Still, she feared there were too many Taira to defeat.
But now something else was happening below. The ground shook. Inhuman shrieking reverberated up from the front, down the pass, and Tomoe thought of legendary trolls who ate passersby. What was happening? The entire battle paused.
A herd of oxen charged in, up from the valley, flaming torches tied to their horns, their massive bodies hurtling up the mountain pass like boulders flung from a catapult.
Hundreds of Taira, surprised on the bottom of the pass, leapt out of the way, falling headlong to their deaths with high-pitched screams. Others were trampled. A few men tried stabbing at the oxen, but the oxen were maddened from the torches on their heads and stampeded blindly, snorting and bleating in terror as they charged through the pass.
Tomoe fought her way back down into the valley. Only a hundred or so Taira were still standing, the Minamoto putting them down in final skirmishes. Suddenly Tomoe was alone among the Taira dead and wounded, the battlefield soiling the peaceful valley like black mold on rice. The sun hung heavy and red, searing its last rays through the clouds.
Tomoe began walking among the wounded, searching for those she could help. She bandaged wounds and set broken bones as the injured rasped out their new, undying support for the Minamoto clan.
An old man lay on his back, his feet and arms splayed limply, like a crushed doll’s. He caught Tomoe’s attention because, although his face was deeply creased and liver-spotted, his hair was a curious jet-black. An inky black substance ran over his cheeks and forehead.
“Yoshinaka!” Tomoe gestured at Yoshinaka. “Come and see this one.”
Yoshinaka squatted down next to her, squinting. “An old man? What is he doing in battle?”
The old man had dyed his hair to look younger, she realized, so that the enemy would treat him as an equal. To do otherwise would lead to dishonor. “Who are you?” Tomoe shook him gently. “Tell me. Let me help.”
“A woman on the battlefield? It must be Tomoe Gozen.” The old man opened his eyes. They were so opaque with cataracts that Tomoe wondered how he could see at all. He smiled toothlessly. “I am Sanemori Saito. I have something to tell you.”
Sanemori Saito. Though she had not heard the name for many years, she recognized it instantly. This was the samurai who had rescued Yoshinaka as an infant, bringing him to live with Tomoe’s family. She did not remember that day, of course; she was too young. But Kaneto had talked of him often.
Sanemori closed his eyes. “Your cousin Yoritomo will betray you just as his father betrayed your father.”
“What?” Yoshinaka leaned closer.
“It was your uncle who killed your father, Yoshinaka. Not the Taira. Your own family stole your father’s title and land. You must not trust him. You must be the new leader of the Minamoto.” The man coughed, struggling to speak through his agony. Tomoe gently wiped at his face. “Or they will kill you for certain.”
Sanemori went still. Yoshinaka lowered the man’s body to the earth. Still, he said nothing. Yoshinaka rose and walked off, disappearing among the dead.
Seventeen
SAN DIEGO
Present Day
I manage to hold myself together, acting normal and calm when I pick up Chase and a couple of his teammates, and drive them out to East County for a tournament. Sit there clapping and chatting with the other mothers and fathers though I just want to ask them all, Has this happened to you? What should I do?
When Tom finally gets home in the late evening, he finds me in our bathroom, sitting on the toilet lid and staring blankly at the wall. I’m blowing my nose with a wad of toilet paper. It’s where every mom goes to weep privately, without interruption.
“What happened?” Tom asks. “Can you move, please? I have to . . .” He gestures to the toilet and I stand up.
“The world fell apart while you were at work.” I splash cold water on my face.
“Uh-oh.” Tom flushes the toilet and washes his hands.
I look at his face in the mirror, touch his five-o’clock stubble. Drew was gone when I got home, just like I asked. Everything gone.
I made a mistake with Drew. Drove her away just because I needed to be right. I don’t know what’s happened with Chase and Quincy—do I act the same with them, without realizing it? I need to stop needing to be right. It’s a disease, this thing. My sister was right. I am as controlling as Killian, in my own special way.
