Page 19 of Catching Camila

John

Wednesday 12:36 a.m.

Noises woke Camila. Was someone in the trailer? She sat up. “Mama?”

No response. Getting out of bed, her heart started to pound. She walked to the doorway and peered out. Every light was on.

“Mama?” A nervous sweat dotted her back. She glanced around. Had someone been here? Could someone have broken in?

The noxious smell of chemicals hit her nose halfway to the bathroom. The door was closed. Behind it, she heard muttering.

“Mama!” She jiggled the doorknob. “Let me in.”

The door popped open and slid back slowly. Camila stepped inside.

Mama was leaning over the bathtub in her nightgown and slippers, yellow rubber gloves up to both elbows. Her hair curled away from her head in all directions. She regarded her only child with wild, frantic eyes.

“Camila, I glad you home from work.” Her mother spoke so fast that the words ran together. “Just cleaning this mess up. Help me get this tub clean.” She dropped back and scrubbed like a madwoman.

“Hey,” Camila said, stepping into the bathroom, “It’s past midnight. You can clean tomorrow.” She pulled at her mother’s elbow, just bones and skin under a loose cotton robe.

Mama shook her head and continued to scrub. “Can’t leave it like this, mi amor. Help me.” The brush made a shushing sound against the tub wall.

Mama was now in the manic stage of her Bipolar Disorder. Camila had read every article she could get her hands on about the disease. The manic phase could last a few hours, a few days, or longer. And with all the pills gone and no money to buy new ones, who knew what was next for Mama? The possibilities were endless and terrifying. Once in eighth grade Mama had disappeared for four days. Another time, she'd bought them a new car and had it repossessed in the same week. And how many times had she been picked up for shoplifting?

“Mama, please.” Camila's voice broke.

Mama paid her no mind. Her bony knees pressing into the dirty tile, Mama scrubbed the tub, her elbow cranking like a piston. “We get this clean, don't you worry. All clean. Just help me get this grout and then I work on the sink.”

Camila slid down the hallway wall and sat among the trash. There was no stopping Mama now. Waiting for Mama to wear herself out, Camila sat a silent vigil.

* * *

Wednesday 8:12 a.m.

Camila woke with a start.Morning. Ms. Kaminski's dog howled outside. She shifted and her elbow thunked into a toaster. What was she doing on the hallway floo— Mama.

The bathroom was empty. She listened for movement and heard none. Mama must've given up cleaning and gone to sleep. Maybe things weren't as dire as she thought.

“Mama?”

No trace. Camila flung open the front door and peered into the carport. No trace of her mother.

Camila stuffed her feet into her flip-flops, thundered down the front steps, and tore down the road. She ran to Ms. Kaminski's and pounded on the screen door. Ms. K was the only person in the park that Mama ever talked to.

“Ms. K!” Camila banged her fist on the screen door. It rattled in its casing. Harley, the cockier spaniel, staked on his chain in the side yard, barked like mad. “Ms. K, I need your help!”

Camila's mind raced. The last time Mama went manic, she'd taken off like this. She’d come back eighteen hours later with a dozen dollar store bags slung over her arms, the cops right behind.

Through the screen, Camila watched as the old woman lumbered forward from her back bedroom. She wore a flowered housedress and flattened slippers. Veins stood out like Ramen noodles on her white legs. Her thinning white hair showed too much scalp.

“Camila, is everything alright?” Her arthritic fingers fumbled for the door latch.

“Ms. K, is my mom in here? Have you seen her?” Camila peered over Ms. K's shoulder into her trailer. It smelled of mothballs and cheese. An old rocker with worn arms and a cushioned seat rested in front of a television. The Price is Right blared on the screen.

Ms. K shook her head and frowned. “She run off again?”

“I don't know. Will you let me know if you see her?”

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