“Don’t you think that was crazy, no matter what had happened to him as a child?” It seemed to me there were plenty of things our parents did that we, as parents, could choose not to do to our own children.
My mother made a swiping motion with her hand. “Your father is not like other people.”
We left it at that, never discussing it again.
• • •
Joseph puts his pen down, rubs his eyes under his glasses. “Let me go get you those books. You wait here.” He gets up and disappears.
I turn to my sister. “Don’t you remember what Dad had us do at Fed-Mart?”
Drew stares at me blankly.
“He made us steal groceries,” I say. Several people look up, alert to unfolding drama. Rubberneckers. I don’t care. “He told us to take the receipts back in and pretend like we hadn’t gotten our items.”
My sister blinks. Her slender fingers pick at a cuticle on her left thumb. “I vaguely remember doing that. But I thought he really hadn’t gotten the stuff.” She inhales. “Really? He did that? Why?”
I shrug, relieved that Drew didn’t remember, that she hadn’t known she was stealing. I’d asked myself why he’d do that many times. “He enjoys getting away with it. Why did Winona Ryder shoplift those clothes she could’ve bought? Compulsion? Ego?”
“I don’t know.” Drew purses her lips. “I do know that once I went grocery shopping with Mom, and her credit card got refused. Dad cut her off at a certain amount. Said she was a spendthrift.” She shakes her head. “Can you imagine standing there in designer clothes with a Mercedes in the parking lot and not being able to pay for your cereal?”
My stomach flutters at the thought. “I didn’t know that. But he let her do the quilts. She got tons of fabric all the time.”
Drew shrugs. “I suppose such a feminine activity didn’t bother him. It did kind of keep her happy. Or occupied.”
Joseph reappears with several books in hand. The Tale of Genji, which Joseph insists is essential for understanding feudal Japan; the Heike Monogatari, about the civil war; a slim nonfiction book called Samurai Women, and a book of poetry by medieval female Japanese poets. “The time during which Tomoe Gozen lived was a very important era in Japan, the beginning of the samurai era. Two clans, the Minamoto and the Taira, fought for the shogunate. The shogun essentially made the emperor his puppet and had all the power.” His voice rises again in excitement and his eyes practically shoot sparks. I can see why he’s devoted his studies to the subject. “The Yoshinaka story is very Shakespearean, full of double crosses and betrayals.” He slides the book into a soft cloth bag.
Yamabuki sitting by the fire, mending the coat of her husband, Yoshinaka, by Utagawa Kuniyoshi
Photograph © MAK. Courtesy MAK–Austrian Museum of Applied Arts / Contemporary Art
MIYANOKOSHI FORTRESS
SHINANO PROVINCE
HONSHU, JAPAN
Winter 1174
Tomoe put on four layers of clothing, her teeth chattering. The snows had been heavy, starting in early October, and showed no signs of letting up. Tomoe was glad. Heavy snow meant water that would run down to the valleys as it melted, helping the crops and people grow.
She walked to the door, sliding it open to let in what little light lingered in the winter-dark sky. This was her own house, a small one-room bungalow. Nothing fancy, no silk screens or fine furniture, but it was hers, built for her by Yoshinaka. Both of them had hoped, though Tomoe was not his legal wife, that she would be sharing this house with their own child, but no matter how many times they lay together, she continued her monthly blood.
Soon she would be sharing this house with another woman, for whom Tomoe would serve as an attendant.
Yoshinaka had made progress in these few years since Kaneto died, winning over their countryside regions, and was now known as the governor of Shinano, home to about ten thousand. In the cities, Yoshinaka was known as Kiso, a nickname deriding him as a country bumpkin; it was his cousin Yoritomo who was in charge of the Minamoto clan.
At Miyanokoshi, high up in the mountains, tall log walls enclosed a small village of houses. Below the fort stood craggy rocks and a moat. They were secure, but isolated. Tomoe barely remembered what a real city looked like, or even a small town. She wished they could go to war tomorrow, simply so she could get out of this place and the unrelenting boredom of peace.
