The Secrets We Keep (10 page)

Chapter 20

I spend Friday at school pretty much on my own. Tam avoids me. I avoid her. Ellie's still not back, but at least I have a lunch of cake to eat. All the food groups are present: vegetables in the carrot cake, fruit in the banana bread, grain in the lemon tart and dairy in the chocolate mousse. And I'm pretty sure there are almonds in the macaroons. So I've even got protein covered, too.

Note to self: next time try not to eat five different sweets for lunch if you have to get through an afternoon of numeracy. It's hard enough concentrating on fractions on a ‘peanut-butter-sandwich-for-lunch day', but almost impossible when your body is trying to detox from fifty teaspoons of sugar. Now that I think about it, I can't believe I've made it through a full week at this school and nothing has happened to me at all. I race out of class like I can't wait for the weekend to start.

Bridge invited me to stay over this weekend, but I said no. I still feel like I can't desert Dad just yet. And of course I have Maggie's mail to collect and her fish to look after, which I'm excited about.

Usually collecting the mail is Dad's job. But today, because our box is just near Maggie's, I take out our letters, too.

Yo
u'
d think that I would just leave the mail on the bench for Dad, but for some reason, as I walk into the flats, I riffle through the letters. Maybe I'm looking to see if it's all bills. Maybe I'm looking for a letter from the insurance company. Or maybe I just have a feeling, because envelope number three is addressed to me:

Clem Timmins

Flat 2, 27 Waratah St,

Glen Waverley VIC 3150

I drop the letter like it's on fire. Then I grab it back up again and my hands shake as I turn the envelope over and over. There's no sender on the back, but I know that handwriting. Only one person in my world writes my name with the loopy
l
and the squashy
e
and also crosses the number
7
. Finally my hands still and I stare at the envelope as if I'm trying to read the contents without opening it.

I promise myself that if Dad isn't home yet, I'll read it. But if he is, then I'll hide it somewhere until I'm alone again. Of course I know he's not going to be home because it's only 3.45pm and he finishes work at 4pm, but I'm mentally trying to give myself some sort of out.

I unlock the door and walk into the empty flat that feels even emptier than ever. I turn on all the lights, then quickly turn them off again. I decide I want to be in darkness. I hope it will keep me safe and hide me from the truth.

I check the postmark. Two days ago.

As if I'm not in control of my fingers I watch them try to prise the envelope open, but they're trembling so much that instead of making a neat tear, they rip through the envelope like they're trying to destroy it. The paper is thick and creamy like proper writing paper. I unfold it quickly.

Dear Clem

That's how it starts. With a dear. Like I am. But I'm not. Not to the person who wrote the letter anyway. Not since the middle of February. Seven weeks ago.

My eyes are all blurry so I place the letter on the coffee table. Then I huddle into the couch and stare around the room. But no matter where I look, the letter looks back. Waiting.

For me.

I snatch it up and start reading.

Dear Clem

I rang and asked your dad if I could write to you. He said yes. I hope you don't mind. I want you to understand something about the fire …

My hands start shaking uncontrollably. I can't read anymore. Not today. I put the letter back in the envelope. I can't believe Dad said it was okay to write to me. It's not okay. It's never going to be okay.

I walk into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. I turn on the kettle and stare at it waiting for the water to boil. But despite the buzz of the water heating up, the letter keeps whispering to me from the lounge room.

The longer the kettle takes, the more I know I can't be here tonight. I turn off the gas, find a pen and paper in one of the drawers and scribble out a note for Dad, telling him I've gone to Bridge's and I'll call in the morning. If he needs me he can ring Bridge.

I need to escape before he gets home. Before I go I will have to hide the envelope, but first I chuck some clothes into a bag and grab a box of cakes.

Then I remember Maggie's fish. Is it too early to turn out their light? Will it confuse them if I turn it off in the afternoon? I hope not.

I run upstairs to her flat and switch off the tank light. Afternoon sun is streaming in from the window, so it's not completely dark inside yet. Hopefully the fish'll know that it's not quite night. But I'll have to be back early in the morning so I can feed them.

As soon as I'm on the footpath I start running. My feet are pleased to be moving quickly. It's so hard not having a mobile. It's not like I can text Bridge to let her know I'm coming. I just have to hope that she'll be there and that she doesn't mind that I'm turning up randomly. She usually has a big family dinner at her place on Friday nights so I'm banking on that. If I'm wrong and Bridge has gone to someone's house for a sleepover, then I'm sure her mum will let me stay anyway. She always calls me her other daughter. I wish it were true. I wish she were my mum.

