Sisters of Heart and Snow

by Margaret Dilloway

  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 opp
ortunity 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.

  KURIKARA PASS

  CENTRAL-NORTHERN REGION

  HONSHU, JAPAN

  Summer 1183

  As they approached the Kurikara Pass, Tomoe could hear the voices of the Taira bouncing off the rocky walls. She swallowed. Yoshinaka had perhaps eight hundred soldiers, while the Taira still had several thousand. They were hopelessly outnumbered.

  Her fingers grazed the good-luck amulet near her heart.

  They began ascending the pass, toward the waiting Taira. Demon snorted and stomped, ready as his master for a fight. “Whatever happens,” Yoshinaka swung about in his saddle, “be prepared for battle when I give the signal. Understood?”

  Tomoe did not answer. Around her, the men shouted “Hai!” in one fierce voice.

  “Do you know what’s going on?” Tomoe whispered to Kanehira.

  “Yes, but you don’t need to,” Kanehira answered. “You’re just a figurehead.” With those words, he spurred his horse ahead of the rest, declaring, “Taira warriors! I am Kanehira Imai, son of Kaneto Nakahara, foster brother to Lord Yoshinaka Minamoto! Behold the best archer in all of Japan!” He bowed. “Who will challenge me? Who can bear the shame of losing to a Minamoto?”

  An archery battle? Of course. This would take hours. The samurai were foolishly proud men; they loved to see whose forces could boast the best swordsman, the best archer.

  The Taira broke into an excited murmur, rearranging their troops to either side. This contest was but a distraction, she thought, to keep the Taira from noticing Yoshinaka’s pitiful numbers.

  A Taira mounted on a black mare ran forward. “I regret to inform you of your misinformation!” he shouted. “I am Takamune Kazurahara, son of Shinno, and it is I who is the best archer in all of Japan!” His horse pranced and snorted, kicking up a cloud of gray dust. The Taira cheered lustily.

  At its widest, the pass was only as big as a dozen horses end to end. Near the beginning, the pass had no walls of mountain, but narrowed into a natural bridge over a steep, tall ravine. One misstep would send a rider to his death. But Tomoe supposed it was no more painful than dying in a battle.

  • • •

  The matches wore on into the afternoon. No one fell into the canyon. Tomoe sat down on the embankment and ate her ration of rice cake as Cherry Blossom chewed the grass into stumps all around her. Below, the men felt no such boredom. They cheered enthusiastically at each new match and even broke out the sake.

  So this was war. Tomoe dozed. I get more rest here than at home, she thought.

  The line of soldiers volunteering for the arrow battle grew shorter as the day progressed. She gave up listening for Yoshinaka’s battle charge. Obviously it would happen later. Perhaps tomorrow. Tomoe dabbed at her perspiring forehead and considered mounting Cherry Blossom and riding into the distance, never to be seen again. She’d fly back home, retrieve little Yoshitaka, Aoi, Yamabuki, and Chizuru, and take them to the Kanto. Yoshinaka wouldn’t notice for weeks.

  But then Tomoe thought of the farmers who had
joined their army, of her father—his dream of helping the Minamoto overthrow the Taira rule. Of the Taira putting the child puppet-emperor into place. Of the indifferent government that heavily taxed its people and let them die of starvation and disease. Of the Search and Destroy troops who killed innocents like Kaneto.

  Kaneto’s voice came back to her on the wind, whispering in her ear. You must watch over Yoshinaka, he had said. She was her foster brother’s keeper, then as now.

  She watched Yoshinaka, his broad back as he sat on Demon, gesturing to her brother. Whenever she looked at him, a flutter of anticipation went through her, as though she were still a girl mooning over her first crush.

  She knew she would stay even if Kaneto had released her. She would stay if Yoshinaka told her to go home.

  The Minamoto horagai sounded, the conch trumpet. A roar rose from the other side of the mountain. Yoshinaka had sent soldiers up around the other side, to surprise the Taira from behind, Tomoe realized. The duel had been a ruse, an all-day distraction.

  Now the Minamoto cut down the unsuspecting soldiers as if they were stalks of grass. The Taira soldiers pulled out their swords and tried to shoot arrows, but, caught by surprise, they tumbled about like a spilled bag of Go pieces. Tomoe mounted Cherry Blossom and urged her forward to help.

  A Taira warrior galloped at Tomoe, his sword whipping viciously through the air. Tomoe had just enough time to unsheathe her sword and block him; the clang of their blades nearly knocked her off Cherry Blossom. She swung, aiming for the vulnerable part of her attacker’s armor, where the helmet connected to the neck, and drove her blade up and under. She made contact and he fell from his horse. His head, freed of its body, thumped against her thigh; a long hot trail of blood soaked through her pants. Tomoe gritted her teeth, breathing through her nose. The air smelled of sour sake and blood, of fear.

  She concentrated on navigating Cherry Blossom past the ravine. A man came at her and she shoved him with her foot, sending him screaming over the edge onto the sharp rocks far below.