Section 10: A confession
Hailey feels ready to let her heart talk
This is section 10 of The Other Side of the Ocean. You can also start at section 1, go back to section 9 or continue to section 11.
The next morning, I know with complete clarity that I want to talk to my parents—now. It’s like after months of uncertainty, I’ve spun a complete 180 and I know exactly what I want to do, and it feels good.
Correction: it feels good to know what I want to do, but thinking about what I am about to do does not feel good. My heart is beating fast—in a thankfully normal-nervous way, not in a the-reason-why-I-started-sessions-with-Ms.Fortier way.
Sweat forms under my arms as I reach the bottom step and turn into the kitchen, where Mom and Dad are standing with coffees in their hands, talking in excited tones as sunlight spills in through the kitchen window.
“Hailey!” Mom puts down her coffee and points towards said sunlight. “Look how beautiful it is today! Your dad and I were just saying maybe we can all go out for lunch—if you’re free.”
My mind gets pulled in multiple directions and I’m suddenly slammed with a ton of competing thoughts.
Yes, I’m free, that would be so nice!
But can I really wait like this any longer?
Look at Mom and Dad—what’s going to happen when I tell them?
Learning from my experience yesterday, I decide to stop overthinking and instead trust my gut and mouth to do the talking.
Terrified, I shut my eyes for a moment before I let my words fall out however they want to.
“Mom, Dad, I’m okay. Nothing to worry about. But I want to apologize for something.”
The colour drains from Dad’s face and Mom’s smile disappears as her eyes widen with worry.
I move to the kitchen table and slide onto a chair. My stomach moves in the sickening way that reminds me of standing on the edge of a great black abyss. My worry for my parents shifts to thinking of myself, and the life I know, my life, and what I might be about to find out.
I picture Dad learning Mom is pregnant with me, and think of how both of them chose in their own ways to be my parents. They love me, and whatever happens next, whatever I find out next, however they feel next, we will always keep loving each other. I take a deep breath.
“I can explain why—you can even blame my doctor—but she told me to learn more about my family health history, and that led me to deciding to check your room for information. I know I shouldn’t have done that without your permission and I really don’t want to hurt you and that’s why I wanted to apologize. I’m really sorry.”
As I’m talking, I look at them but also don’t really look at them. Now I raise my head to stop avoiding the expressions on their faces. They’re both standing, frozen, leaning forward every so slightly, waiting for me to hurry up and tell them what’s going on.
I feel the pressure. “Uh, well, when I was there, I saw a letter”—Mom drops the mug and Dad fumbles his grip on the kitchen counter—“that tells me that Mom was pregnant with me before you both met.”
Dad shoots up and away from the counter, his hands flying to his face as he stares at me, his features unreadable.
Before I can finish the thought, I hear a garbled version of “I’ll be back” and Dad rushes from the room so fast that tears stream down my face and all the way to my mouth before I even register what’s happening. My eyes blur from the moisture as I slide to the edge of my seat and stare at the entryway, silently begging Dad to come back as he rushes up the stairs and out of sight. Relief is added to the mix of feelings when I don’t hear a door slam.
He’s not angry. He’s—what is he feeling? Why did he leave?
Suddenly I’m filled with insecurities.
I’m so deep in shock at Dad’s reaction—shock that turns into a flood of horrible emotions.
Mom moves around the somehow unbroken mug and the spilled coffee with its too-strong scent and rushes to my side, dropping to her knees.
“Hailey, honey, you know your dad loves you, capital L-O-V-E loves you, forever, no matter what, right?”
“Yes, of course,” I sputter, uncomfortable even with the notion that there could be any other possibility, ever, and hating the idea. I look through my tears at a blurry image of Mom and hold onto her arms, like she is my anchor right now in this storm I’ve dreaded since the doctor first spoke those words. Mom holds onto me too, gently cupping my knees, and I feel grateful that she stayed and is comforting me. “You’re not mad?”
“Mad?”
Mom opens her arms and I sink into them, resting my head on her shoulder. This feels better, feels safe, and it’s easier to talk without seeing their facial expressions, their emotions.
Mom grips me tighter. “I hadn’t thought of that but, no, I’m not mad. I definitely don’t want you going through my stuff without my permission”—I nod, a silent promise not to do that again—“but now that you found that letter, I just want to make sure you’re okay. And to explain.”
Mom sits back.
But the explanation isn’t what I’m looking for. Every second Dad is gone from the room, I feel panicked inside, worried about what’s happening for him, scared that he’ll blame me when I never meant to bring them this, but also feeling unhinged, like, without answers, I’m floating helplessly, stuck. “Why did Dad leave?” I blurt.
Mom rubs my knees, staring ahead but likely deep in her thoughts. “Well, I have two theories, I guess.” She talks slowly, and I realize she’s parsing through a lot of information she and Dad meant to keep private, making decisions on the fly so that she can help me.
When Mom speaks, her voice is the only sound in the house, but she speaks so quietly that even I have to strain to hear her.
“The first one is that his family—you mentioned family history—well.” She’s quiet for a long time and then her brows draw together and the corners of her mouth drop, forming a frown. “You know your dad is a writer. And that English is not his first language.” And then she smiles, and it’s like much-needed sunshine breaking through dark clouds. “Although you could never tell.” I warm at the pride in her voice. “Your dad came here to Canada with the goal of breaking into the writing industry in the world’s most common language. But he also came here without the support of his family.”
