Sisters of Heart and Snow (16 page)

A door hinge squeaks from the aisle of fitting rooms. A rustle.

Quincy holds the saleswoman's hand to step atop the carpeted platform by the three-way mirror. “What do you think? Is the skirt too much?”

The dress reflects off Quincy's skin like a pearl, satiny and smooth. Strapless, tight in the bodice but not low cut, curving out over her hips into a full skirt that cascades down to the floor. Quincy fluffs the skirt speculatively. “I could get away with tennis shoes in this. You can't see my feet at all.”

How many times did Quincy put on a princess dress and parade around, when she was three? Of course, she got every one of them muddy. “Sneakers would be perfect.” I sniffle. What a cliché I am. Mother of the bride crying. But hey—I'm only human.

Quincy finally quits fiddling with the skirt and looks up at me. Her expression is analytical, not joyous. As if she's buying hardware and needs to figure out what size nails to buy. “Nah. Not really me.” She pirouettes and heads back to the fitting room. The gown is held together by chip clips in the back. The saleswoman and I watch her.

“It's hard for such a young woman. They look fantastic in everything.” The saleswoman purses her lips. “So young.”

I just nod. Even the saleswoman thinks she should wait.

“Mom! Can you please help me get this off?” Quincy calls from the fitting room.

“I'll help you. One moment.” The saleswoman heads back there. I wonder if she enjoys her job, helping out brides. I glance at the crumpled tissue in my hands and decide I would not last a single day in her position.

Quincy reappears, shoulders down, in a tight mermaid dress. She makes a face and points to her rear. “This is made for someone without hips.”

“Your hips are perfect.” Again I have my irrational fear. Eating disorder? Body dysmorphia?

“Ah. It's just not me. I'm sorry.” Quincy sits on the platform—no easy feat, given the tightness of the dress. “I'm so stressed out, Mom. Too many papers. No time to do anything. My head feels like it's spinning off.”

I sit beside her and take her hand. “We've got months. I'm happy to help. Don't rush.” I pat her shoulder. “You could even wait years, if you like,” I add gently. “Ryan's a great guy. He'll wait.”

“I don't know.” Quincy is crying now, her eyeliner smearing over her cheekbones. “Ryan's going to hate all of these dresses.” She sweeps her arm around the shop.

The saleswoman reappears, a frozen smile pasted on her face. “A groom loves whatever dress his bride picks out, dear.” She meets my eyes. I shrug.

“Why do you think he'll hate them?” I ask. Tom wouldn't have cared if I got married in a paper sack.

“Because he thinks all the big wedding stuff is stupid.” Quincy sniffles. “Anyway, he can't help me with anything. He's working, and he just told me he might not even be here for Thanksgiving. He's getting deployed in January.” She takes a breath. “It's supposed to be for four months, but he says not to be surprised if it's longer.”

Quincy introduced us to Ryan at a family barbecue over the summer. A friend of her friend's brother, she'd said, twenty-two years old. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a dazzling smile and close-cut blond hair—it was impossible not to fall for him. He helped clean up without being prompted, got me and Quincy drinks. By the end of the visit, I had a bit of a crush, too.

If only they'd wait just a couple of years. Supportive. That's what I need to be, I remind myself. “You'll get it done. Like every other military wife. It'll be fine.”

The saleswoman clears her throat, eyeing the makeup, the white dress. I glare at her and she leaves. I choose my next words carefully, praying my daughter won't get angry. “Does Ryan not want to have a wedding?”

She puts her hand on my arm, cutting me off. “I'm not really upset about Ryan, Mom. I have to talk to you about something else.”

Oh no. Here it comes. She's going to tell me she's pregnant, and that's why they're rushing. I take a breath. “Yes.”

Quincy wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “I want to have Grandpa there for my wedding.”

Grandpa. It takes me nearly a full minute to realize who Quincy is talking about. Not Tom's father, who passed away years ago. But my father.

“Killian?” I stammer.

Quincy nods. “I was hoping that my wedding would make you guys bury the hatchet.”

My body grows cold. How can I call up this man—this stranger—who's blackmailing me? Who wants to stick my ailing mother in a sub-par nursing home? How could I possibly invite him to my only daughter's sacred moment? Just the thought of calling up Killian makes me feel sick to my stomach.

Over the years, I agonized about the kids not knowing my father. Some part of me always hoped for a relationship with him. Something good that might surface in him, burn out bad memories.

Yet I didn't want to subject my children to the grocery store con man, the person who treated my mother so badly, who kicked me out for not being able to solve my own problems at sixteen. At his core, he was unpredictable. Not someone I wanted influencing my kids.

