothing money and get a good immigration attorney.”

“It was nice to meet you.” She bows her head and begins closing the door. I glance back toward my father, but he faces the window, and I can see only his back, his spine poking through his shirt. With the blinds shut, I cannot see what he is staring at, except the darkness.

•   •   •

I walk to my car,
away
from where my father lives. That is it. That will most likely be the last time I see Killian.

I start the car. I think about what Lucy said at the end, about her needs being met, and I think of all the types of relationships I've seen lately. Chase and that girl, coercion. Quincy and Ryan, where she almost lost herself. Drew and Alan, where she's sort of found herself. Mine and Tom's, which strives to be balanced. My mother's and Killian's. Tomoe, Yamabuki, and Yoshinaka's.

Rachel, Drew,
Mom wrote in the book. The book's title,
Sisters of Heart
.

Mom must have read the story, too, just as I did. Maybe she identified with Yamabuki—that careful, domestic creature. But then she realized that even Yamabuki had to fight sometimes.

I can see it in my imagination as clearly as if it is happening in front of me. Mom reading the book, thinking about what she could and could not tell. Yet wanting her daughters to know anyway.
Please understand me,
I hear Mom say in my mind. A phrase Tomoe said, as Miyako burned and Yoshinaka went mad, comes to my mind.
I don't care what happens to me, as long as my family survives.

Mom, I think, gave me that power of attorney so I'd finally have to stand up to Killian. She wanted me to be brave and finally put all the years, all the pain, to rest, so I could move on.

I put my purse with the photos in it on the front seat beside me.
I will not forget you
,
little sister
. Tomorrow I'll go see Mom and tell her I know everything. Maybe she'll hear me from wherever my real mother exists.

With that, I drive away.

S
HINOWARA
T
OWN

C
ENTRAL-
N
ORTHERN
R
EGION

H
ONSHU,
J
APAN

Winter 1184

W
ithout battles to fight or men to wait for, Tomoe made the long journey back to Shinowara alone, moving as though in a dream. Sun and darkness passed without her notice. One morning, faithful Cherry Blossom reached her limit and began to stagger, knees buckling. Had they slept even once?

Tomoe vaguely remembered her eyes closing, Cherry Blossom stopping to graze at whatever paltry winter grass she could find. Poor Cherry Blossom. The mare was better off alone. Tomoe dismounted and walked. “Go on,” she told the horse, hoping Cherry Blossom would abandon her, but she merely followed at her own slow pace. They must have made a sight, the two of them like half-dead ghouls trudging the empty roads.

At last, the houses of Shinowara came into view against the dim January sky, a tiny cluster nestled at the bottom of a hill among the still-bare trees and evergreens. Or what remained of Shinowara. It had been burned almost to the ground. A dozen structures still stood, their roofs blackened. Tomoe paused, listening for any sound of life. Nothing.

She walked slowly into the town.

Not even a dog remained, only a few chickens that continued to peck for bugs and plants as though their world had not ended. Tomoe knotted her hair back, the silt and grease coating her fingertips. Perhaps this moment was the dream, she thought, and she would soon awaken and find Yamabuki and Chizuru chatting as they prepared breakfast, Aoi and Yoshitaka chasing the dogs across the packed dirt of the compound. Where had they all gone?

“Yamabuki?” she called, her voice rising with the winter wind, using the last of her strength to scream. “Yamabuki! Chizuru! Aoi!”

Her voice echoed and reverberated back to her. She staggered on, following the paths to their house. It was still standing, part of the roof caved in, the doors broken off and lying askew.

She went inside. A pot of rice stew sat on the table, along with their chopsticks and bowls. One rice bowl was broken into quarters, dropped on the floor, bits of rice still clinging to it.

Tomoe picked up Aoi's miniature pair of chopsticks. Yoshinaka had bought these for her. They were black lacquer, inlaid with tiny enameled cherry blossoms on the handles. She closed her hand around them. The women had left suddenly. She searched the chest for kimonos. Only a few spring robes remained. All of Aoi's things were missing. Tomoe shut the heavy wooden trunk lid and sat down on it with a sigh of relief. At least Chizuru had managed to grab most of her clothing. That meant they had had some time. That meant that the Taira had not taken them or the women had not all killed themselves to avoid capture.

That meant Yamabuki and her mother and surely Aoi were alive.