Snow flurries blew in, coating her face. She closed her eyes against them.
It was quiet today, with everyone busy making preparations for the newest member of the clan, who was due to arrive in the afternoon. Yoshinaka was not a man who liked to sit in silence. He always had friends around him in his house, where they would drink and talk; outside, they played out every military maneuver he could think of in endless succession. But today, he had come here alone.
“We can have a few moments together,” he told Tomoe. If he was anxious about the events that were to take place later, he did not say so.
Tomoe had nodded, her tears, always hidden from Yoshinaka, long dried. Today was the day Yamabuki Gozen would arrive. Lady Yamabuki, Yoshinaka’s new wife. His official wife, arriving from the city of Miyako.
She wondered what the new woman, arriving from Miyako and accustomed to fine things, would think of it, of this place where there was no powder for one’s face, no screens to hide behind, no musical instruments to fill the air with their jangling melodies. This place of mere survival.
Tomoe set her mouth in a grim smile. Perhaps the woman would not last long at all.
Yoshinaka’s nostrils flared. “Tomoe. You are making me nervous.”
She shut the door. At last, an admission of truth. “You ought to be nervous. We have no idea what this girl looks like.”
“Come here.” He was behind her now, him coming to her, not the other way around. She did not think she could ever bring herself to come to him again. He looped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck.
Yoshinaka spun her around and kissed her, his warm tongue comforting her cold one. She embraced him, pulled him into her, letting the heat of his body thaw her. If they did this outside, surely steam would rise off their bodies. Snow would melt. They would make a lake.
They moved to her futon, which she had not put away as she usually did. Yoshinaka pulled her with him under the covers, shrugging off their heavy quilted tanzens and kimonos, pushing the pile of clothes to one side. Skin to skin. She faced him, side to side, ran her hand over the sinuous landscape of his flesh, the muscularity she knew better than her own.
She wanted to tell him that she was afraid this would be the last time. That he wouldn’t love her anymore because he had a novel new wife. Yet it was useless to argue against the fact of Lady Yamabuki.
Besides, Yamabuki was a real noble, a woman from a fine family of Minamoto sympathizers in the capital. Marrying her was a necessary strategic move. Tomoe’s analytical brain realized this. It was her silly heart that hurt.
“You will always be first for me,” Yoshinaka said. “You must know that.”
She said nothing. She would not extract a promise. He would tell her only what she wanted to hear.
Wind shuddered the walls, blowing inside, blasting their faces through the cracks between the timbers. Yoshinaka covered their heads with the blanket.
“If only we could hide in here forever,” he said. It was the closest he would get to poetry. Tomoe took small satisfaction in the knowledge that his new wife would never hear a poem of his, either.
She opened her mouth to his, biting ferociously in the way he liked best.
Eight
SAN DIEGO
Present Day
Drew’s phone rings, verboten in the library. Jonah, her ex. Drew holds up a finger to Rachel and steps outside to take it.
“Thank God,” Jonah says. His baritone sounds hoarse, as if he’s n
ot practicing the good vocal hygiene (no alcohol, only soothing teas, singing from his gut) that Drew tried to drum into him and which he of course ignored. “I went by Dogwarts and it was closed permanently. Your landlord said he hasn’t seen you for a while. I thought something bad happened.”
“I could’ve died two years ago, for all you know,” Drew points out. She hasn’t talked to him but once since they broke up. It’s sweet of him to worry. She remembers the way it felt to embrace him, how her head rested so comfortably against his chest, and her throat catches. She’s not still in love with him. She can’t be. “What do you want?” She sounds harsher than she wants, but it’d be so easy to fall back in with him. If he said right now he wanted her to be the tambourine player again, to scoop up those little crumbs he saw fit to throw her, well, she just might get in her car and drive back up to him.
“We’ve restructured the band a bit. Drummer’s gone.” That would be John, the guy who disliked Drew. “We’re thinking of using strings at some of our shows, and I thought of you.”
