RNI

“Why did you call me?”

“Your mom’s in the hospital.”

“… What happened?”

“It’s her heart. She’s in ICU.”

“Yeah, but what happened, Dad?”

“Honestly, kid, I don’t know.” His father sounded hoarse. “You know she’s been like this for the longest time.”

Ian stayed quiet.

“… I’ll cover your plane tickets, Ian. She wants to see you.”

“… Okay.”

“What would be a convenient day for you?”

“I’ll buy the ticket, Dad. I’ll be home by Saturday.”

“Okay. Just call me when you figure it out, so I can go to the airport to pick you up.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll say hi to your mom for you.”

“Okay.”

“Stay safe, Ian.”

“I will. See you soon, Dad.”

Ian Che hung up the phone. The dust motes flew apart in their vortices as he breathed out a sigh into the column of afternoon sunlight piercing through the half-closed blinds of his apartment window. The conversation had not devolved into an argument, to his immense relief. Two weeks ago, he and his father had blown up at each other, and he’d hung up the phone on him in the middle of his rant. He’d heard more than enough of it. Besides, his father always said the same things: Go get a job. Don’t be so selfish. Who’s going to date a guy who can’t earn his keep? His father had no right to bring up the topic of girlfriends; the playing field wasn’t open for a guy like Ian, and even if it was he’d long lost interest in the vapid nonsense that dominated it since high school. And who was his father to speak of selfishness, when he wouldn’t even take the effort to understand the things that went through his son’s head?

How did his mom put up with all of it?

He stared back down at his laptop screen. The exam was in two hours, and he hadn’t studied nearly enough. But he was in no mind for it anymore.

Of all the things to happen in the middle of his busiest college semester yet—he had to balance the workload from physics and molecular biology on top of osteology and archaeology projects—why did this have to happen to him?

----------

As usual, his dad did not have to wave at him. He was the tallest man in the crowd, his dark jean jacket and gray cap standing out against everything around him. Ian merely walked up to him, suitcase dragging behind. There was no hugging. There was no smiling.

“How was your flight?”

“It was okay.”

“Are you tired?”

“Not much.” Ian shrugged it off the way he usually did.

Truth be told, he could never fall asleep on a plane.

“Done with your tests yet?”

“No.”

“Well, hang in there. And don’t pull any all-nighters, you hear?”

“Yeah.”

The car trunk opened with a beep as his father reached inside his pocket for the car keys. He yanked Ian’s luggage out of his hands, off of the curb into the car. Ian carefully stood his backpack between the suitcase and the side of the car, making sure it would not fall over and damage his laptop. As he closed the trunk, his father had already entered the driver’s seat and turned the blinkers off. Ian climbed into the front seat, hand reaching for the seatbelt.

No words were shared as they drove off. His father had turned off the radio, too, so everything was quiet as the car left the traffic jam at the airport interchange.

“Everything all right at school?” His father suddenly inquired as the car gained speed.

“Huh?”

“Is everything all right at school?”

“It’s all right. I manage.”

His father kept his eyes on the road. Ian thought his father would turn towards him for more questions, but there was no immediate reply. Just when he’d thought silence had settled again, though, his father spoke up.

“You can tell me what’s really going on, you know. Whatever problems you might be having.”

“… I’m fine, Dad. I don’t think you’d understand, anyway.” Ian answered.

He’d felt the harshness lurking behind his words even before he’d thought of holding back his tongue. Ian regretted it instantly, but chased the thought away. Plugging his earbuds in, he tuned it to the albums he’d always enjoyed. His father said nothing.

----------

An empty, inquisitive look graced the receptionist’s face as she looked up to see the two of them approaching her desk.

“How may I help you today?”

“We’re here to make a visit?” His father answered.

“And who would it be?”

“Ms. Neal Aaronson.”

“And you are… Mr. Aaronson?” The woman probed with doubt in her voice.

“Che. Rusty Che. Her husband.” Ian’s father responded. “And Ian, her son.”

Ian looked aside shiftily. It had always perplexed him why his mom never took his father’s name when they’d gotten married; it always made for this kind of awkward moments.

