Free The Secrets We Keep by Nova Weetman

Clem. I’ll clean up. I’ll let you watch ET in peace.’
    I look at him and he’s looking at me and, even though it’s really dark in our flat, I can see his concern. I feel awful, but all I can do is sit down on the couch as Dad turns the TV back on and starts picking up all the kernels from the brown carpet.

Chapter 12
    I hear the front door shut and sit up to check my clock. It’s only six o’ clock in the morning, so I can’t imagine where Dad might be going. He’s not a jogger or a swimmer and always says he gets more than enough exercise at work. So where could he be going at this time on a Sunday?
    I carefully lie back on my pillow to avoid leaning too heavily on my earrings. It hurts when I lie in certain positions, but I sort of like it. It reminds me they’re there and that reminds me of Bridge.
    I know I won’t be able to go back to sleep now. I never can once I’m awake. So instead I reach for my book. I’m re-reading one of my favourites: Harriet the Spy . It’s a copy Mum gave me a couple of years ago. Mum found it after her mum died when she was packing up all Grandma’s old bookshelves.
    Luckily it was at the bottom of my locker at my old school so it didn’t burn. When I left I found a few things and for once I was pleased that I hadn’t cleaned out my locker when I was supposed to. The book has Mum’s name in the front, Elizabet h , and the year, 1982 .
    I pick it up and something falls out from the back. I glance down at my bedspread and see a photograph has fluttered free. There’s yellowing sticky tape around its edges, so it must have been stuck inside the removable cover. I grab it and, as I stare, my stomach starts churning.
    It’s a photo of Mum and me that I don’t think I’ve seen before. We’re in our old garden. In the background I can see the beans I used to pick for dinner and a lemon tree full of fruit. I’m young, maybe six, and I’m leaning against her, smiling. Mum has a faraway look on her face, like she’s imagining being somewhere else. Her hair’s the same as when I last saw her: long, unbrushed … wild. Her arms are around me, cutting me in half.
    I hold it closer and look into her brown eyes, wondering what she was thinking. We have some photos Mum put on Facebook and some on Dad’s phone, but this must be one of the only printed photos we have. The fire took the rest.
    I’m eating cornflakes when Dad comes in with two plastic trays of seedlings and a brown paper bag. His hands are muddy like he’s just plunged them straight into the ground and pulled out plants.
    â€˜You’re up,’ Dad says, as if it isn’t nearly nine o’ clock. ‘I bought us some croissants.’ The sight of Dad holding out the bag full of Mum’s favourite Sunday food makes my eyes well up.
    Dad wraps me up in a hug. ‘I’m sorry. I should’ve left you a note.’
    I shake my head. ‘Not your fault,’ I say, blinking away the stinging sensation in my eyes.
    Then Dad looks down at the table and sees the photo. He freezes and I can feel his whole body go rigid. He reaches for it, but I snatch it away before he can touch it. ‘Wash your hands first, Dad.’
    A moment later, the tap goes on in the bathroom and I close my eyes tight, stopping the tears. The urge to cry has been annoying me all morning. On. Off. Just like the water in the tap. But I’m holding it back. I don’t want to cry now.
    â€˜Where did you find that?’ Dad says, drying his hands on his shorts.
    â€˜It fell out of my book.’
    â€˜It’s your mum,’ he says, picking up the photo and cradling it close to his chest.
    â€˜Yeah. And me.’
    â€˜Oh, Clem,’ he says. Then he just stands there staring at the photo for a really long time.
    I sit in my chair, staring at him staring at the photo.
    Finally he places it back on the table and