I tell Tom about Chase.
His jaw tightens. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Talk? That’s it?”
“What else can we do? Beat him?” Tom shakes his head. “I’ll take his phone and his computer away.”
We’re silent for a moment. Then I speak. “All I know is, if Quincy had been dating a high school junior when she was in eighth grade, you would have broken out the shotgun and gone over to that boy’s house.”
He nods. “But she didn’t. And maybe I’m more reasonable now.”
“No. She’s just getting married at age twenty. We are doing a spectacular job.” I turn on the cold water, splash it on my face again. “How did this all get so fucked up?”
Tom spins me around and takes me in his arms. “Rachel. It’s not all as bad as you think.”
“That’s because you’re a pathological optimist.” I push my forehead into his shoulder, like my kids would do when they were little and tired. How I want to be a kid again. To be loved and carried around. But I’m not. I have the kids now. Sometimes I feel like I’m pretending to be a grown-up. “I think I should talk to him.” I lift my head. “Is it different for boys? I mean, people always think it’s okay for boys to do that, but not girls.”
Tom puts his cheek on my head. “Yeah. You get called a stud for sleeping with girls, and a girl gets called a slut.” He sighs. “I remember the pressure to do it, like I should sleep with the first girl who’d let me, but after—feeling like it wasn’t all that great.”
I nod. Tom and I don’t really talk about our past lovers. They are, after all, in the past. “I know what it’s like to fool around before you’re ready.”
Tom tightens his hold. “Maybe you should share that with him.”
I swallow. I’m his mother. He’s supposed to hold me in high esteem. Compare all other women against me. If he knows I slept around so much, will Chase become disillusioned? “You want me to tell him about—me? I don’t want him to think I’m a slut, too.”
Tom said, “But I don’t think poorly about you, Rachel. I didn’t care about your past. Why should you teach your son to judge people by what personal mistakes they made decades ago? Is that what you do?”
I think about the chastity-only movement. The ones that visit schools sometimes. That say you’re used, a piece of trash, a worthless piece of chewed-up gum, if you’ve ever been with someone other than your husband. That’s how I felt, actually, coming out of the other end of it. I felt like there was no forgiveness, no grace. No penitence strong enough.
I don’t want Chase to have these devaluing thoughts. I have to offer myself up.
I have to come down off my pedestal.
• • •
I knock softly on Chase’s door. On the outside are signs he’s been posting since age ten. A sign about the Zombie Apocalypse. A crayon sign saying “Stay Out, This Means You Quincy.”
There’s no sound inside; he’s probably listening to music on his headphones. Finally I hear him galumph across the hardwood (the boy would make a terrible cat burglar) and he opens up the door.
“Hey.” I look right at him, seeing him as I haven’t seen him for a long time. He’s taller than I remembered. With my mother and his sister and everything else, how much have I seen my son this year? Not much. I’ve watched him play sports and driven him to school, but how well have I really gotten to know him lately?
Soon, too soon, he’ll be gone, off
to college, hopefully. “You’ve been growing up behind my back.”
He goes to his desk, sits. “Quincy always said she was sneaking caffeine into my food, so I wouldn’t get taller than her.”
“It didn’t work.” I lean against the doorframe, dig my fingernails into my arms. Having a sex talk with my daughter felt awkward, but this is in a whole new stratosphere. I don’t know how I got so straitlaced. It seems like I spent so many years corralling Wild Rachel that I’ve become Prude Rachel. “Chase, you got a text today. A photo, from a girl.”
The blood drains out of his face. “Why are you looking at my phone? It’s private.”
“It’s technically my phone, Chase. That was part of the deal.” The deal we made when he got his own phone: his father and I could look at it whenever we liked. Electronics are a privilege, not a right. All that good stuff. He’s been signing Good Electronics Moral code since he was in third grade. “She was naked.”
He goes very still. Then he brushes his hair back, puts on a Padres cap backward. “I didn’t tell her to.”
