Sisters of Heart and Snow

by Margaret Dilloway

  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.”

  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 cloth
es 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.