I think of Yamabuki teaching Tomoe poetry, Tomoe showing Yamabuki how to defend herself. Their own natural limitations. What Drew and I can learn from each other. This, at least, I can teach Drew.
Besides, snorkeling to get over a break-up sounds a lot healthier than sitting around and eating Ben & Jerry’s, though I might prefer the latter these days. And I’ve got to be there for my sister. I straighten my posture and a genuine smile bursts over me. “Sure. Whatever you want.”
• • •
We go to La Jolla Cove the next morning. Conditions are clear. I lock the car manually and put the key on a string around my neck. We put on wetsuits in the public bathroom—it’s only sixty-seven in the water, a far cry from the seventy-four it was in Hawaii—and go down the steps to the beach. We’ll leave our clothes in a shopping bag on the beach—probably nobody will take them, and if they do, it won’t be a huge loss. We wore my oldest, most paint-splattered clothes for this trip.
“Oh my God.” Drew makes a gagging noise. “It is rank.”
“It’s the bird and seal poop.” I gesture to the hundred vertical feet of large boulderish rocks lining the wall from the sidewalk down, which are white not from the sun but from bird droppings. A fence erected at the top means the birds don’t bother flying away when humans are near.
It is stinky, smarting my eyes and mouth. Only a few years ago, when Quincy had her water polo team pictures done here, it wasn’t nearly this bad. The whole area has been affected by a nearby beach known as the Children’s Pool, a partially man-made cove that has been made into a sea lion preserve, with humans not allowed to disturb them. Often, the water’s too polluted for swimming because of the sea lion excrement combined with various other run-off from the land. In fact, there are permanent signs saying things like “Swim at Your Own Risk.” Nobody’s done much about the pollution, everybody blaming everybody else—sea lion lovers hating the beachgoers, beachgoers hating the environmentalists, on and on, suing the city and each other in a never-ending cycle. I figure we’ll be okay once we get out into the open water, and as long as we rinse off afterward. It doesn’t stop anybody else.
A single lifeguard sits in the large tower enclosure, wearing a light jacket. Only a few people are in the water, tourists from colder climes, holding their faces up to the sun in hopes of proving with their tans that they vacationed in San Diego. It’s high tide, the water licking the sandstone cliffs where the tourists perch, their towels and flip-flops in danger of sweeping out to sea.
Drew freezes. “The water’s kind of high.”
“You thought of it.” I continue down the stairs.
“I think of plenty of bad ideas.” Drew follows me slowly. “Doesn’t mean I should do them all.”
“You’ll be fine.” I turn and look at her. She’s more excited than afraid. “Remember Yamabuki and Tomoe.” I think of one more thing she needs to know. “Oh, and we might see some leopard sharks. It’s fine. They’re completely harmless.”
“Okay then.” Drew turns and pretends to go back upstairs.
The water’s actually warmer than the air, and it seeps into our wetsuits and heats up around our bodies. We quickly put on our fins and masks and snorkels. All I can hear is the sound of our breathing, hard and raspy like twin Darth Vaders, and the pounding of the small waves against my body. Then I get on my belly, Drew following.
The water gets deep rapidly. We can see a few yards around us. Not bad. Sometimes you can’t see a hand in front of your face. We swim through a forest of kelp, of small silvery fish, moving farther out beyond the protective cove. A school of orange-red Garibaldi dart past, their fat cheeks puffing.
I float facedown, waves shooshing me back and forth. The kelp forest ripples in the current, indecipherable forms moving in and out of the twisting fronds. Ahead and below, a five-foot leopard shark glides past, its back marked with distinctive spots. I point to it and throw a thumbs-up to Drew. We follow the shark at a distance as it moves its sinuous body in the water. Suddenly we’re in the open ocean. I kick my fins harder. My thigh muscles burn.
I know exactly where we are—above La Jolla Canyon, where the bottom is six hundred feet deep. You really need scuba gear to see it properly. I used to come out here all the time. It’s a marine protected area. Once, with my high school swim buddies, I saw a gray whale passing below, its enormous prehistoric form sluicing languidly through the water. More leopard sharks move back and forth underneath.