“No.” I take a breath, close my eyes.
“You deleted it, right?” He’s talking fast, nervous.
I open my eyes. “Of course.” I swallow. “Has she done it before?”
He nods, not looking at me.
“You didn’t . . . share them, did you?”
“Of course not. I deleted them.” He stands up again. “I told her to leave me alone, just like Aunt Drew said. But she wouldn’t. She kept calling and e-mailing and sending those . . . pictures.” His voice quivers, full of tears. “She wouldn’t stop.”
“Well. She’ll stop now.” Oh my God. She’s been harassing him. “I wish you would have told us. Let us help.”
“It would make it worse.” He sits on his bed, wipes at his eyes, embarrassed. “What’s my punishment?”
I clear my throat. I don’t want to punish him. I want him to understand. “I want to tell you something about me. I mean, that’s not the punishment.” I allow myself a small grin, which he returns. “It’s related but not related.”
He angles his head to the side. Listening. No headphones, no phone, no car. Just me and my son.
I tell him. Everything. About me and my father. About the drinking, drugs, boys. How I got kicked out.
Chase tilts his head back and squints at me. “That was a long time ago.”
“I know.”
“I mean, a really, really long time ago. A whole generation ago.”
I spurt out a laugh. “Yeah. Prehistoric.”
He shakes his head. “Did you think I’d, like, shun you or something?”
I shrug. “I don’t know what I thought. I was ashamed. I didn’t want you to know.”
“Mom, the only time I’m ever ashamed of you is when you dance. Seriously.” He lies back on his bed, putting his hands behind his head, grinning.
I sit on the bed next to him. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. In body, mind, or spirit. I want you to be safe. Never be afraid of us. Okay? I promise. We will always be there for you.”
He wrinkles his brow at me. “Okay, Mom. I get it.”
Does he? It’s hard to tell. Nobody can really tell anything about anyone—all you can do is hope and trust.
Chase pats my arm. “Don’t worry. I’m not hiding any other deep, dark secrets.” He sighs. “Well, Mom. I’m glad we could have this talk. I feel very much wiser now.”
“I think it’s just ‘feel wiser.’” I pat his arm back.
“Way to ruin my moment, Mom.” He smiles a half smile, one corner crooking up. “Now can I finish my homework?”
I take his phone with me and look at it to see if the girl responded. She has not.
The last text is from Drew. My breath catches. I open the thread.
Chase: You left without saying good-bye.
Drew: I know. I’m really sorry. I had stuff I had to take care of up here.
Chase: We had fun. When are you coming back?
Drew: I’m not sure. But we’ll keep in touch. I promise.
He hasn’t answered.
I slump against the wall. We had fun. When are you coming back? is Chase-speak for I’m glad I got to know you. I love you.
But it’s too late to do anything about Drew right now. I turn off the phone and head for bed.
• • •
Drew stands in the middle of her studio apartment, wondering where on earth her basket of clean clothes can be. She knows it’s in here somewhere. She shifts a throw blanket, finds it under there.
For the first hour and a half of her drive home, Drew stewed about Rachel. Of course Drew had a part in the fight, but Rachel was the one who told her she wasn’t part of her family. Fine. Let her live her life with her kids. Apart from her. Drew had no family anymore. She thought, for a moment, of Alan. Alan didn’t count.
But by the time she passed the false snowy fiberglass peak of the Disneyland Matterhorn in Anaheim, halfway up to L.A., she was feeling regretful. She should have told Rachel about Chase. Drew would have wanted to know, if she had a son. Drew had messed up. But she only wanted to keep the bond she and Chase had developed, and prevent a Rachel meltdown. Rachel spent so much time trying to be the perfect mother and wife that her children were afraid to mess up. They wouldn’t come to Rachel with problems while the problems were still little. They were secretive, even if they didn’t intend to be—as secretive as Rachel was about keeping her past hidden. And look—she’d had a meltdown anyway.
