Drew gets up and opens the Crock-Pot lid, considering. Chunks of onion float around juicy meatballs. Drew inhales. This is Tom’s mother’s recipe, Drew knows—she’s had it before, and it’s the best red sauce she’s ever had. Fresh herbs float in the pot. The meatballs are not uniformly shaped. Homemade. When did her sister have time?
She takes a spoon out of the drawer (of course the utensil drawer is next to the dishwasher—unlike Drew’s kitchen, Rachel’s kitchen makes sense) and scoops out a meatball. It’s juicy and tender and—surprise—has a morsel of creamy mozzarella hiding in the middle. She closes her eyes, suddenly famished, and has to stop herself from scooping out another one—she could eat this whole pot, no problem. The last time Drew had Italian, it was a can of Chef Boyardee she got on sale for a dollar. Yeah, she’s definitely staying for dinner. She can go home after that.
“Can you make the salad?” Rachel nods at the refrigerator.
Drew opens the doors. The veggie drawer’s stuffed. Two kinds of lettuce, something called “Power Mix” (prewashed three times, it proclaims), carrots, fresh herbs, broccoli, cucumbers. Drew usually gets the premade salads where you just have to open the bag, add the dressing. “With everything?”
“Whatever you like.” Rachel puts a wooden cutting board on the island.
Drew hopes she can meet Rachel’s unspoken standards. Or, worse, for Rachel to pretend that she liked the salad when in fact she hated it. When they were little, Rachel detested raw tomato. She’ll leave those out, just in case. It’s salad, Drew thinks. Not some huge symbol of their relationship. When their mother made salad, she put all the ingredients in different little bowls, so people could add what they wanted. “So, mixed in? Not like Mom?”
“We eat everything.” Rachel hands her a chef’s knife. “Go crazy.”
Drew washes a cucumber and finds the peeler. It’s all so cozy here. So different from anyplace Drew’s ever lived. Until Rachel left, Drew hadn’t noticed the tension of her family. There was always Rachel, the buffer, capturing her parents’ attention.
Rachel had been a swimmer for as long as Drew could remember. If music was Drew’s special talent, her passion, swimming was Rachel’s. She started at the community pool swim team, then joined competitive leagues. Rachel scooped up all the awards from early on.
Drew loved watching Rachel swim, sitting on the bleachers, shielding the sun from her eyes. Seeing her sister’s long arms cut up out of the water, faster and faster. A machine. A hero.
“This one’s going to the Olympics,” Killian would say proudly.
Then, at the CIF state championship meet, something happened. Drew remembers watching Rachel’s lane, the feet, the arms churning, she and her father and mother cheering on Rachel until their voices were hoarse. But the arm stopped and Rachel sank.
She burst back up, treading water with her legs, holding her useless arm, her eyes and mouth opening in a silent scream. The shoulder had dislocated, tearing the ligaments around it. She’d never swim competitively again.
After that, Rachel hadn’t been the same. Their father stopped saying Rachel was going to the Olympics; he barely spoke to Rachel at all. Disappointment hung in the air. Her swim team friends fell away. Her grades slipped, and she’d stay out late, sneaking in late and reeking of Coors Light and marijuana. Rachel would call herself in sick to school, spend the day sleeping and listening to music, the nights sneaking out.
Drew watched all this happen with increasing worry. She was only twelve at the time, still a good girl. She practiced the viola even more to make up for Rachel. Wanting to give her parents something to be proud about. Worrying about Rachel gave her stomachaches and made her into an insomniac. She’d knocked on Rachel’s door one night. Her sister cracked it open, showing only reddened eyes. “Why are you doing this?” Drew said. “Do you want to end up a loser?”
Rachel said nothing. No hurt, no anger. Nothing. Like Rachel was so numb and beyond any emotion that she might as well have been a corpse. A sharp sliver of fear hit Drew. She kicked the door. Rachel pushed her into the hallway, flipped her off, then slammed the door.
Finally Drew approached Hikari, who was in her sewing room, of course, cutting out little squares of yellow and green calico, laying them into tall piles, her lean hands working as if they had a mind of their own, her dark hair bound back into a ponytail. If somebody painted a portrait of Hikari, it would be of her at the sewing machine. Drew came into the room and closed the door behind her. “Mom, Rachel needs help.”