Some days, when his father had gotten upset at him long ago, he was almost glad of this fact. He pretended his father wasn’t his father, and his mother a kind stranger. But the fact still remained—he was Ian Che, not Ian Chan, Ian Chow, or even Ian Anderson.

The elevator ride passed in tedium. Ian wondered if he should feel guilty that he didn’t feel worried about his mom. After a minute, he decided that she was tougher than people thought she was, and settled himself on that justification.

“Floor Five. Going up.”

“Pardon me.” Ian’s father brushed past a man in blue scrubs entering the elevator just as he exited. Ian looked for a second into the man’s green eyes before following his father.

Even through the tinted windows, he could tell it was a brilliant sunny day outside with deep blue skies. He wanted to be outside in the sun, but there were still things to do.

Rounding another corner, his father pulled the door nearest to him open. 587, the placard read.

“I’m here.” His father spoke.

“Hey, Rusty. Hey, kiddo.”

Ian jolted out of his reverie. There his mother was, looking keen even in a hospital gown with her heartbeats under close monitor from the EKG machine nearby. Turning his eyes from its steady blinking, Ian approached his mother.

“How are you? Are you all right?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll live.”

Neal Aaronson smiled. Ian approached her at her open-armed invitation, and he hugged her through the hospital gown.

“How have you been, Ian? Everything treating you all right?”

“I’m doing fine, Mom.” Ian let go of her.

“Good. As long as you’re on top of things.”

“… Yeah.” Ian replied absent-mindedly.

Was he on top of things? He certainly didn’t feel like it. The exam on Wednesday had caught him by surprise, which in retrospect wasn’t much of a surprise at all. He should have studied in advance; there had been simply too much to memorize. But he couldn’t get started until the last minute. He didn’t have the energy nor motivation, not after his father’s call.

He brought this on himself, really.

“Something on your mind?” His mom inquired.

“It’s nothing.” Ian answered automatically.

How could he tell his parents all this anyway? That he’d been feeling overwhelmed for months, one thing after the other? For starters, they had expectations of their son—calm, nonchalant, straight-A student. He didn’t want to shatter that image.

Every single day, there would be something else for him to process and resolve—tests, papers, family emergencies. He had no time to collect himself. Even the lunch get-togethers he’d arranged with William and Ted felt like chores to attend, and never improved his mood.

“I forgot to ask, Ian, but how do you think you did on your tests so far?” His father piped up.

“… Okay, I guess.”

“Any prospects of girlfriends?”

“Can we not discuss this right now, Dad?” Ian snapped.

“Ian—”

Ian had had no luck, as usual. He’d rather not have thought about such things right now; it always put a sour mood on him.

Everyone wanted a piece of him, wanted something from him, but nobody could give him what he wanted.

“I’m still single, happy?”

“Why are you talking to me like that, Ian?”

“Cut it out, you two.” His mom interjected. “Ian, have you unpacked your stuff yet?”

“… No, Mom.”

“Rusty, his stuff is still in your car, right? Give him your car keys so he can drop it off at the house.” She commanded.

His father looked like he was about to say something, but complied without a word, pressing the key into Ian’s hand before taking a step back to stand at the foot of the bed. Ian stood stupefied for a moment before his mom spurred him to action.

“Go on, Ian. Just come back when you’re done.”

----------

The trip down the elevator seemed longer than the trip up. Ian felt his hand fidgeting with the car key in his pocket; sweat had coated his hand from gripping it.

His eyes hurt. Soon, when the vexation wore off, he would be sleepy again. Ian wondered whether he should be driving at all—stress and weariness would both make him less attentive, never mind both at once.

He had to get home quickly.

Brisk steps took him through the lobby and across the parking lot. Clicking his seatbelt into place, Ian cast an eye to the rearview mirror. It didn’t need much adjustment; he and his dad were very close in height.

As he rolled down the windows to dull the heat in the car, Ian’s mind turned unbidden to his father. Why did he care so much about everything going on in his life? Ian was doing his best, and that was the end of it. His old man did not have to bother himself with all the details—they were his problems and his problems alone, for Pete’s sake!

Ian took a breath. Calming himself, he connected his music player to the car stereo. Thudding death metal droned his aggravation into the background as he left the lot.