Our children got to know Tom's father, Howard, instead. When Quincy was little, he'd been ill, but after that he spent as much time with the kids as he could until he died. Took them on outings, built birdhouses, cheered at games.

I hadn't realized Quincy felt that way about Killian. Felt anything for him at all.

I stare at my own reflection in the endless mirror at the bridal shop, my reddened eyes and Quincy's teary ones reflected back thousands of times, reflections within reflections, until both of us disappear in the glass. It's not my place to poison her against Killian. “You know your grandfather's trying to get power of attorney for Obachan,” I say with care. “We only talk through our lawyers.”

“I know, but . . .” She spreads her hands helplessly. “Don't you think he wants to make up with us now? After all this time? I'm his only granddaughter, and I'm getting married.”

I look at my daughter's open, innocent face, and I don't want to disappoint her. No matter what Killian says or does. Surely Killian has a soft spot, too. He's elderly. Don't we all want to make peace during our last moments? Besides, she's his only granddaughter.

Maybe this wedding will be the bridge.

I let out a long breath, like a balloon expelling air. “Okay.”

Quincy smooths her skirt. “Thank you, Mom.” She steps down; I hold out a hand, but she walks by it.

“Let me help you unzip.” I reach for her, to unclip the contraptions holding the back in place.

“No, thanks. I've got it.” She disappears down the hall of fitting rooms, vanishing into the bank of mirrors and half-closed doors.

M
IYANOKOSHI
F
ORTRESS

S
HINANO
P
ROVINCE

H
ONSHU,
J
APAN

Winter 1174

Y
amabuki Gozen arrived as the winter twilight turned a watery blue. Her enclosed litter swayed, barely clearing the sides of the fortress opening, carried by four stoic men moving slowly along the path, their toes scuffing into the snow with each heavy step. Tomoe stood outside, slightly behind Yoshinaka, next to her mother, the chill like knives on her cheeks. Chizuru stood on tiptoe to whisper. “Remember, it's you who has his heart.”

Tomoe glanced down at her mother, this woman who had been able to marry her love, Kaneto, a man chosen of her own free will. Tomoe did not recall seeing her father glance toward another woman his entire life. Chizuru couldn't understand what Tomoe was going through, Tomoe thought, and straightened, smoothing out her heavy coat. Yoshinaka's hair, normally wild even when bound back, had been oiled and smoothed. Tomoe wrinkled her nose at its strong floral smell. He shifted from foot to foot. Nervous. She could tell without seeing his expression.

All of Yoshinaka's supporters were here, waiting, dressed in what passed for their best. Mostly threadbare clothes mended and made over for years. All of them wearing layers and layers, their heads tiny above their puffy clothing. They looked so unsophisticated and rough. What would Yamabuki make of them?

Of her?

Yamabuki might want to be rid of Tomoe.

She took a breath so loud and deep it startled Demon, the huge black horse tied to a post on the other side of the courtyard. He neighed anxiously. Tomoe whinnied back to calm him.

After what seemed like forever, the men carrying the litter laid it on the ground. Two of Yoshinaka's retainers opened the door and held out their hands to help Yamabuki step out. Tomoe braced herself for the sight of a plump and powdered white face with shaved eyebrows drawn in close to the shaved hairline. A face used to poetry and music and leisure.

Tomoe could not remember when she had last listened to music. Only when they made one of their infrequent trips into town, stopping at a restaurant, did she catch the refrains of a
koto
, the floor harp, or a voice lifted in song. And there had never been poetry here. Though Kaneto had taught all the children to read, they rarely did so for pleasure. Tomoe didn't see the point of keeping up with such skills. Not when she had so many other occupations with which to concern herself.

One small foot, clad in a cloth
tabi
and a wooden
geta
, appeared first, landing slowly on the snowy ground. Then another. An ice-blue kimono, beautifully woven—Tomoe could see that even from her place in the back—picturing cranes scooping fish out of ocean waves, swished audibly in the still air.

Those tiny feet. How could she stay balanced? Tomoe heard her mother gasp and forced herself to look at Yamabuki's face.

Pale, all right. But not pale from makeup. This woman's skin was pale as that of one who has never seen the sun, nearly translucent with blue undertones. One blue-green vein ran down the center of her forehead. Yamabuki kept her eyes firmly on the ground, her reddened lips pressed closely together. A great length of straight hair swept down her back, shiny as lacquer. She was lovely. Lovely and untouchable as a thin sheet of ice in late spring. When the sun shone on her, this apparition might melt.

The retainers helped her forward to Yoshinaka. True to fashion, the kimono prevented fast movement, so tightly was it bound around her legs. “Yamabuki Gozen,” said one of the retainers, his breath visible on the air.