Hikari continued cutting. “She must go through this alone, Drew. She will be all right. She’s just sad about her shoulder.”
“No, she won’t be all right.” Drew’s voice rose. Why did her mother always ignore her? “She’s using drugs. Go in there and find out for yourself. Can’t you smell it?”
Hikari put down her scissors and stared at her sewing machine. “It’s incense,” she said finally, and looked up at Drew, meeting her eyes.
Drew wanted to tear apart every quilt in the room. Why was her mother being so dumb, on purpose? Drew wasn’t thirteen yet, and even she could see the problem. Parents were supposed to help their kids, not pay attention to them only when it was convenient. Everyone else she knew had parents who cared. Who would ground them or tear apart their rooms or send them to rehab. “She’s going to end up pregnant or in jail.” Drew’s voice choked with a sob.
A deep line furrowed between her mother’s brows, and Hikari stood up, brushing her slacks. “You’re a child. You don’t know the best way. Now, please get out. Calm yourself.”
“You’re nothing more than a maid. No, we have a maid. You’re not a mother. You’re not a maid. You’re not even a babysitter. What good are you? Why are you even here?” Drew was yelling. Deep, primal. The neighbors heard her. The fish in the ocean heard her.
Hikari stiffened to her full height. She opened the door. “Get out.”
Drew picked up the quilt squares and threw them into the air, sending them into a hail of material all over the floor. “I hate you!” She stomped her feet. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
Hikari stared at the material flying through the air. She turned to Drew with a terrifying expression. Years of repressed anger and sorrow and who knew what else mixed together. Before Drew could react, Hikari slapped Drew soundly across the face, her nails indenting Drew’s flesh.
Drew stopped her yelling, shocked. She held her stinging cheek, not knowing what to do.
“I hate you, too. What do you think about that?” Her mother’s bottom lip trembled, as if she, too, was about to cry. Her cold gaze met Drew’s.
Drew ran out of the room.
This is what Drew can’t forgive her mother for. Her inaction. Her passivity when her children needed her help. Why didn’t she step up for Rachel? Sure, Killian would have flipped out, but Drew thinks his reaction was worse because things had been going on for months. If he’d known earlier, it might not have been so bad.
And also, there’s this—Drew’s pretty sure that if she ever has kids, even if they tell her they hate her, she won’t respond in kind. No matter how down and shitty her life was. Never. She’ll always respond with love.
KISO-FUKUSHIMA TOWN
SHINANO PROVINCE
HONSHU, JAPAN
Summer 1170
On the grounds of the Kozen-ji temple, one of the grandest in the area, with ten buildings on its premises, all the families gathered to celebrate the wedding of Wada’s sister. To Tomoe, the main temple looked like a palace with a long sweeping curved roofline, perched on a high hill. The grounds were surrounded by forest and gardens, ponds and cherry trees.
Thick wisteria vines, purple blossoms cascading down, shedding sweet scent, crisscrossed the patio roof where the feast was set up. The guests had brought dishes to share at low rectangular makeshift tables set up in rows beneath the flowers. Petals and dropped lea
ves crunched under Tomoe’s feet. Lit lanterns swung over the revelers. A man banged a small taiko drum in a rhythm like a heartbeat while another played the hichiriki, a high-pitched recorder, in a dissonant yet cheerful melody. Drunk people danced, arms linked, laughing. It was a perfect warm summer night.
Tomoe sat on a cushion and picked at her mother’s lotus root dish while she looked around for Wada.
Last year Yoshimori Wada—through the combined efforts of Kaneto, his new brother-in-law, and several Minamoto cousins—won an assistant clerk job in the capital. “I will be your eyes and ears on the inside,” he promised Kaneto. But Tomoe doubted Yoshimori would risk his new job to help them. Wada was probably already carrying on with the higher-class women there. He had written to Tomoe once. Look, Tomoe, fine paper at last. Working on my poetry. I won’t send one until it’s perfect.
Instead of Wada, she spotted Yoshinaka. He was talking to a girl older than Tomoe, his head bent low. The girl was small, her face pale and round, pleasantly chubby. Yoshinaka gestured occasionally; Tomoe imagined he was lecturing the girl about something, like battle strategy. She will get bored soon and leave, Tomoe thought.
