Sisters of Heart and Snow by Margaret Dilloway Page A

vulnerable.
    â€œPlease.” In that low light, her irises blended into her pupils. I was looking at a dark reflecting pool.
    I took the package and unwrapped it. I knew what it would be as soon as I felt the softness through the paper. It was the wedding ring quilt, repeating interlocked circles of blue and yellow and green. My favorite colors. I ran my hand over the stitching, admiring the tiny stitches that hadn’t been touched by a machine.
    â€œI did it by hand,” Mom said. “For you. It will bring good luck.”
    â€œI don’t need luck,” I said, still prickly. I felt Quincy move inside my stomach, pressing her tiny hands against my belly button as she flipped upside down. “Tom isn’t Dad.”
    Her face went still. She took out another package. “And for the baby.”
    I unwrapped the other gifts. Knitted green booties, a cap, a soft pink receiving blanket. The booties looked vaguely familiar.
    â€œThey were yours.” Mom settled back in the couch and gazed at some spot behind me. “I made them for you.”
    My chest felt like it was on fire. This was my mother’s apology. Her love letter. She didn’t need to use words. All at once I felt how much effort it must have taken for her to come see me, afraid I’d turn her away or be mean to her. I wiped at my eyes. “Thank you.”
    We stopped talking then. Only a mantel clock ticked away.
    â€œAnd some new clothes.” She pointed at the other bag. “Only yellow and green. Good for a boy or girl.”
    â€œIt’s a girl,” I said.
    Something akin to disappointment flickered over her face. “Oh.”
    â€œI’m glad it’s a girl,” I said. “I can’t wait to raise a girl. She’s going to do everything. Whatever she wants.”
    â€œHow about Tom?” She nodded toward the door where he’d gone.
    â€œTom’s happy. He says he can do anything with a girl that he could have done with a boy. Take her camping. Play sports.” That had in fact been what Tom had said, but now I desperately wanted him to come out and confirm the story. “Tom!” I shouted.
    He came running out as if he’d been waiting on the other side the door, his eyes wide. Those days, every time I called his name, he was afraid I was going into labor. “Are you okay?”
    â€œTell my mother you want a girl.” I grabbed his hand.
    â€œOf course I want a girl,” he said, his voice laced with puzzlement. He glanced at my mother, her expression as unreadable as a doll’s. “What’s the question?”
    After that, Mom came by sporadically. Always in the daytime and never staying for more than a couple of hours. She couldn’t come on Christmas or other holidays; that would make Killian too suspicious.
    But she appeared often enough for my children to call her ’Bachan, which means “Grandma” in Japanese. She always had candies in her purse, saltwater taffy and caramels, gooey stuff the kids loved. They were always glad to see her, though mostly Mom just sat on the couch and watched as they played. We never spoke of my father.

M IYANOKOSHI
    S HINANO P ROVINCE
    H ONSHU, J APAN
    Spring 1160
    K aneto took them to the town of Kiso-Fukushima to buy supplies. They brought along Yoshimori Wada, the nine-year-old son of another local farmer Kaneto had recruited to the cause. “His grandfather was a Minamoto noble,” Kaneto said. “Descended from Emperor Kawa. He is like us. Samurai blood.”
    Yoshimori Wada seemed unremarkable to Tomoe. He was barely her height, with a medium build and a placid face on a ball-like head, his straight hair falling into his eyes. He looked like a dull wooden doll. Tomoe greeted him with a small bow when they were introduced, then faded back behind Kaneto so she wouldn’t have to talk. She focused instead on walking the horse they had brought to carry the goods back.
    Tomoe loved