A wave washes over my snorkel, somehow sending water inside, and I surface to spit. A sea lion rolls in the water, diving into the gully and chasing after a silvery fish. Its whiskered face peers at us adorably, but its adorableness is a ruse. Those things have sharp teeth. The sea lion swims up to the surface for air, dives back down like a rocket, and disappears.
Suddenly, in my peripheral vision, I see a black form on my left. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. It’s too large for a leopard shark. Another sea lion? I try to make out its shadow. It’s big, maybe twelve feet long, too long for a sea lion, too. A real chill hits me. Black eyes, a mouthful of teeth tasting the water. My heart pounds as I make eye contact with the creature. That is not a leopard shark.
A primeval need to flee makes me shudder. The shark passes so closely I can see the gills moving. Then it loops around and returns, as if it’s trying to sense what we are. If it was in a tank and I was standing on the other side it’d be beautiful, with its powerful muscles moving under its sleek skin.
It thinks we’re sea lions, I think. I try to remember every Shark Week show I’ve ever seen. Chase and Tom were always watching that Les Stroud survivor guy. What did he say to do? I turn and grab Drew’s wrist, and we start swimming slowly back, but the current’s pushing us away from the shore. We have to swim parallel to the beach to get out of this rip current, but I’m not quite able to turn myself, and I’m tired and, yes, panicking. My heart rate goes up and I hear it thudding in my ears and all I can think about is that huge thing somewhere behind us.
The image of Tomoe Gozen enters my mind, as she has so often lately, so real she’s become. I see her in a battle. Charging on Cherry Blossom. You must strike first, hard and fast. That’s what her father told her. But how? We need to get out of here. The breathing noise in my mask becomes unsteady, panicked, even as I tell myself to be calm.
We’re making no progress, the stupid kelp weaving itself around our bodies. A slimy piece wraps around my leg and I kick it free. Where did the shark go? Visibility is terrible now, the waves coming in harder and churning up sand below.
Then I see it, swimming toward us. Its mouth is open. Its eyes, shadow orbs, pupil-less and dark as space. It wants to do another loop around us.
Every nerve I have tells me to get out of there. Or freeze.
I let go of Drew, or she lets go of me. I grab for her and grab nothing. Just water in my hand. I can’t see her. Just kelp and clouds. “Drew!” I cry out involuntarily, and this is a mistake, because I choke up on water. I lift my head into the air and cough and see the dorsal fin. I don’t see Drew’s snorkel anywhere, don’t see her fins flapping around. I take a breath and dive.
Drew’s by the shark, flailing, her arms a blur. Does it have her? With two big kicks I reach her. I circle my arms around her waist, but she shoves me off.
The shark rolls away, pushing us backward in its powerful wake. Drew surfaces, I follow.
“Rachel! Are you trying to drown me?” She spits and blinks.
“Are you all right?” My eyes sting from the salt. No blood’s in the water.
“I punched it.” She pushes the mask up onto her forehead, dazed. “I punched it in its eye. It didn’t like it.”
Relief floods through me, so palpable I sink down into the water, the coolness lapping at my cheekbones. “Drew. You could’ve gotten killed.”
Drew’s face contorts. She points at me. “No. You could have gotten killed.
You’re not supposed to fucking swim away from a motherfucking shark.” She smacks the water, sending a fan of it at my face. “What’s the matter with you? I thought you knew what you were doing. Why do I know the right thing to do and you don’t?”
I stare at her, speechless. I’ve never heard Drew sound so angry. I’m angry, too, angry at myself for freezing during a crisis. At her for putting herself at risk. My ears burn so hot the water dribbling out feels warm on my neck. Adrenaline’s still shooting through my body, looking for an outlet. I yell. “What’s the matter with me? Who are you, Evander Holyfield? Punching a shark. That was so, so stupid, Drew Snow. What if it bit your arm off?”
“But it didn’t.” She blows out her snorkel, pulls her mask down. “We’re alive. Come on. Let’s get back to shore.” She puts her face in and starts swimming fast, diagonally, exactly like she’s supposed to.
I watch her for just a second, numb. In the near distance, a plume of blood trails through the water. Sea lion, I think. Fuck. Why aren’t we getting out of here? Another dumb move, Rachel.