To his surprise, he found his way onto the highway easily. From there, going to his house was a matter of simplicity—go towards the water, turn off at 102nd Street, go eight blocks then turn to the left. The house was the two-storey taupe stucco building at the turn in the road.

He angled his car carefully as he pressed the remote control button to open the garage door. He hadn’t made this odd turn in quite a while now—when was the last time he’d driven his father’s car?

The garage door closed. Ian drew out his seldom-used keys from his pocket, his backpack hanging from his shoulder and his luggage in hand. Fumbling for the correct key took longer than he wanted it to. Finally opening the door, he let out a long sigh as he dropped the suitcase and eased the backpack down next to it.

He looked outside. Shadows stretched across the top of the patio down to the small fountain at the center of the yard. The water was turned off, and sparrows bathed in the catch.

Dragging his belongings upstairs took another heave of effort. Entering his room, Ian set the suitcase on its side. Opening his backpack, he plugged his laptop into the power strip. He could unpack his suitcase later.

Standing up, Ian peered through the blinds out of habit. Turning back, he cast his eyes over the photo frames on the bookshelf; the photos were the same as always, his parents smiling awkwardly or not smiling at all. The last one had his mom cradling a young him in her arms, a wide grin across her face.

His father cocked a quizzical eyebrow at him from a photo to the far left. The lines on his forehead weren’t so furrowed, so he must have been thirty or so still. He was sitting at his desk, a notebook in front of him. He seemed surprised, perhaps not welcoming the attention of the photographer—probably his mom. Ian knew she could be a rather spontaneous sort at times.

To the right, his parents stood at a pier somewhere. His father stood behind his mother, arms wrapped around her waist. He had his chin on her head, and she’d laced her fingers between his. Where most of the photographs had clear skies for background, this one had low rolling clouds. The wind had blown Neal Aaronson’s hair partly across her face.

Ian could not tell when, or where, this photograph had been taken. Both of them still seemed young, about the age of his grad student TAs, but he could not say for certain; dark sunglass lenses hid his father’s eyes. His mom, well, he could never really tell what her age was. He vaguely remembered she was going fifty. She could have been twenty-five in the photo, thirty maybe.

They’ve been together for a long time. Ian knew friends whose parents had separated from his high school days, and knew people could fall apart. It never prompted him to think about why people would stay together. People could be annoying. People could be overbearing. Sometimes, you just wanted to be alone. That, Ian supposed, was one reason he did not want a girlfriend. Everyone around him in a relationship fussed high and low at each other over the smallest things, played clichés to the hilt for attention.

Funny how he’d never seen his parents doing that.

At other times, though, he felt lonely. You might want to be alone, but nobody wanted to be lonely. In times like those, Ian wanted most for someone to hear the things weighing on his chest, wanted someone he would not be afraid to let everything spill in front of.

A long time ago, he’d have been able to tell his mom everything. He couldn’t remember when he’d stopped doing that—probably middle school.

Would his dad have been comfortable telling his mom everything, and vice versa?

Ian turned back towards the window. There was still plenty of light outside, but he could tell it was getting late. The hospital’s visiting hours would be over soon.

A part of him itched to be somewhere else, to just take the car and leave for a few hours. It had been a long time since he’d visited the city waterfront, smelled the ocean and felt the wind nip his ears. The anxiety of high school days had been a lot easier with the knowledge that the ocean was close by; the desolate train tracks on the outskirts of town were the only thing in the college town that could come close.

But he couldn’t keep his father waiting.

Resigning himself, Ian made his way downstairs again into the garage. Once again clicking the seatbelt into place as he opened the door, he slowly made the tricky entrance turn in reverse.

It took him a few moments to duly enter the stream of traffic at the intersection; for a Saturday, there were quite a few people on the road. The stop-and-go around him became slower and slower with every signal light he passed. By the time he reached the highway entrance, the jam was at a snail’s pace.

His headache crept up on him. Maybe he should have taken a nap.

Why was there an evening rush on Saturday, anyways?

From what he could see of the highway itself, the congestion was abysmal for miles ahead of him. Ian wanted to be aggravated at this, but found that he could not bring himself to be.