But then the girl laughed, the sound cutting through the din as clear as a gong, and put her hand on Yoshinaka’s neck.
Tomoe swung away, the lotus roots turning to lead in her mouth. She swallowed. Why should she care? Yoshinaka was sixteen, a man by most people’s measure. He could do what he wanted. Tomoe put her hand to her stomach to staunch the sudden pain there.
“Tomoe.”
She recognized the voice immediately. She looked up, but there was a lantern behind him and his face was in shadow.
“Hello, Wada-san.” Her voice sounded calm, thankfully.
He cringed, and then smiled. “You are the only person existing who may call me that.”
He took her hands and helped her up. His face had lost some of its roundness, and he had grown older in the year since she had seen him, but he looked like the same old Wada. He grinned impishly, and Tomoe noticed a dimple at the left corner of his mouth. How had she missed that before? His sons would inherit that dimple, she thought, and did not know why Wada’s future sons should come to her mind.
They walked out of the courtyard. The moon hung low and impossibly huge on the horizon, shaded in hues of orange. “It looks close enough to touch,” she said.
“The moonlight suits you.” Wada still held her hand.
Tomoe felt her heart beating harder in anticipation. Would he kiss her? She tried to decide how she would react, and could not. “How long will you be home?”
“Long enough.” Wada smiled. “I start back in two days.”
A soft wind blew up, rustling the trees around them and cooling Tomoe’s skin. A thrush sang out. Tomoe stopped. “Listen.”
Wada stopped, too, putting his hand on Tomoe’s cheek. “A thrush’s song is not half as sweet as your voice, Tomoe. I’ve missed you.”
She gulped and took a step away. “Oh, Wada-san. You’ve been studying poetry in the capital.” She whistled the thrush’s song, and the bird sang back in reply.
“Tomoe. Can’t you be serious?” Wada dropped his hand to his side.
“I am serious, Wada-san. It’s you who are not. I know you will not marry me, because I cannot increase your rank.” She studied his face to confirm her blunt statement. He had the grace to blush. “So you will excuse me if your poetry leaves something to be desired.” She knew what he wanted—a quick tryst. Something to occupy him while he was home. It would only be trouble for her.
“You are in love with Yoshinaka, aren’t you?” he asked quietly.
She stopped moving. Was Wada right? The breeze shot up her sleeves, rustling the leaves in the distance. The crickets played their lonesome song, louder than the distant wedding music. Louder still was the sound of her inner heart. Yes, it said in quiet.
“He will never marry you. You cannot increase his rank, either,” Wada said. “You will be a concubine. A novelty in his army, a dancing monkey who can fight with a sword.”
Tomoe turned away so he could not see her face, gazing up at the moon. He was correct, of course. Her choices were limited. But she knew her place, for now, was with her family. In Yoshinaka’s army as an onnamusha, whether or not he took her as his wife. This was the life she had, and she could choose no other. “Yet I would rather be a warrior in his army than a kept woman in the capital,” she said.
The thrushes and crickets went quiet all at once. The hichiriki wailed a high note and faded, the drums stopped. Tomoe went still. Neither she nor Wada breathed. Something was wrong.
In the next instant, screams rose and people began running like ants from boiling water. Smoke filled the air. Tomoe exchanged a glance with Wada and as one they broke into a full run. Tomoe felt for her short sword, feeling its reassuring heaviness in her palm.
The main temple’s roof was on fire. They ran into the wedding pavilion and saw shadowy figures fighting with swords, the banquet table kicked aside, the carefully arranged dishes strewn across the muddied grass.
Tomoe rushed into the fray. Wada fended off two men with swords. Tomoe guessed these were employees of the Taira, probably wandering samurai hired for a fee. The Search and Punish crew.
“Surrender!” she yelled. “Surrender and you can join the Minamoto clan.”
The men made no answer. The one closest to Tomoe reached down to the table and grabbed a rice ball, shoving it into his mouth, the bits of rice sticking to what was left of his beard. It was only a second of distraction, but it was enough for Tomoe. Her sword connected with flesh where the man’s arm met his shoulder, sliding cleanly into his torso. He screamed through the mouthful of rice, staggering to the ground.
