Rockville, Maryland January 16th, 1985

“The Republic of China…journalist Henry Liu…Daly City California on October…of last year…”

That was what I heard that day in January. I remember his name, because there was a guy in my school with the same one. I would later find out that the two Henrys were very similar; the one who died in California even lived in the DC area for some time. Though that name would be forgotten in the minds of most people who tuned into the news that morning, I could never forget it and how it put into motion everything that came afterward.

“Yiren!”

I was in the middle of working some math problem when my mother called. The question was about those numbers with the “i” in them. I had failed algebra again the year before, and if I didn’t get through it by my senior year I was not going to graduate. The prospect of not graduating was not something I thought or cared much about — I was much bigger than my father already; there was nothing he could do about it. That was until I met Fiona in the fall. I didn’t process my motivations much back then, but it was later obvious that that’s what it was. That’s definitely what it was. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been home that day. I looked up from my textbook. 

“Be nice. Auntie has it pretty hard,” I heard in my head.

But being nice wasn’t too difficult — the problem was never my mother. Or at least, it wasn’t yet.

“What?” I asked

“Go get your father. Now.”

I closed the book. She did not have to tell me where he was for me to know where to go. I took the house key and exited through the front door of our town home, descending the stairs. I remember it being very windy. I had to zip my coat to the very top to keep from freezing. It would be faster to take the bus, but even in the cold, I preferred to walk. Beyond the houses on the other side and past the road would be the newly opened Metro station. I had fond memories of my one visit to Tokyo with my father, and was pretty excited to ride the newly opened station. But my dad always said that public transit was for the lower class. My father, Yishiong Chang, or Mr. Chang as most people knew him, was always polishing his Mercedes SL on the driveway as if he wanted the neighborhood to watch. I didn’t mind — if he was out babying the car he wouldn’t be inside.

I rounded the corner to get to Uncle Chiu’s house, but when I arrived at the gray brick town home with cream handrails leading up to the door, something immediately looked off. Uncle Chiu was the type of man who always had people coming in and out of his house. But this time only my father’s Mercedes sat in the driveway normally filled with rows of black cars. Mrs. Chiu used to always open the door after I turned onto their block, as if she was somehow kept watch at the front all hours of the day. When I reached the door she would always smile and usher me in. The smell of braised or pepper pork followed her hand as she pushed gently on my back before closing the door. Some shu shu in a suit would inevitably come through the door a few minutes later, leaving it either half or a quarter of the way open. Mrs. Chiu would try to shut the door a few times, but I couldn’t remember when it actually stayed that way. This time though, it was completely closed. I patted down my pockets to see if I had brought anything to defend myself with, though I knew that I hadn’t. Against my better judgment I ascended the stairs, grabbed the doorknob, turned, and pushed the door through. 

The house was very quiet, which I did not think was possible. There was still the smell of smoke in the air, though the moving plume coming from the dining area was noticeably absent. 

I saw Mrs. Chiu first. She was lying face-down in the kitchen. It must have happened early in the morning, as she was the only one downstairs. Her arms were straight down to her sides, with her body parallel to the kitchen counter. I failed to suppress a shudder, but forced myself to move toward the stairs; I turned at the base of the stairwell and stopped. I looked toward the kitchen one more time, and my blood grew cold. Try as I might, I could not bring myself to ascend the first step. Later on I would say that I didn’t want to see my father in the state he was in, and that’s why I turned and left. The truth was I don’t remember what happened, only that shortly after I was somehow back in my house.

A steady streams of visitors started arriving that evening and went well into the morning with only a few pauses in between. All promised similar things about their support and how sorry they were for my mother’s loss. But I could see in their shifting eyes and half bows that many things were going to change. I’m sure she could feel the same. The leaders of the funeral performed their chants, and I read through the prayer book as well as I could, given my deficiency in language skills at the time. I had never seen many of the people at the funeral before, and wasn’t sure where they had come from. Some people mentioned that more than one family had flown in from Taiwan.

I had three close friends, one of whom was the son of Mr. and Mrs. Chiu. Dave Chiu was gone when the incident occurred He was one year older than me, and had already gone to College Park. His father would later survive, though he suffered from complications for the remainder of his life. Mr. Chiu insisted on being wheeled to my father’s funeral despite his obvious discomfort. I could still see his IV pouch swinging in the wind as Dave stood behind him. I heard that the doctors required some special persuasion to let him out. The two others, Jack Wang and Eddie Leung came to the funeral as well. It was a very windy afternoon; most of the women were clutching their hats to their heads, and the men’s carefully greased hair were coming undone. In those thick funeral clothes though, the wind was probably a blessing.