The last song on the album he’d selected upon leaving the hospital petered out with a quiet discordance. Ian almost wanted to select a new album on his music player, but the traffic, congested as it was, was not at a complete dead-stop, keeping his hands too busy to do anything of the sort.

His mind wandered in the relative quietude, returning to the thought he had brushed away as he turned aside from his parents’ photos. Could his father confide in his mother? And vice versa?

On impulse, he wanted to say yes, but his logical mind pushed away the intuitive answer, the answer most would adhere to and the answer he’d probably be expected to stick to in most conversations. There were no easy proofs, no evidence in his memory that presented itself immediately at his inquiry.

His parents did not seem to interact in the way movie or TV parents did, for starters. They never called each other “honey”, “sweetie”, or anything like that. They did give each other signs of physical affection, the photos proved that much, but beyond that nothing could be certain; they very rarely showed such things, or at least when he was present. Aside from he himself, Ian wasn’t even too sure if they regularly engaged in acts of conception.

Upon racking his mind, however, he did remember that one night, during his early teenage years, when he’d woken up in the middle of the night for a glass of water. When he came back upstairs, he’d noticed that the lights in his parents’ bedroom were still lit. Muffled whispers came from behind the door. His teenage mind did not have as solid a grasp on sex just yet, so he left them to their own business.

Strange how his parents never gave him the “birds and bees” talk. He’d guessed he’d fully figured it out himself by age sixteen, with the assistance of some instructions he no longer remember the provenance of; probably something he’d seen online.

Come to think of it, that wasn’t the only time he’d seen the lights under the bedroom door, heard those whispers. He’d probably seen them a good few times in childhood, before school life got busy and took all his attention away. And it wasn’t likely that they were… doing their business. Ian had actually heard them rutting (as much as moans could be evidence of rutting) once, one early morning much later on. The whispers sounded nothing like that.

The stream of cars in the highway passed a cordoned-off accident scene on the side of the road. Ian saw a semi with a crushed front, pulled apart from a rear-ended tow truck. A dark fluid had spilled all over the asphalt. Ian watched the tow workers and cops with an interested fixation, but the traffic soon picked up pace and left the crash behind.

His memories turned to scenes of his mother working on her collection of guns in the garage. She’d been around guns since she was in elementary school, having grown up in Tennessee where this was the norm for non-urbanites. He’d been fascinated in them himself since he was a kid, too, but his father had been initially reluctant to let him handle weapons. Eventually, though, he and his mom did come to an agreement, and Neal Aaronson sat him down as she worked one Sunday afternoon. He was eleven, twelve maybe.

“Do you know what guns do?” She asked him bluntly.

“… You shoot them and they hurt people.”

“Yes, Ian. Do you know how badly they hurt people?”

“… I don’t know.”

“Well, most bullets—” She picked one up in her hand to accentuate her point. “They travel above the speed of sound, like all those fighter planes you keep reading about when you go online. They can easily kill you or hurt you very badly. A gun is not a toy, and you will never use one like a toy. Am I absolutely clear?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“If you ever forget what I just told you, you’ll be in so much trouble I’ll make your head spin. So don’t ever forget it.” She cautioned him strongly in a tone he’d learned to dread. “A gun is not a toy, and there are ground rules you will always, always obey. Never think a gun isn’t loaded, until you’ve personally made sure it’s not. Never aim a gun at anyone or anything you don’t intend to shoot…”

His mom taught him everything. Took him to the range, even went hunting with him a few times. When she couldn’t give him his lessons, his dad could, and his dad had learned almost everything he knew from his mom too. The only difference was that his dad already knew the basics of firearm safety by the time he met her.

How did they meet, anyway?

Ian had also seen them working side-by-side, stripping a gun down and cleaning everything. Rebuilding everything back up. They’d talk about guns—old Russian guns, old American guns, old Chinese guns; new Belgian guns, new Austrian guns, new Singaporean guns. His dad would talk about World War Two, Russia, China, Japan, and maybe what he knew of Singapore from a college friend. His mom would bring up similar things—war, Afghanistan, the old Yugoslavia, Czech Republic, Chechnya, you name it. Ian couldn’t understand everything all the time, but he understood that both his parents were deeply interested—and often very invested—about the things they talked about.