“So they stopped talking to each other?”
Mom tilts her head. “Not yet. After he came here, there were more disagreements. Even before he told them about me or you.”
“About me?” I think about how Dad met Mom when she was already pregnant with me, and how his parents might have felt about that. It doesn’t take much imagination to guess they’d be as freaked out about it as my parents would be if I went to school in another country and told them something like that.
Mom takes my hands in hers, a soft, firm grip. “No, honey. This is not about you. It’s hard, it’s complicated. It’s sad.” She closes her eyes and opens them again. “There were problems there before your dad met us. This is not about you.” She strokes my hand and tears flood my eyes, hot and full of relief. “Not you.”
Mom looks deep into my eyes and pauses, as if silence were a key on a piano and she is keeping her ring finger down on that key before slowly letting it go.
“Hailey, you’re your father’s joy, honey. You are my joy, our life, our everything. If you play a role in any of this, that is the role.”
My heart warms and I squeeze my eyes shut and drop my head, and Mom hugs me, and I feel the relief and reassurance replacing the ache that won’t completely go away until Dad comes back and shows me he’s okay too.
I sniffle and sit up, and Mom hands me a tissue, moving from where she’s been kneeling this whole time to sitting on a chair beside me. “After your dad’s family…stopped…disappeared, it was really hard for him. He went to therapy to put it behind him.”
I snap upright. Therapy? Dad did therapy? I feel a surge of appreciation for the strength I know that took. Maybe knowing Dad did therapy would have made it easier for me to choose to see Ms. Fortier sooner—maybe it would have taken less courage than it did.
But then, I didn’t like when someone revealed the counselling sessions before I was ready to. And I don’t expect Dad, or anyone else, to have to be an ambassador for therapy if they don’t want to be.
“Wait. Is it okay to tell me this? Isn’t this Dad’s private information?”
Mom looks at the entryway to the kitchen, then back at me. “Your dad and I had one conversation about this, once, years ago, and he said I could say that much. He prefers not to talk about it again.”
I nod, feeling a mix of emotions but deciding to respect that. “I was going to say something similar. I don’t need to know anything else, unless he were to want me to. I don’t want to make Dad revisit something if he doesn’t want to. I know that Dad crossed an ocean to get here and that’s all I need to know.”
At that, Mom smiles and I smiles too, a deep understanding passing between us.
“And, speaking of therapy, there’s something I want to tell you too, Mom.”
Telling Mom feels easy—like water that’s packed tight into a container and comes pouring out when one of the walls opens. I tell her about the sessions with Ms. Fortier.
Mom wraps me in a hug, but not before I see tears forming in her eyes. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry, sweetie.” She’s quiet for a while and I can’t see her face but I can feel her arms tight around me. “You can always come talk to me, if you’re comfortable, okay? I’m sorry if I did anything that made you feel uncomfortable. I’m also glad you went to see the school counsellor. That took strength. I’m really glad you talked to someone.”
I hug Mom tight too, then pull back, gently loosening her arms just enough to see her. “Thank you. But, Mom, it wasn’t that I wasn’t comfortable talking to you, though, okay? It wasn’t you; I know you’d support me. I don’t think I was comfortable admitting things to myself, and talking to you is almost like talking to myself. Does that make sense?”
Mom nods, her eyes wet, and she smiles at that last part. Then I tell her about how I’ve been avoiding choosing where to go to school next year.
Mom squeezes my hand and then surprises me. “I know that, honey. I know last night was the deadline for choosing.”
I sit up taller. “You did? You do?” I scoot to the edge of my seat. “Then aren’t you worried? Or mad?”
Mom pulls me in for another hug, then sits back to hold my hands again. “Hailey, my darling sweet Hailey.” She reaches out and tucks my hair behind my ear, then smiles at me and I see a world of love in her eyes. “You are your own person, and you also contain traits from both me and your dad.” She chuckles. “I see that look on your face. Yes, your dad too. We aren’t only our biology—have you heard of nature versus nurture?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes. In psychology class. And, actually.” I smile. “That’s what I chose. Psychology.”
Mom’s eyes widen. “Honey, that’s great! I’m so happy for you.”
I cock my head. Did Mom know what I should chose before I did? “Is that what you wanted me to pick?”
“Wanted you to pick? Hailey.” Mom shakes her head. “Is that the option that you think will make you happiest?”
I grin with my newfound certainty. “Yes.”
Mom looks both relieved and happy at the same time. “Then that’s the option I want for you—whichever one you think will make you happy. Even if it takes you a few hours from us.”
Her voice wobbles a bit on that last sentence and I wonder if she’s thinking of Dad, how far he travelled for his postsecondary education, and whether I might do that too.
Before I can give her the answer she’s looking for, I hear Dad’s familiar, comforting footsteps as he hurries down the stairs, locks eyes with me for a trillionth of a second, and flies to my side while I shoot to my feet, wrapping me in a hug as I rush to my feet, throwing my arms around him too.
“My baby girl,” he says, and for an uncomfortable yet heartwarming moment, I hear my dad’s voice wobbling too.
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