The sound of a motor approaches and I lift my head above the waves. A lifeguard Sea-Doo. “Hey!” he yells, coming to a stop by Drew, helps her up. She’s so far ahead of me. They zoom toward me and I hold out my hand. Thank God. The adrenaline’s gone and my body’s shaking and useless. They both pull me up, setting me in between them. I put my arms around the lifeguard, his life jacket against my chest.
“Any injuries?” the lifeguard says above the roar of the motor.
“No,” I say.
He motors toward shore, where a gaggle of spectators have gathered. I wonder how long they’ve been out there, watching us, thinking we were about to die. If the lifeguards have been using the loudspeakers, telling us to get out of the water. “We’re pretty sure that was a Great White. They’ve been coming around for the sea lions.” He accelerates so I can barely hear him, though he’s shouting over his shoulder. “Once in a lifetime,” I catch, and then he doesn’t try to talk anymore.
• • •
Onshore, the lifeguards let us rinse off, then interview us in their wooden tower. Mostly Drew. I sit with a towel wrapped around me, the adrenaline evaporating, leaving my bones rubbery. I need a nap.
They mutter things like incredible and lucky and look at my sister with the same kind of unbridled admiration she gets when she plays her music. The kind I used to get, a long, long time ago. I swallow. My little sister is the hero. Deservedly so. I should be standing with the lifeguards, cheering for her, too.
“So what did you do?” The lifeguard who picked us up turns to me. He has a mass of red-orange hair, a wild full matching beard, skin reddened from the sun. “Kick it? Or did you punch it, too?”
I am quiet. I failed Drew. I’m the one with experience in the water and yet I’m the one who froze. I shrug. “I froze. I let her save me.” A swill of shame rises, hot and miserable as the worst day of summer. Sweat leaks out through my wetsuit. I wait for him to say something, to verify or deny my idiocy.
The lifeguard nods. “Oh.” He turns back to Drew, and another lifeguard type person shows up and Drew retells the story again, her arms flying, animated.
I rub at my face. I feel nauseated and I just want to go home. I stand and interrupt my sister, who’s arrived at the part, again, where she punches the eye. “It felt like punching rubber and goop. I think I actually felt its bare eyeball.” She is radiant. Gorgeous. All the lifeguards sort of swoon and look at her like they’re about to drop to one knee and propose, en masse.
I tap her shoulder. “Hey. Do you think we could go home? I want to go have a hot shower.”
Drew blinks at me. “Can you wait just a second?”
“No. I really can’t. I’ll be in the car when you’re ready.” I walk out of the lifeguard shack, clutching the keys, my head down. I tell myself I’m just tired, but the truth is, there’s something else secretly bothering me. I wish I didn’t feel it. Envy. I’m jealous of my sister because she, what, saved my life? Yes, I admit to myself, barely able to form the syllable, even in my own head. Ugly and true. I walk faster, letting sharp rocks from the asphalt cut into my soles, like a penitent.
Tomoe, from the series One Hundred Poets from the Literary Heroes of Our Country by Utagawa Kuniyoshi
Photograph © 2015 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston
BATTLE OF KURIKARA
CENTRAL-NORTHERN REGION
HONSHU, JAPAN
Summer 1183
Tomoe checked her appearance in the round bronze mirror and patted her oiled hair. Her armor was in place. She was ready—but inside she quelled a jolt of nerves.
Yamabuki, standing behind her with the comb, smiled at the wavering reflection. “Not even a typhoon will move your hair, Tomoe.”
Tomoe frowned. She should stay here and protect the women. But Yoshinaka had ordered her to go. “If anything happens, if we don’t return, take the children to Yoritomo’s family in the Kanto.”
Yamabuki inclined her head. “We will drown ourselves in the river before we let ourselves be captured.”
Tomoe kept her gaze from meeting Yamabuki’s. Let it not come to that.
She remembered the gift. After setting the mirror down, she went to a corner of the room and retrieved her old naginata. “I want you to have this. Remember how to use it.”
Yamabuki took the tall weapon in her small hands. She propped it upright and inclined her head toward Tomoe. “It is too fine for me. I am not an onnamusha.”