You mean the way I suggested years and years ago? She exhales. Part of her wants to say Yes, of course. The other part, deep in her gut, tells her. This will not end well.
“It’s for Jimmy Kimmel,” Jonah adds. Dangling the carrot. “We start rehearsals next week. We might use the strings on tour, too, if it goes well. Drew,” his voice drops an octave, “I haven’t called because I knew we had to break it off clean. But . . . nothing’s the same without you.”
“Really? You guys are doing better without me.” Drew turns away from the library.
He blows into the phone. “I mean, Drew. You know what I mean. We just wake up and go to the airport and play a show and go to sleep and go to the airport and . . .” he trails off. “I miss you.”
Drew feels her bones turning into jelly.
Rachel appears, carrying the books Joseph got her. Drew remembers where she is. With her sister, helping her. Helping her mother. “I’ve got to take care of some family stuff, Jonah. I’ll let you know.”
“Okay,” Jonah says, sounding surprised. A little hurt. Yes. He expected her to come back, when he wants.
Drew hangs up, her heart beating hard. For a moment she thinks she’s done the wrong thing. What if she goes back and everything works out great, and she finally has the career and the life she wants? What if she’s meant to be with Jonah? She can’t just hang out with Rachel forever. She’s got to come up with a plan.
A good plan. A foolproof-no-shit roadmap, telling her how to live the rest of her life.
Her sister holds out her hand. “Everything okay?”
A familiar gesture. Rachel always held Drew’s hand when they were little. Up until Drew was twelve, actually—Rachel would grab Drew’s hand and steer her through parking lots. Just in case, Rachel would say, as if she alone had the power to protect Drew from two tons of solid metal.
Drew takes her sister’s hand. It is the same size as her own now.
Rachel drops it. “I’ve got to carry these,” she says, almost apologetically, and hands a few books to Drew. “Help me?”
“Sure.” Drew takes the books and follows her sister to the parking lot.
• • •
Later in the day, after I take Drew back to my house, where she says she’s going to job-hunt online before she picks up Chase, I drive back up to La Jolla to meet my daughter.
I pause outside the bridal boutique, staring at the all-white faceless mannequins in dolloped whipped cream dresses with rib-cage-binding bodices. I’m so out of my element. This is downtown La Jolla, a street of high-end shops and restaurants a couple blocks from the beach—and from my mother’s nursing home.
Quincy wants to go on a preliminary dress-scouting mission. When I shopped for my dress, this store wasn’t even on my fantasy list. Come to think of it, I had no fantasy list. I’m glad my daughter does. Isn’t that what we’ve been working for, all these years? Anyway, I’m not telling Tom what Quincy’s dress cost for at least forty years. Preferably, he won’t find out until I’m dead.
Quincy appears now, almost sprinting again. Her face and arms, exposed by her cream-colored tank top, are with dusted with freckles, but her summer tan’s gone and she looks chalky. Not her natural skin color, like she’s been working too hard. Her sunglasses push back her long, unkempt hair and she’s as thin as a fashion model. Normally, my daughter’s got a fair amount of muscle packed on from playing volleyball and eating well. I want both her and Drew back at my house, stat, eating. I’ll get Tom’s mother to help. We’ll hold them hostage for a weekend and pack them full of lasagna.
“Hey, Mom.” Quincy holds out her arms.
“Hey, Q.” I hug her, splay my hands over her ribs on her back. Yep. Skin and bones.
“Stop it. I know what you’re doing.” Quincy steps back. “I like being this thin. I eat. I’m perfectly healthy. Ryan will love me if I weigh a hundred pounds, or gain two hundred.” She shakes her head.
“Sorry. I’m just concerned.” I let it go. “Before I had kids, I was too thin. I gained eighty with you and only sixty came back off, which was a good thing.” It was true—after my weight went up, post-swimming, I dieted myself back down into skinniness, overdoing it, as I am wont to do. I look sideways at her. “Don’t get pregnant for a long time, though.”