All their family kept parts of themselves hidden. Afraid of rejection and pissing off the others. “Tomoe Gozen wouldn’t do that,” Drew says aloud to her empty dwelling. Tomoe not caring whether her brother hated her. Whether Yamabuki was displeased. She was simply Tomoe, unapologetic.
A fine layer of dust covers all the belongings in her small studio, the bed, the couch, and the kitchen all in one space. Drew puts her hands on her hips and takes a mental assessment of her belongings. Most of her furniture is from the thrift store, painted white so everything matches. The couch is ancient, obtained for free from a curb and slipcovered to hide its crumbling interior. The television’s prone to conking out. The appliances aren’t hers. Drew’s afraid to look in the fridge. She probably doesn’t have much in there. She doesn’t even own a plant.
She could walk away from these four hundred square feet and not think twice. If she had anywhere else to go.
A message from Alan appears on her phone. Drew, I want to see you again. Please. I need to talk to you.
She texted him back. Bad idea. Sorry. This, at least, she could do right. Stick to her guns.
Her gaze falls on her viola case. Sitting right where she left it, next to her bed.
This is her most precious possession. It has a spruce top, and cost thousands of dollars. Why didn’t she take it with her?
Drew doesn’t have an answer. She snaps open the latches. The warm wood shines up at her and she puts her fingertips on it. This instrument has seen her through since she was sixteen. It was her birthday present. Drew remembers opening the red package in front of her mother.
“Do you like it?” At the time, Drew thought her mother’s tone was neutral. Now, as she thinks back, she remembers the emotion hobbling her mother’s eyes. The hope and the fear.
“I do.” Drew hugged the viola to her. “I love it.”
“You better like it,” Killian said. “It cost more than a year of college.”
Drew puts her hand on the strings and plucks one, thinking of the koto that Yamabuki played, how she still found some beauty in her difficult new life. This is what Yamabuki taught Tomoe. Together, they formed the warrior-poet. Tomoe found satisfaction from being a domestic nurturer as well as venturing out into the world. There was no reason she and Rachel couldn’t do both, too.
A text comes in. Chase. Oh no. She hadn’t said
good-bye. But really, she had to leave right then, not wait until he got home. And she thought he wouldn’t care. That he’d be angry with her for getting him in trouble, and besides, there was that whole water polo thing. Wasn’t he glad to have her out, not interfering with his business?
When are you coming back?
Drew shuts her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose. A lump in her throat.
She loves this boy.
She loved him before, of course. In a more abstract way. But now . . . Everything’s different. It is like how Tomoe loves little Yoshitaka, Drew thinks. Loves him even though he’s not hers biologically. Loves him like he’s a piece of her beating heart, existing outside of her body. Vulnerable and scary as that is.
And now Drew wouldn’t want it to go back to how it was before. She can have a good relationship with Chase and Quincy even if their mother doesn’t like her. She sets her teeth. She will. She texts him back.
Drew gets her purse, takes out the little black notebook and gets her favorite pen, a gel roller with a medium point. She thinks of Rachel. Of Alan. Of Tomoe and Yamabuki. Their mother. Of finding and losing people.
Without thinking further, she begins to write. Sometimes she stops and picks up the viola, plays a string of notes. The music will come later. Her lyrics come first.
MIYANOKOSHI FORTRESS
SHINANO PROVINCE
HONSHU, JAPAN
Fall 1183
Tomoe watched cousin Yoritomo’s soldiers march into the fortress. Four carried a litter with a cabin on top, big enough to hold two or three people. These men were accompanied by a dozen more soldiers on horseback.
They had been home for only two weeks. Yoshinaka won all his battles with sheer guile, against huge numbers. The victories made his cousin nervous. Word got to him that Yoshinaka wanted to oust him as the head of the Minamoto clan.
Yoritomo had decided not to do away with Yoshinaka—his skills as a general were too badly needed. No, there was only one other way to control him.
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