As I round the corner, I see the bus pulling in and make a dash for it. Jumping on, I swipe my Myki card and head to the back. I've never caught this bus on my own. In fact, BTF I'd never caught public transport alone anywhere. It's amazing what a fire and no mother can do for your freedom. Suddenly I can go where I like and, because I don't have a phone, Dad can't even check up on me. I do feel a bit bad disappearing on him like this. But it's not him I'm running from. I'm just so relieved that I grabbed the mail today. If Dad had found that letter before me … My legs feel all twitchy at the thought. I cross them and recross them to try to contain all their energy.

It's not the best thing to be feeling antsy when you're trapped on a bus. But now I am. I'm tempted to press the button and hop off, but it would take me hours to run all the way to Bridge's house. So I open the box of cakes and take out a pale purple macaroon instead.

The bus stops and a couple of teenage girls dressed in school uniforms get on. I'm pretty sure one of them is my friend Jasmine's big sister. I think her high school is somewhere around here. The last thing I feel like doing is talking to her, so I hunch down in my seat and fix my eyes on the houses flashing past, hoping she won't see me.

The bus turns and turns again and, after a while, it drives past my old school. There are still kids on the mini oval kicking around a soccer ball. If I look hard enough I'll recognise them. And I can almost see the netball court where I used to train with my team on Tuesdays after school. I open the box of cakes again and choose a green macaroon this time. If I don't slow down, I'll have eaten them all by the time I get to Bridge's.

I'm not sure which stop is closest to Bridge's house so, once I see familiar houses, I press the button and hop off.

Bridge's house is only three streets away from my old house, but I decide to take the main road so I can get to Bridge's faster. Running through my old neighbourhood, I feel strangely disconnected, like I don't belong here anymore, like I never lived here in the first place.

How is that possible? It's only been seven weeks since I lived here. But I keep seeing details that are different: a house that's being renovated, a gum tree that's been lopped and a coffee shop that's popped up where the butcher used to be. Nothing is waiting for me. I run faster.

Chapter 21

Bridge lives in a weatherboard house with white paint, a huge backyard full of flowers and a trampoline. Because she has so many siblings, the house feels full, but strangely not crowded. It's just the right size for all the people. As I run up to her door, my legs finally stop twitching.

The front door is open and I can hear voices and music coming through the screen. There's always so much noise at Bridge's.

‘Hello,' I call loudly.

A face pops out of one of the bedrooms. It's Bridge's little brother, Sam. He grins when he sees it's me.

‘Clem!' he yells, and rushes to the door.

He's reaching up to unlock it when Bridge wanders down the hall.

‘Hey, Bridge,' I call to her.

She looks up in surprise from the book she's reading. ‘Clem?'

I walk towards her as quickly as I can, without actually running in her house.

Bridge obviously doesn't mind running because she sprints down the hallway and throws her arms around me in a huge hug.

‘Where did you come from?' Bridge exclaims.

‘Caught the bus.'

‘You staying?'

I nod, feeling tears welling in my eyes. Now that I'm here, I really want to hang out with her, as if it were just a normal Friday night.

‘Excellent. Mum's cooking half a pig so you can help us eat it.' She giggles and leads me down the hall.

Bridge's hallway is one of the busiest places I know. It's the centre of their house and has bedrooms running off it in both directions. If you walk to the end, you reach a galley kitchen and a massive lounge room with a long wooden dining table made from floorboards. It can seat almost twenty people. Bridge's mum is always in the kitchen creating amazing feasts and she rules the space with a super sharp knife, a wok and an ancient wooden chopping board. She's standing at the kitchen bench when we walk in, chopping onions with lightning speed.

‘Mum,' says Bridge.

‘Don't tell me you're hungry,' she replies, without looking up from the onions.

‘Clem's here.'

This time her mum drops the knife and looks across the bench. When she sees me, her face lights up with an enormous grin. ‘About time you came to visit.'

I grin back. Bridge's mum is the same height as me and about the same size. She's always telling me that small people are the strongest. If you ever saw her carrying half a pig out to the spit then you'd believe her. She grew up in China until she was twenty, and still makes food like she's cooking for her whole village: half a pig, a family of roast ducks, enough dumplings to fill fifty baskets. I've always loved being here for dinner on the weekend. It doesn't matter if extra people turn up because there is so much to eat.