Tomoe looked about for Yoshinaka and Kanehira, but couldn’t see them. Wada turned to her, his elegant robes spattered with blood. Somehow he still seemed unruffled. “This way.”
They ran to the back of the pavilion.
“Tomoe,” she heard from the ground. It was so quiet she thought she’d imagined it. Tomoe stopped.
“Here.” Her father lifted a hand into the air.
“Otosan!” She rushed over to him. Blood seeped from his midsection.
“Ichi-go, ichi-e. My one chance is gone.” Kaneto put his head back. “Where’s your mother?”
“I don’t know.” She put her hands over his wound, her front becoming soaked.
“No use, Tomoe.” Kaneto coughed up blood.
Wada and Yoshinaka returned. “Is he hurt?” Yoshinaka said.
“Find my mother,” Tomoe shouted. Wada ran off.
“Tomoe,” Kaneto said, his voice so low she could barely hear it. “Take care of Yoshinaka, of all of them. They are lost without you.”
“Of course.” Tomoe pressed down harder. “But you will be fine.” Perhaps Chizuru knew how to stitch up a wound this vicious. Tomoe fought off her rising panic. “Help!” she screamed. “Okasan, where are you?”
“Tomoe!” Chizuru called, hurrying to her daughter’s side, her face covered in soot. She stumbled to the ground and covered Kaneto’s wounds with a folded cloth. “Move, Tomoe. Let me try.”
She could not imagine this world without her father. Not yet. Kaneto would die an old man, she told herself, breathing in and out until she stopped shaking. She stood. The pavilion roof flamed. People tossed buckets of water.
“Nine Taira,” Yoshinaka said with disgust. “Idiots. Why would they send such an unlucky number?” Nine, or ku, also meant pain and suffering. “If they think this will stop me, they are fools.”
A woman wailed long and loud, a storm blowing through a grove of pine trees. Tomoe jumped, at first not knowing from where the sound originated. “Ie, ie, ie.” Chizuru howled out the two syllables. “No.” Her breath gone, Chizuru put her head down and cried quietly.
Tomoe took a step toward t
hem. The face, already turning blue, had open glassy eyes, like a caught fish. Dark blood pooled around him. “Otosan?” she whispered.
The fire snapped behind her.
This isn’t real, she thought. It cannot be. But of course it was.
Their lives had changed in an instant.
Yoshinaka put his hand on her shoulder. He squeezed. She spun and embraced him, and he held her up. She would always hold on to her family. No matter what else happened.
“We will make him proud, Tomoe,” Yoshinaka whispered. He released her, then picked up her father and carried him away.
Seven
SAN DIEGO
Present Day
In the late morning of the following day, Drew and I go up to UCSD and walk over to the Geisel Library. The translator Drew found last night is a grad student in Medieval East Asian history, and he agreed to meet us here.
Quincy wants me to take her shopping this afternoon, so Drew’s offered to chauffeur my son on his after-school activities. Win-win for me. It’s like having a Rachel clone, which I’ve always needed. “What kind of job are you going to look for?” I ask her as we walk across campus. All the students seem to be in shorts and flip-flops. Another hot October day.
Drew shrugs. “I need to let that simmer on the back burner for a while.”
“How about a music job?” I try to think of different ways she could make a living. “Could you play for a TV show or at Disneyland or in another band?”
Drew’s shoulders visibly stiffen. “It’s not that easy, okay?” She doesn’t look at me. Which means she doesn’t want to talk. “Let’s just concentrate on this.”
We open the door to the library. Named after Dr. Seuss, one of La Jolla’s most famous residents, the library looks like a blocky, mirrored diamond encased in concrete prongs. The samurai story hangs heavy on my shoulder.
I’m glad to step into the humidity-controlled, air-conditioned library. Inhale the smell of books. Because they still have real, honest-to-goodness tomes in here. Not just electronic copies. Floor to ceiling, eight levels of knowledge. If I attended this school, I’d set up a cot in the stacks and sleep here. I just want to run around in here all day, collecting big stacks of books to read. I’m amazed at the number of computers. No more card catalogs.
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