Sort of like Ian himself, really, talking to his friends about metal bands and painters they liked whenever they met on the few leisurely occasions they could fit into both their schedules. Whatever his parents’ relationship (calling it love seemed blasé), they had some sort of close rapport.

Half-staring at the road in front of him and half-gazing into the hills ahead of him, Ian noticed the sunlight had turned evening orange.

Maybe he should ask his dad.

For a moment, a part of him tried to reject the idea. Would his father even tell him how the two of them had met? Maybe he’d be reticent after Ian’s prior angry outburst. But his curiosity would not be muffled.

Who knows, maybe this was the perfect way to turn the topic away from all the messy arguments. Better than trying to report on his own life, at least.

----------

His father was standing outside the lobby when Ian arrived back at the hospital. Parking his car at a convenient place, Ian walked up to him with the key in hand; he was probably better off letting his dad drive him home today.

As he passed the key into his father’s hand, Ian scanned his face to gauge his emotions. His eyes met a deep, contemplative look, with perhaps a hint of melancholy in the background.

“You okay, Dad?” Ian inquired.

“I’m fine.” His father answered. “Your mother told me something very interesting today. Who knows, maybe she’s right.”

“What did she tell you?”

“You’re a lot more like me than I think you are.”

A sense of vulnerability rolled into Ian’s gut. He didn’t fully understand—maybe he didn’t want to understand—why, but the idea scared him. His father still stood there, eyes gazing off into the evening sky. Despite his height, he seemed much smaller all of a sudden.

“Let me tell you a story, Ian.” His father started again, that distant look never leaving him. “When I was in college, I met a girl—a woman—Miriam Kokubo, on my fourth year. I’d only known her by appearance at first, and didn’t think she’d be my type. She proved me wrong.”

Ian stayed quiet.

“She was a tough, smart, no-nonsense woman.” His father continued. “Kind of like your mother, really. Not bad on the eyes either. But she was already taken. She’d already been with this guy—nice guy, geeky tech type—for two years. I found this out while we were eating lunch together, the same day I’d planned on asking her out. That was my first real romance.”

Ian looked intently at his father. Rusty Che’s shoulders seemed to have sagged. Below the brim of his gray cap, Ian saw the deepening furrows of the lines on his face, the short, graying streaks of hair.

“It hit me really bad, you know.” Rusty fiddled with his jacket buttons. “I was in a rut for a while afterwards. Wondering if I’ll ever find someone like her again. I got over it, but I’ll always remember her. Your mom knows, and she understands.”

Rusty Che looked down, meeting Ian’s face.

“You might be wondering what my point is with all this.” Rusty smiled. “I guess it’s to say, well, I know relationships don’t come easy. Meeting someone you’d want to spend the rest of your life with doesn’t happen overnight, and that someone might already be in another relationship. I’m not saying you should break them up, because nobody deserves to have their life interfered with like that. I’m just saying that it takes time, and I should’ve considered that fact in regards to you. Guess I was anxious to see grandkids; I’m not getting any younger, after all. I guess I’ll be patient.”

Ian looked away a little. There was a strange desire in his chest; for the first time in a long time, he could imagine that this man, Rusty Che, was not his father. But he wanted desperately for that to not be the case.

“The other part of it is, I understand it can hurt you. Maybe you’ve already had crushes that never really worked out. Sometimes, you might feel like you’ll never find the right person. But you will. And whatever happens, I’ll be here, and so will your mom.”

Ian looked up. Rusty Che was still smiling. Then, for the first time since Ian could not remember when, he pulled him into a brief embrace. He pulled away just as gracefully and quickly.

Ian stared into Rusty’s face, then thought better of it, still feeling awkward thinking of his father in non-paternal terms.

Maybe this was the better way. Regardless, Rusty Che was not just his father anymore.

In his mind, Ian imagined Rusty Che standing at that pier, waiting quietly as Neal Aaronson asked a random passerby to take their photo before running to him and pulling his arms around herself. He would hold her tightly, gently, distant dreams and somber promises filling his head.

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“How did you and mom meet?”

He would stand there as the passerby returned their camera, holding on for a moment longer, maybe because he wants to make sure it’s real, maybe because he knows how everything they’d built could all go away at any second.

“… I’ll save that story for another time, son.”