The last bit of light disappeared behind the mountains, the moon straddling its ridge, casting its spectral glow onto Yamabuki. Somehow she seemed more natural in such light. Yoshinaka bowed. “Welcome.” Tomoe noticed he was trying to keep his voice low and cultured. It still sounded more like a growl.

But Yamabuki was not afraid. She raised her eyes to his. They glittered like black onyx, the darkest eyes Tomoe had ever seen, yet light too somehow, lit from within.

Tomoe imagined how Yamabuki saw her new spouse, and waited for her to register astonishment or disgust. Yoshinaka had none of the attributes Yamabuki would have prized in Miyako. His face was not round. He was decidedly hairy. “Thank you,” Yamabuki said, her tones so high and sweet that Tomoe momentarily forgot this woman was her rival. Her expression was pleasant, as though no terrible thought could ever pass through a mind so pure.

Yoshinaka's great shoulders sagged in that particular way Tomoe recognized. It was the way he looked when he wanted to embrace her. A moment when he let down his guard.

No!
Tomoe wanted to shout. She stepped forward.

Yoshinaka straightened. “Please show her to her quarters.” Yoshinaka bowed again. “We will see you at dinner.”

Was he not going to introduce her? Tomoe stood, rooted to her spot, cheeks hot in embarrassment. The retainer stepped in again, cleared his throat. “This is Tomoe Gozen.”

Yamabuki turned her otherworldly gaze to Tomoe. Which world, good or bad, Tomoe couldn't say. “I am pleased to meet you,” she said, still keeping that silvery tone. Tomoe should have bowed first, but Yamabuki did.

Tomoe bowed back.

 

S
AN
D
IEGO

Present Day

D
rew takes the slow way to see her mother, on a highway bordering the ocean. Last night, after they saw Joseph in the morning, he e-mailed more Tomoe Gozen chapters, and Drew had stayed up late reading them.

The story swims through her head. A woman who doesn't fit in anywhere. She can relate, though Drew definitely doesn't think of herself as any kind of warrior. She thinks maybe she's more like Yamabuki, another out-of-place person, who seems at the moment to be basically useless. At least Tomoe distinguished herself as a fighter.

Are they related to this Tomoe woman? Is that what Hikari wanted them to know?

She tries to remember a single time when Hikari mentioned Japan. A bit of homesickness, a tale about her family. In Drew's family, stories of the past stayed there. Drew wonders if Rachel thinks about that, too. Rachel somehow created a whole new family and a whole new way of life.

She finds a parking spot and beeps her car alarm, leaving her giant sunglasses in the car. Sometimes, if Drew is being very honest with herself, she admits that she can't see the point of these visits. It tears at Drew's heart to sit there, watching her mother wither away like a time-lapse movie of a life cycle. As her mother stares at the ocean, unaware of her brain's mutiny.

In the glass-walled lobby, where leather couches face the water, Drew waits to check in behind an older man who leans on a cane. Its top has a silver griffin, the beak peeking out from under a large, spotted hand. Silver threads of hair swirl around a pink-pale skull. He wears a fine pair of slacks, a pressed dress shirt over shoulders that were probably once broad, over a body once tall.

“Let me know how it was,” he says to the receptionist in the voice of a much younger man. A familiar voice.

“Thanks for the tickets,” the receptionist, a plain woman in her early twenties with light brown hair, says. She smiles up at him as if he's saved her from a house fire. “You don't know how much it means.”

Killian.

Drew didn't recognize him. It's the cane—he'd needed one for years. Limping around with bad hips and knees, a legacy of his football days, he'd insist he was perfectly fine. “Only old people need canes,” he'd said crossly whenever anyone suggested it. Now Killian turns slowly and maneuvers unseeingly around Drew, as if she's an umbrella stand. In the strong light off the ocean, his skin looks waxy.

Her mouth goes dry. It takes Drew a moment to react. She hasn't seen her father since last Christmas. “Dad.” Drew waves. Maybe he's like a dog chasing a rabbit—he can't see things if they're standing still.

He does a comical double take, the motion almost throwing him off-balance. “Drew! Where'd you come from?”

She steps forward and hugs him awkwardly. He thumps her back once, as if he's checking a melon. Whomp. “Were you here to see Mom?” she says, for lack of another thing to say.

“No. I was here painting fences,” Killian snorts. “Of course. Why else would I be in an old people's home?” He turns to the receptionist. “Jasmine, have you met my daughter Drew? She's a violinist. Plays in symphonies.”