Everyone she knew was gone. Her brother and Yoshinaka. Her father. Now her mother and the closest thing she had to a sister and daughter, Yamabuki and Aoi. She hoped they could bring each other comfort. That they were safe.

“Yamabuki,” she said aloud, as though calling the woman to her. Louder still. “Yamabuki.”

If she were a ghost, surely she would appear to show Tomoe she was at peace. But no apparition made itself known. Tomoe rubbed her bleary eyes with dirty hands. She needed a fire. But she was too tired, and she lay down on the porch where she was, and slept, Cherry Blossom standing close beside her.

When she heard a horse clomping into the fort, she was not alarmed. Enemy or friend, she had no idea. She considered drawing her sword, but her hands were stiff, and she no longer cared what happened to her. Let it be up to the fates. She thought of how Yamabuki would have laughed to hear Tomoe talk of fate. Tomoe, who had never believed in destiny. Who thought it could be changed. She smiled despite herself.

The horse halted in front of her, its chestnut skin glistening. Cherry Blossom was calm, a good sign. The rider spoke in a baritone. “Tomoe Gozen. We meet again.” The sun shone behind him, obscuring the man in a searing halo of light.

“Who are you?” She did not lift her head.

“Don't tell me you've forgotten me so soon. I'd never forget you.” The voice was warm, with a hint of laughter in it. Tomoe did not think she would ever laugh again, and she resented this voice's good humor.

She stood slowly. The courtyard spun around her, the walls bowing out in her vision. She blinked. “No games. Tell me your name, or I shall have your head.” She put her hand on her sword. It might as well have been covered in grease, for all the purchase she had.

The man swung a leg off his horse. “I have been writing poetry to you all these years. Of course, nobody's seen it but me. It's terrible.”

Tomoe tried to stand, and stumbled. The man caught her in his arms. A flash of white teeth. Yoshimori Wada. The boy from her childhood. Wada-chan.

“Wada-chan,” she said, with a glimmer of her old humor, and he laughed.

“You're weak.” He stated the obvious. He dragged her back inside. With one hand holding her up, he got out a blanket and placed it on the floor, then placed Tomoe on top of it. She went as limp as a wilted flower. He lay next to her, his body heat warming her, and put another blanket over both of them. “I thought I would find you here. They told me you hadn't died alongside Yoshinaka and Kanehira.”

“Yoshinaka didn't want me to stay,” she said. “Neither did I.”

“You are a liar,” Wada said. “You would have stayed and probably fought off the rest of the battalion alone.”

“Untrue,” she murmured, slipping into unconsciousness. When she awoke some time later, her head rested on something soft and steady. Startled, she realized it was Wada's lap.

“Tomoe.” Her name settled toward her lips like a snowflake. He was rubbing her hand between his, and had built up the fire. A pile of wood stood ready nearby.

Clearheaded, Tomoe struggled to sit up. “Tell me what happened to Yoshinaka and my brother.”

He hesitated.

“Don't leave anything out,” Tomoe said. Her lips were chapped and bleeding. She tore away the dead skin. Nothing hurt anymore. “I have imagined it all.”

Wada inhaled. Softly, he began his story.

After she left, Yoshinaka fled, Kanehira with him, intending to outrun the army with their strong horses. They escaped by running into a forest, where they thought they were safe. But before long, Yoshinaka realized they were in an unfamiliar area. Demon's hoof sank through a layer of ice with a crack, and the horse fell with a terrified whinny.

“A bog!” he shouted. “We are in a bog.” He flailed, trying to get Demon to free himself, but the horse only sank deeper, all of his hooves stuck. The mud sucked the horse down like quicksand.

Kanehira stopped his horse from following. “Abandon Demon and I'll pull you out!”

Yoshinaka tried to dismount, but now his own feet at the sides of the horse were stuck, too, the pressure of the mud pushing in on him. “Get away!” Yoshinaka shouted to Kanehira.

Kanehira urged his own horse into the mud and tried to dig at Yoshinaka's legs. Now Kanehira's horse cried out and sank, too.

Yoshinaka cast one last desperate look at Kanehira. Kanehira dismounted and crossed to Yoshinaka's side, the bog sucking him in waist-deep, knowing what was about to happen. He nodded.

Yoshinaka tore off his armor and threw it into the mud. Without hesitating, he plunged his sword into his abdomen, pulling the blade toward the earth.