‘You girls can set the table,' she orders, returning to her onions. ‘Maddie's out so ther
e'
re seven of us. Use the good plates.'

Bridge rolls her eyes at me, but I know she doesn't mean it in a nasty way. Her mum is just good at delegating. We always end up doing lots of jobs for her on the weekend, which I like. Because I'm an only child, I've never had to do much at home. Even now Dad still makes my school lunches. But I guess when you have five kids you have to order them around or nothing would ever get done.

Bridge picks up a pile of plates and I grab the cutlery. This house is like my second home, so I know where everything is. While we set the table, Bridge's mum shouts questions from the kitchen that I try to answer: ‘How's school?', ‘How's Dad?', ‘How's the flat?'.

We finally finish setting the table and scoot off to Bridge's bedroom so we can chat before the madness of dinner starts.

‘You've moved things around,' I say, noting that her bed is against a different wall.

Bridge shrugs. ‘Yeah. More room for you to sleep on the floor.'

I know that's not really why she moved it. Bridge is forever redecorating. But it's nice to think she's pretending I'm the reason.

Bridge tosses her phone to me. ‘Your dad's rung three times. You'd better call him.'

I groan without meaning to.

‘What's that about?'

Best friends should tell each other everything, shouldn't they? So why have I found it so hard to tell Bridge everything?

Instead of answering, I reach into my bag and pull out the box of cakes.

‘Here's dessert,' I say, passing them over.

Bridge can't help but peep inside the box. When she does, she looks at me, her eyes wide. ‘These must have cost a fortune!'

‘I didn't buy them. They were given to me.'

‘Why?'

I launch into the story about Ellie's mum's wake, and then find myself telling Bridge about Tam and about Maggie and her fish. But I go quiet when I reach the part about collecting Maggie's mail. I'm not ready to discuss that. Not yet.

‘So what's going on with your dad?' Bridge asks, and I realise my attempt to change the subject didn't exactly work.

‘I just needed a night away …'

‘You'd better call him.'

I pick up Bridge's phone and she walks out of the room to give me space. Then, before I can call Dad, the phone rings. It's him. I consider not answering, but I know Dad'll just drive over to see me if I don't talk to him now.

‘Hi, Dad.'

‘Clem! You okay? You caught a bus on your own? That's a fair way.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Next time wait for me and I'll drive you.'

Apart from the other night when I fell asleep at Maggie's, that's about as cross as Dad ever sounds. Thinking of that night makes me realise I've probably made him worry again and I feel bad. But then I remember the letter. And that Dad said it was okay to write to me. So I don't say anything.

‘Clem? I saw the envelope.'

I can't believe I left it on the coffee table.

I slump against Bridge's wall. How many times have I stayed in this room? How many times have I escaped Mum's bad nights here? More times than I care to remember.

‘Honey? What did it say?'

‘I don't know. I didn't read it.'

‘Why don't I come and pick you up and we can read it together?'

‘No. I want to stay here. We're having suckling-pig,' I say, as if the food is the reason I don't want to come home.

Dad sighs into the phone. I wonder if he's slumped against the wall like me.

‘I didn't want her to write to you. That's what I wanted to talk to you about last night when we were having pizza.'

‘I thought you weren't talking to each other anymore …'

There's a long silence from his end and I know what that means. That means he is seeing her, but he just hasn't told me.

‘Dad? Are you talking to her?'

‘Of course, honey.'

‘But …' I start to say.

‘You just assumed we weren't talking.'

I sigh and look up at Bridget's bookshelves. There's a photo of our netball team grinning at the camera and holding up our medals. Mum was at that game. I remember she bought two boxes of cut oranges and we stuck them in our mouths, pretending the rind was our orange teeth.

‘Whatever. I don't want to talk about it. Okay?'

‘Okay. I'll come and get you in the morning. Early. You have fish to feed.'

I nod like he can see me. Then I hang up and drop the phone back onto Bridge's bed. It doesn't matter what Dad says. Or how many letters I receive. I'm not listening.

*

Later, lying on the floor in Bridge
'
s room, I can hear the noises of the house. Bridg
e
is snoring a bit, although she'd hate for me to mention it. Her mum and dad are watching television in the room next door and one of her sisters is on the phone down the hall. It's so full of life, of arguments and of people here. Tonight, though, I've never felt quite so alone.