“Viola,” Drew says quietly. Killian always gets this wrong. When she was in Out Stealing Horses, he'd tell people she'd founded the band, that she wrote all the songs and sang, too, not that she was the tambourine player. Now he tells people she's in the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Either he can't remember, or he just tells the stories he wishes were true. She thinks it's the latter. Correcting him has done no good.

She wonders what he tells people when they ask about Rachel. She imagines he makes up a story about her joining the merchant marine, or becoming a pirate in the South Seas. Or that Rachel is an ungrateful prodigal daughter who's cut off contact with poor old Killian. Anything's possible.

“I've met your sister.” Jasmine shakes Drew's hand. “I see the resemblance.”

Drew glances at Killian. He doesn't acknowledge the comment, smiling blankly at Jasmine. “My father got you tickets?” she says in a pleasant voice. “Where are you going?”

Jasmine flushes. “Just a show that came into town. I paid for them. They were sold out.”

“Cool,” Drew says. Her stomach flops. Was he really trying to be nice, or trying to make allies?

Killian stumps slowly to the leather sofa in the sitting area and lowers himself into it, gripping the arm with one hand, the cane with the other. “So.”

He hasn't said it, but Drew knows he expects her to sit, too, without asking what she's doing in San Diego. Drew's stopped expecting her father to think about anyone except himself since childhood. She'd be hard-pressed to name a more self-centered man, even after she lived in L.A. for all these years among musicians and actors. That's saying a lot.

Killian nods at her. “I made a transfer to your bank account. It's time.”

“You didn't need to do that.” Drew's never had a trust fund, but every year he gives her money for Christmas. And, she's sorry to say, she has asked her father for money in the past when absolutely necessary. Like when she needed first and last month's rent for her studio apartment, a sum she could never quite save up on her own, at least, not unless she had a few years. A ruffling of guilt stirs in her gut. Taking money from your parents makes you beholden. Prevents Drew from being like Rachel, from standing up to her father, lest he take it away again. The worst part is, she desperately needs the money at this moment, and she's already spending it in her head. “Why so early?”

Killian shrugs. “Why not?”

The thought of his money in her account weighs like a lead balloon. How she wishes she didn't need it. Why can't she be the kind of woman who doesn't need anybody, who is a hundred percent independent and able to take care of herself? She feels like a little kid still.

She sits opposite him and concentrates on the brown paisley area rug under their feet. His shoes gleam. “How's Mom?”

“Great. Just fine. She's got no idea who I am.” He shakes his head.

They are silent for a bit. Other visitors shuffle through the lobby, families visiting their relatives. Drew wonders if any of them are like her family. She lifts her head. She'll ask him about her mother's life. “Dad, when Mom came over here, how was it for her?”

He settles back into the couch. “Great. Much better than where she came from. She was with me.” Killian chortles. “She never had to worry about a roof over her head again.”

“I mean . . .” Drew tries to think of how to put this. She never talks to her father like this. It feels as uncomfortable as too-tight jeans. “Was she lonely? Did your family like her? Did you meet her family?”

“Sure. I told everyone I met her while doing business there. Practically true.” He smiles at Drew, his blue salesman's eyes sparkling. “She didn't have any family left. But she was fine. Always, until this.”

“Do you mean physically fine or mentally fine?” Drew furrows her brow, tries to keep her tone neutral.

He shrugs, then leans forward. “Nobody could do anything about her mental changes anyway. But your mother and I understood each other.” Abruptly, he changes the subject. “I want to talk about your sister.”

Drew crosses her legs at the ankles, remembering Rachel's story about the grocery store. Her stomach clenches. “What about her?”

“I'm hoping you can make her see reason.” Killian strokes the griffin's head of his cane with his thumb. His fingernails are as shiny and lustrous as a waxed floor. He exhales. “If Rachel doesn't relinquish her power of attorney, it's going to be very bad all around. For Rachel, for your mother, even for you.”

“So, what do you want to do? Move her into a cheap crappy home? She's used to this one. You can afford it.” Drew blinks slowly at him. “Are you bankrupt or something?”

“Of course not.” Killian thumps his cane, and his eyes look less twinkly. “Rachel, your mother doesn't know if she's on an expensive beach in La Jolla or sitting in a cargo container on her way to Timbuktu.”

“I'm Drew.” All these years he hasn't seen Rachel, and he still slips up. A sense of wariness overtakes her. She thinks of Tomoe Gozen.
Ichi-go, ichi-e.
Be ready for anything.

He doesn't acknowledge her correction. “I'm being practical, Drew. Besides, any money we save is money that goes back into your pocket.”

Drew's hands are cold, though they shouldn't be. She rubs them together. “What do you mean, it'll be bad all around?”