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People filled our house for dinner. The evening started quietly, though somebody eventually turned on the TV to watch Reagan’s second inauguration. The conversation then began to flow from there. Inevitably some uncle wanted to crack jokes about my dad; the jokes did not match anything I knew about him, which only made sitting in my house more uncomfortable. Fiona could see my discomfort. She tried not to be too close to me in front of my mother, though this time she could tell I needed it.

“You alright?”

I looked up to see her eyes were already swollen from crying.

“I don’t know.”

She knew I didn’t think much of him, and I myself was not sure what I should think. I thought at the time that the house would become a bit more peaceful, though money was about to be much more tight. I felt bad about it, but I was mostly thinking about how I could possibly get a job. I didn’t have plans to attend university, and would soon find out my dad’s gambling debts would’ve made that impossible anyway. Even if I had the money, I didn’t have the brains. Nor the time. My original plans for community college were not going to pan out fast enough now. 

Fiona murmured something, though I didn’t hear it. I appreciated her concern but I needed to figure my future out fast. Suddenly the already stuffy air seemed to be sucked out of the house. Every breath I took threatened to suffocate me. I must have gotten up and walked out without replying.

As the sun set I got into my father’s Mercedes and drove to Rock Creek Park. When I arrived at the parking lot there were only one or two other cars. I parked the car and turned up the trail, going straight into the woods.

The first few minutes down the trail I was still filled with adrenaline; I could hear the blood pounding in my head, and both my legs and arms felt numb. Eventually, though, the silence and the growing darkness overcame those initial highs, bringing back my sense of reality. I then realized I left my flashlight in the glove compartment. Like anybody else who lived there in those days I of course heard rumors about things that had happened in Rock Creek Park. As I continued though, the truth seemed to be less exciting than what I had in my head. Or so I thought. Further down from the direction of the bridge, a man dressed in a some sort of bomber jacket and jeans strolled toward me. He raised his arm in greeting, and I waved back.

I turned back and saw a someone coming from the direction of the parking lot. I instantly tensed up, raising my arms; were they trapping me from both sides? The person from the parking stopped. I squinted. There was no moonlight that day, so it was hard to tell, but after staring for what felt like a few seconds, I could tell through her silhouette that it was Fiona. 

“Hey!” she called out.

I turned just in time to see the man reach within four strides of me, which was all the more alarming as I did not hear his pace accelerating. He was wearing a white button up shirt, had long hair and a mustache as well as a thick pair of glasses. But it was his stare that is still burned in my memory; his eyes were cold, and lifeless. I stepped back, but not far enough as he grabbed my blazer lapel. I instinctively grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back, but then felt as if somebody punched me in the stomach, followed by my shirt getting wet.

“Run!” I shouted to Fiona, as I grabbed his gloved hand in both hands and slammed my forehead into his nose. Blood flowed down my face, prompting me to spit in his direction. I couldn’t tell whether I missed or not, but he backed up just enough for me to raise my knee and kick out at his stomach, forcing him back pedaling down the trail. I remember landing a cross to his neck, having missed his head, and hearing a deep choking sound from him. The next thing I knew I was on top of him, landing blows to his face with my fists and elbows. He either removed the knife then or it must have slipped out when I kicked him back, because the dizziness started to overcome any adrenaline I still had left. Despite his injuries, the man still had enough energy to push me off. I could feel the the subsequent strikes against my head and my body, though none of them hurt as much as hearing the screams of Fiona nearby. They were too close. There was a loud thud, and a gasp. The blows stopped. Something made it hard to open my eyes, either the blood from my forehead or just the lack of energy. I could hear things as if they were far away, but that was it. 

There was a tug on both my arms, and then they dropped. I was dragged maybe two or three yards, before the force let up and my arms fell again. Finally, a pair of strong arms — much stronger than the first — pulled me more steadily down the trail just as I was beginning to lose consciousness from blood loss.

There were of course multiple points in my life later on I thought about what I was doing and why I was there. There was no love lost between my father and I as I said before, so grief doesn’t make sense. No matter what angle I analyzed it from, my inevitable conclusion is that I was trying to run. I was running from what I knew was going to be a terribly lonely journey for my mother, one I could do little to support. I was running because I would have nothing to provide for Fiona. What I didn’t expect was that if I had walked the trail and returned unharmed against my intentions I would have fulfilled my goal — to run; but in meeting my intentions I failed utterly in my goal. As I would later learn, fleeing is sometimes the right choice. That’s not to say that fleeing would have produced a better outcome. But it certainly wouldn’t have produced such a horrible one.