Chapter 4: Everything gets flipped upside down

Hailey faces the moment she’s been dreading

When I open the front door, the cold winter air is replaced by the smell of sweetness and aromatic spices that call out to me. I kick off my boots, gently lower my backpack for my laptop’s sake, and head straight for the kitchen after washing my hands, staring eagerly at my parents’ backs as they dance around the kitchen. Not “dance” in the literal sense of the word, mind you—they’re both terrible at that.

“It’s important for you to know your family history.”

My stomach drops. For a few wonderful, familiar, comfortable, routine moments, I had forgotten about the doctor’s advice. I feel a flash of anger join the other emotions that have been wreaking havoc on me throughout every class.

“Is that our daughter?” Dad jokes, looking over his shoulder and spreading his arms wide open for a hug. A smile breaks across my face as I slide into his arms for a hug, careful not to get stabbed by the fork in his left hand, which he brings closer to his mouth so that he can eat the paprikash slipping off it.

“Hailey! You’re home!” Mom almost drops the pot she’s holding, then wraps her arms around us in a group hug.

I smile harder, naturally and on purpose, revelling in this moment.

“That smells amazing,” I marvel when we all step back. I don’t have to look inside the pot to know what we’re having for dinner. “Chicken paprikash is my favourite!”

“We know that,” Mom says with a wink.

“Although, to be fair, we didn’t just make it for you,” Dad says, pausing as he sweeps a stack of plates and cutlery into the dining room. “It happens to be my favourite too.”

Mom gently places the main dish at the centre of the table and nudges Dad. “Hon.” To me, she asks, “How was school today?”

I slide into my seat at the table, tucking one of my legs under me and then digging into my meal. “It was okay.” That’s mostly true. “But what were you guys talking about when I got home?”

Mom, chewing, nods over at Dad, who grips a fork and a knife in both hands and says, “My dear, you are looking at quite possibly the new editor of a book about…travel to UNESCO World Heritage sites!”

I gape. “What, no way! Dad!” I reach across the table to give him a hug. “That’s so cool! What a cool topic. How did this happen?”

Dad grins, not even bothering to eat our favourite meal, he’s so excited. “Someone I used to work with reached out to me and asked me if I’m interested. She knows this is absolutely perfect for me, that this would be the book to me. I’m just waiting for her to reply to my super short, super excited all-caps email to make this official.”

Dad is happy. Mom is happy. I’m happy. I close my eyes, letting the sweet, spicy smells of chicken paprikash waft down my nose while the taste travels delightfully down my throat.

“And what makes this book the book,” I ask, “besides the obvious fact that that’s a super fascinating topic?”

Mom places another heaping pile of food on my plate. “Your dad loves travel.”

“He does?”

My parents exchange a look, and I realize that I’m analyzing them. If the doctor hadn’t asked me to think about something I never thought about before for more than a few seconds at a silent time, would I even have noticed the tension slowly overtaking the perfect meal in front of me?

“I’m, just, surprised,” I clarify, watching them carefully. “Why hasn’t this come up before?” I turn to Dad. “If you love travel so much, how come we haven’t travelled much?”

They exchange looks again, and this time I’m sure I’m not just reading into things. And then I start to feel annoyed, deeply bothered, angry that I’m noticing anything at all. Resentment builds towards the doctor for giving me the advice, for asking me to do something impossible at a time when I need stability the most.

To be fair, the doctor was actually trying to give you stability, I realize, thinking of those reassuring test results, of the point being to stop the racing heart episodes.

The room is still silent, and now I’m feeling angry and hurt. My parents, a delicious, warm homecooked meal, the safety of our home—all the ingredients I need for feeling safe, comforted, good, and I can’t even enjoy it. No, worse, something is sitting in the air, something I don’t know how to identify, something my parents are both feeling, making us sit, frozen and uncomfortable—

I become aware of Mom’s voice first.

“Hailey? Hailey!”

Mom and Dad rush to my side as my pulse rushes into my ears, my heart racing faster than I’ve ever felt it race before, pounding in my chest like it weighs as much as a brick and is threatening to jump out. I start to cry and they both take one of my arms, clamping their hands in a firm, loving grip on one bicep each and rubbing my back while I shut my eyes and take deep, cooling breaths that completely empty my mind until, eventually, my heart rate returns to normal and I can breathe easily again.

Mom wraps her arms around me on the floor, rocking back and forth. Dad puts his hand on my left shoulder, giving me an encouraging squeeze.

“You’re alright,” he reassures me.

“Tuesday, today’s Tuesday,” Mom mutters, her gaze suddenly focused. “Hailey, did you see the doctor today? How did it go?”

This is the perfect window for telling them. She says I need to know my family history. There are the words I’m supposed to say but, looking up at their faces, side by side, a meter from mine, eyes equally wide in worried expressions, I know I’m not going to do that.

I take a deep breath and think of the relief when I saw my test results so that a natural smile crosses my face. “She said I’m healthy, and that the episodes are likely caused by stress.”

Exactly as expected, their faces relax instantly, and they both envelop me in a hug that has me saying, “Oof!” before we shake with relieved laughter.

I’m positive no one notices that I keep shaking, ever so slightly, that no one knows when I’ve mentally turned the corner at the fork in the road the moment I decide I’m not going to ask them, that I’m not going to bring the walls crashing down around any of us.

I’m going to find out on my own.

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Dear readers, thank you so much for your support! The Other Side of the Ocean is a collaborative tale, which means it’s being built with your input!

For example, after section three, readers were invited to vote on Hailey’s parents’ personality traits and main interests. In Hailey’s dad’s case, his interest in a hobby won, and this inspired the travel topic that brings the beginning and end of this scene together.

We’d love your thoughts and suggestions on the next section of the story, and invite you to vote and share your feedback in the polls or comments section below!

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