“Mom. Stop. For real.” Quincy laughs me off. “I know. I’m genetically prone to stretch marks and should enjoy my youthful physique while I still can.”
“Something like that.” We link arms and look in the window. When Quincy was five or so, she poked at my belly. Why is your belly so squishy? How’d you get all those scars? Were you in a fight?
I glance at the bridesmaid dresses next to the bridal gowns, the tones of emerald and deep red and brown contrasting sharply with the white. Fall and Christmas colors. “Who are your bridesmaids going to be?” I’m having trouble picturing the wedding party, imagining myself in a mother-of-the-bride dress.
Quincy shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Nobody from the volleyball team?” Is she friends with anyone besides Ryan these days?
“Didn’t I tell you? I quit.” Quincy squints at the dresses in the window, a small frown playing across her brow.
“What?” She’s been playing volleyball since she was ten. “Did you get hurt?”
“No.”
Quincy used to be unstoppable. Nothing held her back. Sort of like Tomoe Gozen, I think, as I look at my daughter. True to herself, doing whatever she wanted, regardless of what anyone else said. What’s happened to my daughter? A couple of years ago, Quincy had her wisdom teeth extracted and was supposed to rest for a week. But two days after her procedure, the sound of the blender woke me before dawn. I switched on the light to see Quincy, who’d been in the dark. “What are you doing?” I eyed the eggs, the dirty frying pan, the toast crusts. “But what are you making?”
“Scrambled eggs and toast. Blended.” She glopped the thick concoction into a glass. It looked absolutely vomitous.
My stomach turned. “I can make you a fruit smoothie.”
“Just leave me alone, Mother. I’m perfectly fine.” She tipped the glass to her mouth and drank in loud rebellious gulps, her eyes never leaving mine. I waited for her to gag, to spit the gelatinous goo into the sink, but she kept on drinking until the glass was empty. “I feel a ton better. I’m going for a run.”
“The doctor said no exercise for a week.”
“That advice is for normal people. Not for me.” Quincy put the pan in the sink.
Yes, Quincy was tenacious, almost to the point where she didn’t care about her personal safety—also like Tomoe. It’s funny. I’d always wanted her to be more careful in that way. Balanced. Yet now she’s telling me she quit volleyball, and I don’t like it.
“I need to focus on my classes.” Quincy rolls her eyes. “Mom. Please. It’s not like
I was going to go professional. Calm down. Anyway, that’s probably why I’m thinner. I lost muscle mass.”
Well, engineering is one of the most demanding majors. And she’s right—she’s not going to be in the Olympics. I swallow down my questions. “That makes sense.”
Quincy jerks her head toward the shop. “What are we waiting for?”
We step inside. It’s like stepping into a wedding cake, and it smells sweet, too, layers of sugar and flowers. Everything is in shades of white—bright whites, warm whites, silvery whites, light cream. There are mirrors everywhere, bouncing the whites back.
I walk around the shop, eyeing the dresses. I will not look at the prices because I am ninety-nine percent sure I will faint. I touch the heavy satin of a Cinderella-type dress, fitted in the bodice, full at the bottom. No idea what sort of dress my daughter wants. A ton of cleavage? Bare shoulders? Tight skirt or full? Will she go in the modest Princess Kate direction, with long sleeves and lace? Quincy mostly wears jeans and T-shirts. I could barely get her into a dress for prom. “What style do you like?” I ask.
As if on cue, a saleswoman with short red hair appears. “We’re having a fabulous sale this week. Ten percent off.”
“I brought photos.” Quincy fans out some magazine pages that, as far as I can tell, contain a sample of every conceivable type of gown: short, tight, full, trains.
The saleswoman purses her pink-lipsticked mouth. “Let me pull some gowns. I’ll show you to a room.”
Quincy points to a satiny silver couch where a middle-aged woman sits, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “Wait here, Mom.”
I sit. Another bride, the one who belongs to the woman next to me, appears in a floofy dress, and the woman claps her hands.
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