“Take it.” Tomoe wished Yamabuki would pick up the naginata with a yell, swing it around, demonstrate her vigor. Instead, the woman was barely able to hold on to the heavy wooden pole. Surely they would be overtaken if attacked. All the women and children killed. Tomoe squelched the thought.
“Arigato.” Yamabuki bowed. She put the sword down and reached into her kimono, pressing something into Tomoe’s palm. “I have something for you, too.”
An omamori. A good-luck amulet. A rectangular envelope made of red cloth, with thin white string knotted at the top of the narrower side. Paper crunched inside. Yamabuki had written a prayer for Tomoe. To keep you safe from all harm, it read. Tomoe tucked it inside her kimono, near her heart.
“Arigato.” She bowed.
Yamabuki bowed back. “Do-itashimashte.” You’re welcome. Her voice was as timid as it had been when she was a girl-bride. She reached up and hugged Tomoe fiercely.
Tomoe stepped back and looked into Yamabuki’s round, worried eyes. “Don’t be afraid. You are a warrior. You are of this family now. You understand?” She sounded fiercer than she meant to, and she feared Yamabuki would start crying, but Yamabuki simply drew herself up and nodded.
“I will remember.” Yamabuki clasped Tomoe’s hand as Tomoe studied her face. It seemed only yesterday that Yamabuki had arrived, but nine years had passed. Yamabuki had long ago lost her baby fat and delicate air. Her bony hand, in Tomoe’s own, was coarsened, the skin rough as pine bark. This was not the life she was born to live. Tomoe felt almost guilty for her own unchanged beauty.
Yamabuki reached up with her free hand and tucked a stray hair behind Tomoe’s ear. She began to cry.
“Stop,” Tomoe said harshly, afraid she, too, would begin weeping.
Aoi, Yamabuki’s two-year-old daughter, tugged at Tomoe’s kimono. “Up,” she said in her high voice. Tomoe picked up the girl, snuggling her chubby body against her own, taking in the little one’s sweet-smelling black hair. Would she see this girl live to womanhood? She felt something break inside her and quickly handed Aoi over to Yamabuki before the toddler could sense her distress.
Tomoe leaned down and pressed her forehead against Yamabuki’s. “Take care of my mother and the children.” She straightened and took a step away. A retainer sounded a horn. They were leaving. “Sayonara.” Farewell.
“Dewa mata atode.” Yamabuki smiled a
t her over Aoi’s round face.
Dewa mata atode. See you later. What a strange piece of optimism for Yamabuki to show. Tomoe didn’t correct her.
Outside, Yoshinaka sat atop a snorting black Demon, in his full battle gear of bearskin shoes and grand iron helmet. Minamoto banners waved in the summer air. Hundreds of soldiers cheered when they saw her. “Tomoe! Tomoe!”
She lifted a hand and their voices rose. Without looking back at her family, Tomoe walked out from the porch and across the courtyard. Cherry Blossom waited, with her scarlet saddle, her silken blankets, her tasseled bridle.
“Let us go!” Yoshinaka shouted. “We will show my cousin who the true leader is!”
Tomoe nodded and swung atop the horse. They began walking out of the fortress, the dust kicking up. Tomoe sat tall. Only once did she turn in her saddle and watch as the figures of the women on the porch grew smaller and smaller, waving at her until they shimmered and faded, like a memory.
Sixteen
SAN DIEGO
Present Day
They drive to Rachel’s house wet, not bothering to peel off their wetsuits. Rachel is quiet, her hands gripping the steering wheel hard, and Drew doesn’t talk, either. Both of them are in their own worlds, a mishmash of emotions for Drew.
“You shouldn’t have taken such a big risk,” Rachel says when they pull into her garage.
“If anyone’s going to get killed,” Drew says, slamming the door, “it should be me. I don’t have any kids. We’re alive, aren’t we?”
“You know what I think?” Rachel glances at Drew. “You’re Tomoe and I’m Yamabuki. I think that’s what Mom wants us to know.”
Drew shakes her head. That’s not right. It can’t be. “No, Tomoe’s the warrior.”
“You’re the one who fought. I’m Yamabuki, the one who stays at home. All devastated and messed up.” Rachel goes into her house.
Sisters of Heart and Snow Page 26