Learning To Fly: A Saki Enomoto Pseudo-Route

Ignition :: Here's To The Night

AN: Chapter song below!

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"So Hisao, what's it really like, being back here again?" my father asks.

"It's been an...interesting two weeks," I answer honestly.

Well, it hasn't been two whole weeks, but close enough to it to not make much difference. And "interesting" would be a pretty apt way of putting it.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit relieved to arrive to an empty house when I first got off the bus.

There are certain places in life that become a nexus for defining who you are as a person. More often than not when you let your thoughts wander or find yourself dreaming, they always become stations along the route your unconsciousness takes you. Sometimes you start from them. Sometimes they're the destination you wind up at. And other times you simply roll through them on the mental journey, whether you make a leisurely stop or merely glance at them out the window as you go on by - bright smears of color and memory that recede the second you can make out the details.

Even the role those stations play change significantly. One day these fixed points in time are anchors, providing a strong sense of grounding when the world beneath you is heaving and raging. The next, they can become black holes that pull relentlessly at you and never let you fully escape them.

The first few weeks I was at Yamaku, before I made friends and settled into my classes and set down a few new anchors of my own, I had felt like a stranger in a strange land - not only to the people around me, but to myself. I had taken refuge in the thought of home because of familiarity, and even the hospital because of some lingering Stockholm syndrome, I'm pretty sure.

It's hard to adequately describe what I felt like when I got home - no, when I realized I was home. It didn't even hit me when I first got to the door. I found the spare key hiding in the usual place, something I had done before. I unlocked the front door, which I had done before. I took my shoes off to place them along the wall, taking the time to make sure the toes were properly squared up as I had done countless times. I had even set my bag down and walked into the kitchen before I realized everything I had done since I turned and started walking down my street had been done on autopilot.

I think it was the mylar balloon and small stuffed bear sitting on the counter that did it; the bright foil adorned with a cheerful platitude, connected to the bear's arm by a thin red ribbon...swaying gently in the flows and eddies of the oppressively crushing air of the room.

Anchor or black hole. It's always morbidly fascinating when you can pinpoint the moment the orientation flips.

Fortunately, moving to the bedroom helped, and the mere ritual of unpacking my bag calmed a bit of the apprehension I was feeling. The simple, practiced act of putting my clothes away in their familiar drawers and places in the closet was extremely therapeutic.

Not everything went in its old place though. Without even thinking, I realized that I had lined up all my medication bottles on the nightstand, in the exact same order and even spacing that they sat on my nightstand at Yamaku.

At least when something flips, something dichotomous usually flips along with it to keep the balance.

I had mostly settled that feeling of unease by the time my mother came home a few hours later, and my father an hour or two after that. We had a light meal together, just like the old days when their schedules would sync up and I happened to be home. My folks stayed up later than usual so all three of us could catch up, but still called it a relatively early night.

Even so, in the dark of that first night, I didn't get much sleep.

Since then, my mother has taken me on two different trips, both to see specialists that had been working with me in the hospital. Both were pleasantly surprised with the progress I was making, yet couldn't seem to keep themselves from launching into the same lectures that had been drilled into me before I left their constant care.

It made me appreciate how succinct Nurse tends to be.

Go easy on them.

Saki's words rang in my mind like a mantra. I can tell they legitimately cared about how I'm doing, but that doesn't change the fact that the last few months the only things I've been to them have been a series of numbers on a chart that would change with weekly updates. Once I had described my regimen to their satisfaction, their approval went a long way towards calming the fears of my parents. Seeing the tension leave my mother's face when one of the doctors commented on my tan was a sight to behold.

Over the next few days, everything became a bit more relaxed, and the conversations I had with my folks remained cordial even if they didn't get too deep. The last ten days or so fell into a familiar pattern of morning walks and afternoon respite. I was even able to get caught up on a few books I had in the hospital with me but had never taken up to Yamaku.

And of course, there's also texting Saki every night.

Her social schedule has been keeping her much busier than mine has, but we usually find an hour or so to talk before one of us goes to bed.

This pattern repeated itself quite a bit until tonight.

"Well, it's really good to see you doing so well. I'm sorry that we couldn't do this sooner, but I'm glad we get to do something tonight," my mother says.

"This sushi is as good as I remember," I say, reaching up to the belt to grab another plate.

Today is different. My mother usually has today off, and my father got off work early so that we could meet him here and all three of us could enjoy an evening out. My parents insisted over my objection that it wasn't really necessary with a variety of reasons, ranging from a celebration of my health to a belated birthday since mine passed while I was in the hospital. I finally relented. When they asked me where I wanted to go, I named my favorite sushi restaurant. Every birthday we would come here, and my folks were very happy to oblige.

Sushi, Saki, and medication.

Strange anchors, indeed.

My father sets down his beer, taking a minute to adjust his glasses. "Just out of curiosity, who were you on the phone with last night?"

"Oh, you heard that?" I say, grimacing slightly. It was the one time I've spoken to Saki on the phone that late, and while I tried to be quiet, I apparently didn't completely escape detection.

"It's not nice to eavesdrop, dear," my mother chides.

"I wasn't eavesdropping. I heard his voice on the other side of the door when I walked down the hall to get a drink of water," my father defends himself.

"I was on the phone with Saki. She was telling me her father was taking her on a day trip today," I say, taking a minute to mentally prepare myself for where this conversation might go. My parents have only been approaching the subject in a light handed manner, aside from the grilling they both gave me leading up to the waterpark trip. My parents have never really been what I would describe as "chatty," but having taken their cue from my doctors to relax slightly, they're almost back to what passes as talkative for them.

"You've only told us a little bit about her," my father continues. "She sounds like an amazing young woman."

"She is," I reply, my face flushing slightly when I realize I said those words without any hesitation. I haven't really volunteered any information about her besides the bare minimum.

And I do mean just the bare minimum.

Come to think of it, I haven't even showed them a photo yet.

I reach into my pocket to pull out my phone. "Would you like to see a picture?"

"Oh, you have one?" my mother asks, leaning in.

"Yeah. Chisato used her phone to take a picture of us and texted it to me. Give me a minute and I'll pull it up."

It takes a few seconds to find the photo and bring it up on the screen, but I finally do and hand the phone to her. Both my parents squint, trying to discern as much detail as they can from the miniscule screen. Chisato had taken the picture of the two of us in the booth together at the diner we decided to eat at the morning after the waterpark.

My mother smiles knowingly, and it sets off an alarm bell in my head.

"I think she likes you," she says.

"Really? How can you tell?"

"The way she's sitting. I can't put it into words. I just know."

"Mom..."

"I'd say your mother's right," my father says, dropping his voice a bit conspiratorially. "And I notice that you have your arm around her shoulders."

Maybe this wasn't the best photo to show them.