Kanehira's sword swung at his milk brother's neck. “I follow you into death as I followed you in life, Yoshinaka!” he shouted, and cut his own abdomen, Yoshinaka's blood still hot on the steel. No one was there to help Kanehira end his pain swiftly, his life flowing out of him before the somber eyes of his enemies. At last the legendary general picked his way over to Kanehira, as he gasped desperately for air, and took pity on Tomoe's brother. Loyal to the last to Yoshinaka.

Exactly as he had promised.

Wada stopped talking. He held Tomoe's hand somberly. “I am sorry it had to be this way, Tomoe.”

It was as she had imagined. At least her brother had been with Yoshinaka in his last moments. Tomoe covered her face with her hands. “Have you heard about the others? Little Yoshitaka?” It hurt to say the name.

Yoshimori held water up to her mouth. “Who?”

“The son of Yoshinaka. Yoritomo took him.” She rolled her head, avoiding his touch.

Wada frowned and looked at the fire. He drew his hand over his eyes. “Do you remember how we spoke about the Taira leader who spared the lives of the boys, only to have them grow up to challenge him?”

Tomoe nodded. Her heart jumped into her throat and temples. “We thought he was foolish,” she said, very faintly.

Wada pursed his lips, his eyes distant. “I'm afraid Yoritomo is not so foolish.”

The boy, too. Yoshitaka, lost. Tomoe's eyes hurt. She put her fingertips on her temples and pressed in, her breathing fast and shallow, until she regained control. She swallowed hard. “And what of Yamabuki and my mother and the little girl?”

“There were a few who arrived at the Kanto from this village. I heard of an older woman with a girl child. They are staying with Yoritomo's in-laws. I don't know their names, but I think it must be them.”

Tomoe closed her eyes and breathed. Aoi and her mother were alive. Not Yamabuki. She felt a flash of relief. Yamabuki was no longer in pain. “I must get Aoi,” she whispered. Retrieve the girl and raise her. Tomoe wasn't sure how. Her head swam with sorrow. What could she do, here alone? Her choices were to become a beggar prostitute, or join a convent. Neither would let her raise Aoi.

She closed her eyes. Her mouth tasted metallic, like blood. “And why are you here?”

He leaned toward her and took her face in his hands gently. “I wanted to find you.”

Tomoe laughed in spite of herself, but when she opened her eyes she saw his face was earnest. “Are you insane? I am an old warrior woman, no longer a great beauty.”

He blushed, as he had when he was a boy. “Tomoe. I, too, am older and wiser.”

“Wada-chan, don't be silly.” She sat upright. He tried to help her, but she pushed him away.

“It is Lord Wada now. Will you come with me?” He looked at her pleadingly, then bowed his head. “I will not keep you from your sword or hide you away.”

“I never want to see a sword again.” Her vehemence surprised her. “But do you not have a wife? Am I to be your concubine?”

He inclined his head in affirmation. “But other women are pale imitations of you, Tomoe.”

She closed her eyes again. “You would let me get my mother and Aoi? That's three more mouths to feed, Wada. Be practical.”

“You know poets are never practical.” Wada bent his head toward her, his breath warm on her ear. “Tomoe. Come with me. We will make our world new again.”

She thought of Yoshinaka. The homeless orphan. How he had hit her with that stick, knocking into motion the beginning of her warrior journey. Like a tremendous landslide begun by moving the smallest rock. His last act was a generous one, saving her.

A convent would provide a peaceful life. She would not have to fight or think or be concerned about anyone or anything except prayer. Shut away from the world. Wouldn't it be nice? Perhaps. But it was wrong for her.

Tomoe opened her eyes. She picked up a piece of the broken rice bowl. All of them had used it, she remembered. It was greenish-brown earthenware, made by a ceramist in the capital, brought here by Yamabuki.

Wada took it from her hands and put the pieces back together. Only one small chip of a hole was missing. “I know of a man who can repair this with gold. It will be more beautiful and stronger than it was before.”

Tomoe bent her head. “Can he repair me as well?”

“Only you can do that,” Wada said.

Sister of heart,
a familiar voice said in her head.
Live.

“Yamabuki,” Tomoe whispered for the final time, her voice so faint only her mind heard it.

Wada sat still, his head bent over hers, his eyes shut.

She reached for him.