Page 15 of Catching Camila

Camila

Tuesday 9:47 p.m.

Camila stumbled in the trailer door, banging her knee against a stack of books. The paperbacks sprawled across the entryway.

“Shit!” she said.

“Watch your mouth,” Mama's voice said from the interior of the dark trailer.

A wreath of smoke bobbed above the couch. Her mother’s narrow face scowled at her over the tattered couch back.

“Sorry.” Camila stepped inside. All day long questions had been burning inside her. What had happened with Aunt Beatriz? Was her cousin, Ben, telling the truth? Her eyes locked on the TV newscast, her family problems momentarily forgotten. The dog park down the street was on the news again? She watched as the camera panned over a large crater dug into the earth. Another giant meteor had crashed in the woods park? She leaned in.

Mama blocked her view, her dry lips pursed into a frown. “Where have you been all day? I been worried sick.” She smashed her Marlboro into the overflowing ashtray as if it offended her.

“Work, remember?” Camila's eyes stayed locked on the TV screen. Three craters had been found in the ten mile perimeter. Holy crap, three craters? That was news.

Mama shook her head slowly, her mouth open. “You shouldn’t work so hard, miamor.”

“Yeah, well, someone has to,” she snapped.

Mama stiffened and Camila instantly felt bad. This was not the way to get Mama to open up. She tried again. “It's not that hard, really. I've perfected the soft-serve swirl.” She twirled a finger in the air. Mama lifted a small smile, nodding. Her eyes strayed back to the TV. Two minutes of connection was all Mama had in her.

“Mama,” Camila said, easing herself down on the couch near Mama's feet. The cushions sagged heavily. Camila picked a candy wrapper out of the crack between the cushions and began folding it, mulling over what she wanted to say. “I got a call today.”

Mama didn't look up. “Nice, honey.”

“From a guy named Ben.” Camila watched Mama carefully.

“Yeah,” Mama lit another Marlboro with the flick of a gas station lighter. The smell of butane and carcinogens spiked the air.

God, this was getting her nowhere. She decided to go for it. “Ben is Beatriz's son. Aunt Beatriz.”

Mama sat bolt upright, her eyes flaring open. “Beatriz? My sister Beatriz?”

Camila nodded, biting her lip.

Mama's face tightened, lines deepening around her smoker's mouth. “What he want? Money?”

“Just to reconnect,” Camila lied. She pulled at fuzzies on the afghan, a blush heating up her cheeks. “Mama, what happened with Beatriz? Why don't we ever see them or Abuelo?”

Anger flared in Mama's eyes. She swung her legs around to the front and stood. She started pacing and cursing in Spanish.

Camila held her hands up. “Slow down. I can't understand you.”

“What I said,” she turned, her finger pointed, “is that I don't want you talking to them ever again. They'll infect this familia with their lies. They'll tell you things about me that are not true.” Mama walked to the kitchen counter and slammed her palms down.

“Relax, relax,” Camila said, sliding up behind her. She was expecting a reaction. She was not expecting this. Agitation could set off mood swings and push Mama into a manic phase. “I won't talk to them. If they call, I'll just hang up.” The lie felt thick in her throat.

Mama walked back to the couch, muttering in Spanish. Camila turned toward the bathroom, rubbing at a smudge of chocolate on her forearm. If that was the reaction she got when she asked Mama about her family, she'd need to figure out another way to learn what she needed to know.

Inside the bathroom, she pulled off her stained work shirt. She tugged up the sink plunger and turned on the faucet. She’d hand-wash the T-shirt here, let it dry on the porch tonight, and pray to God that no bird took its morning constitutional on it.

A spot of bright orange drew her eyes to the trash. Her heart began to pound as she reached in.

The orange pill bottle was missing the white childproof lid, but it didn’t matter. The pills were gone.

With shaking hands she pawed through the crumpled tissues, the toothpaste tube, and the maxi pad wrappers. At the bottom of the can, her fear turned into anger. She gripped the pill bottle with white knuckles, threw open the door, and stomped out into the living room.

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