“Ask yourself this. Is me paying for some cheap nursing home better than paying for no nursing home? Do you want to be cut out of the will, too, Drew?” He squints at her. “Now, I take care of family—but when family stops being family, then I have no responsibility to them.”

Drew opens her mouth to respond. What will he do, let her mother be homeless? Is that even possible?
Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,
she wants to say, but of course she doesn't. She just closes her mouth, pressing it into a tight line.

Killian hefts himself to a standing position. Drew doesn't move to help him. He doesn't need any, anyway. “Have a good visit, Drew. I've got to run to an appointment. See you, Miss Jasmine.”

“Good to see you, Mr. Snow.” Jasmine waves. Killian triggers the automatic doors. “Your father's such a sweetheart.”

Drew swallows. For the first time, she fully understands why Rachel doesn't even want to visit Killian. She understands everything. “Sweet as pie.”

•   •   •

A dozen PTA mothers
wait in the middle school auditorium. I recognize all of them, even if I don't know everyone's names. This afternoon is the bake sale planning for the science club, to support the science fair.

One thing I won't miss after my children graduate is the fund-raising. Every day there's a different group selling cookie dough or yogurt or T-shirts. There are dinners in restaurants that give clubs a cut, grocery stores sponsoring teams if you shop there. It's endless, and it never seems to be enough—we still front our kids' costs for entry fees, travel, uniforms, and coach stipends.

I find the table where Susannah, the PTA president, sits beside the little core group: Terra, Laura, and Elizabeth. Some mothers are older than me, some younger, some the same age. Mothers have MBAs, doctorates, associate degrees, and no degrees. Some work, some don't. The thing we have in common is our children. I nod at them and they nod back, lift their hands in greeting.

I don't usually say too much in these meetings. The last time I did was when we were planning the end-of-school-year dance. Hawaiian-themed. Elizabeth wanted to charge an extra dollar for leis. I'd raised my hand. “Don't you think it should be included in the ticket price?” I asked. “It's already ten dollars.”

“Well,” Elizabeth had huffed, “I guess that's okay. If you want to take money out of our funds so we can't do as much next year.”

I'd given up. Too easily. It didn't matter much to me—Chase doesn't like girls or dances yet—but I imagined how Tom and I had felt when Quincy was little, having to say no to the dance and the extra dollar. Don't they know some people need help, even in a well-off community? Some of the students don't even live around here—they apply to this school because it's better than their neighborhood one.

I'm closest to Laura, who's also our family attorney. Laura's daughter is in eighth grade and has been in classes with Chase since kindergarten. Laura leans over to me. “Prepare for the crazy train,” Laura whispers. “It's happening again.”

For a moment, I think for sure she's talking about my father. “What's Killian done this time?”

“Oh. Not that crazy. Cupcakes.” She laughs.

“We have to get this bake sale figured out.” Elizabeth speaks quickly. She's in her late forties, heavyset, her hair cut in the same attractive swingy bob she's probably had her whole life. I have to admit, she's my least favorite person here. In middle school, Quincy was crossing the street in the crosswalk when Elizabeth almost ran into her. “I didn't see her,” was all Elizabeth said. Because a kid in a crosswalk before school is a big surprise. “Personally, I think cupcakes are over. Let's do mini pies. And everybody wear pink and black. Black aprons. And we'll need cake stands.”

Someone raises her hand. “What about flies? Can't we get a real display case?”

“Good point.” Elizabeth puts the tip of her pen to her peach-colored lips and straightens her shoulders in her orange workout top. “We'll see about renting one.”

I rest my head on my hands. What they're describing sounds like hours of work. I've been doing bake sales for almost twenty years. At most, we make about two hundred from a bake sale like this.

Now Elizabeth's talking about decorating a plain black canopy with pink stripes. This is what happens when women with MBAs plan a bake sale. The next thing you know, they'll be drawing up a business plan. If they did, though, they'd figure out that it wasn't worth the expense they're proposing.

These kids will get their learners' permits next year. They can make a few cookies, can't they? I swallow. Absurdly, I picture Tomoe Gozen. Would Tomoe go along with the cookie plan, so as not to make waves? Or would she oppose them?

I examine the palms of my hands as I listen, preparing to interrupt.
Go along with it
, my head whispers. My heart rate increases. It's silly, me being afraid to have an opinion. “You know,” I say carefully, my voice low, “this sounds like a lot of work.”

The women go quiet.

“We're all busy, right?” I nod at each of them, meet each of their eyes. The women shift, listening. “I have an idea. Our kids can work an oven and mix batter. Let's let the kids do their own sale.”