Chapter 5: The past she never knew about

In order to protect her health, Hailey goes searching for answers at home

“Start from the top,” I mutter to myself. Although, maybe not literally.

“Attic. Bedroom. Office. Garage. Basement.” I rattle each item off the list, holding up a finger for each one. Mom and Dad went grocery shopping, which means I only have about an hour before I risk getting caught.

And that can’t happen. Because if searching for answers to protect my health is so stressful that it triggers another heart episode, then there’s really no point in doing this at all.

Because I’m happy. Right? It’s only because of the doctor that I’m looking into this at all. I never actually felt like I needed to know; Dad was obviously born somewhere before he came to us. I’ve been okay acting like any possible other family legit doesn’t exist.

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

I put one step on the bottom of the staircase. “Attic. Bedroom. Office. Garage. Basement.”

Probably only 55 minutes left. I think they’re all decent guesses as to where Dad would keep information about his family history, if he kept anything at all. But one of those places makes me more nervous than the others, and that’s why I think it’s probably the right place to go.

I take a deep breath, instantly soothed by the smell of pressed roses as I walk into Mom and Dad’s room. The sun sweeps incredibly in through the window, igniting the dresser and bed in a bright yellow that helps put me at ease. Despite the circumstances, in this particular moment I feel like a student in a library or museum, rather than a daughter who already feels guilty and terrified by the idea of upsetting her parents by hurting their feelings.

Without overthinking it, I stop what I’m doing—which is heading towards Dad’s side of the bed—and instead kneel in front of Mom’s dresser. Mom’s one for keepsakes. Maybe she saved something that will give me a clue to Dad’s family?

And, even then, how am I supposed to learn about their health history? a voice inside of me asks. How is this plan going to reveal the only thing I’m looking to find?

I think the question, I recognize its validity, yet my hands keep moving, keep reaching for the dark mahogany keepsake box Mom has always kept here that I’d never otherwise have dared to open without her permission. Even now my back prickles, not quite like it does when I think I hear Sandra coming, but out of discomfort at the idea that this could suggest I disrespect Mom’s privacy, which I don’t. It’s your history too, I tell myself, even though I don’t believe that justifies this.

My heart patters a little bit faster, and that settles things. I’ll look for medical records, or hospital bracelets, or something. Yeah! That’s it. If I can find something to tie Dad back to his family, I can do some research online and keep this health-based only. That’s the answer.

And I’m only doing it like this so I can protect Mom and Dad. Yesterday’s dinner and heart episode and hugs come rushing back to me. That’s why I’m doing this.

I think that, I make that decision, and yet when a yellow sheet of paper with Mom’s writing on it slides out of the overstuffed box, I start to read it even as I’m picking it up off the floor.

September 1, 2006

Dear Journal,

I don’t usually like to think about work when I leave the pub—especially when I have something so much more exciting to think about, EEK!—but there’s something about today’s shift that makes me want to remember it. Before I squeeze in some geometry homework, here it is:

“You want to go to the what?”

He looked at me and it took him a moment to answer. “The loo.”

I shook my head. “Listen, I think you know what you’re doing.”

He held his gaze, the only difference being that one eyebrow went up. “What am I doing?”

I actually burst out laughing, genuinely. “No, come on.”

Still not moving, other than that raised eyebrow, he says, “Come on what?”

I guffawed and looked around me, but of course no one else at the pub was paying attention to us. “Don’t make me say it.”

This time he smiled. “Say what?”

“Stop! That!” I pointed, then dropped my hand and kept cleaning the counter I was working on. “Fine.” I put down the cloth. “You said ‘loo’ on purpose so that I’d ask you where you’re from, and next thing you know, we’ll be having a conversation.”

This time he looked genuinely perplexed, and he dropped the whole standing-still act to throw his hands up in the air and slide into a seat at the bar. “You think I’d do that?”

Another customer approached and asked me for a drink, so I poured them some iced tea and then answered. “Well, I just met you, but yes, I think it’s not unreasonable to think someone would approach a student working at the bar and try that.”

He sat up straighter, sliding his bag off his back. “You’re a student too?”

I paused, mid-wiping a glass. This guy is for real. He looked like he’d just spotted a Christmas tree equipped with built-in lights, and possibly even on sale.

“Yes.” I kept wiping and when I didn’t hear him say anything, I looked up.

He grinned, like giddy, happy-go-lucky, pure happiness, grinning. That’s when I realized that this guy is different—he didn’t come to the bar to create an impromptu date. I think that’s when the anxiety I usually feel when customers approach me—especially other people from my school—started to slip away.

I wasn’t sure what was making him look like that, but I realized that I wanted to know what would make someone that happy. “Are you a student too?” I asked him.

He grinned, and his eyes refocused, like he’d been thinking of something else. “Yes.” He cleared his throat and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, a look of contentment on his face. “Yes, I’m a student here. I’m studying English literature to become a famous writer, among the greats. You know, like William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, Jane Austen.”

Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow. “You read Jane Austen?”

He frowned. “Of course. I probably read every book any English professor would put on their roster. How else does someone from a non-English speaking country learn the language?”

Wow, this guy is different.

“Well, that’s impressive.” I started wiping another glass. “And I get the feeling you’re genuine, but just in case, I have to say—” I pointed a napkin-covered finger at him. “Don’t go falling in love with me. Because I can’t go with you to wherever you’re from.”

I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on his face at that moment. I saw surprise and concern, like he genuinely wanted to understand what I meant. But, Journal, only you and I know what I meant!

“Why?” he asked, leaning in with the look of someone who’s prepared to listen and offer support.

For a moment, I faltered, so tempted to pour out the whole story to him, to this stranger who is supposed to be a stranger but feels like an old friend.

Journal, you know the joy I felt in my heart when I answered his question.

“Because I have to stay here.”

“What!” I flip the page, wanting there to be more to the letter. What did Mom mean—why did she say she has to stay here? Was it to be close to her family? What’s here that couldn’t be moved, that made her know that she had to stay?

The bedroom door shudders loudly as it swings open behind me, and I jump, heart racing.

“Hailey?”

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