Page 24 of Catching Camila

Camila

Wednesday 8:07 p.m.

Camila was wiping down picnic tables on the pavement slab when her cellphone buzzed. She dropped her rag and clawed at her jeans, scrambling to retrieve the phone. She'd been waiting for a call from Mama all day. Her hands trembled as she stared at the cracked screen. A picture of Fer making an obscene gesture popped up. She’d only gone home an hour ago. Talk about attachment disorder.

“Yes?” she drawled, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

“Dude, see if you can get out early. There's a boat party on Hunter’s Lake.”

“Can't,” she said, eying Travis's silhouette as he moved inside the ice cream shop. He probably wouldn't mind that she was on the phone. She picked up the rag, turned from the front window, and pretended to wipe. “Can you run by my trailer? I need to know if Mama's home.”

“I went by there ten minutes ago. Nada.” Fer breathed into the phone. “Sorry, chica.”

Camila shrugged. “It's alright. Hey, I gotta go. I'll call you when I get off.”

“You better, wiener. But, for real though, ask Trav if he can close up. This party will be dope.”

“Sure.” Camila hung up and stared at the phone. The hollow feeling had not left her stomach all day. It was after eight o'clock and Mama was still not home. What kind of trouble was she getting into? Shoplifting? Jail? Camila pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to think. She could call the cops, but didn’t want to get Mama into trouble. Slowly her hand reached into her pocket and pulled out the little square of paper. Unfolding it, she touched the three names with the pads of her fingers, lingering on Ben. Ben, written and crossed out, in a matter of seconds. She pulled out her phone and found his number before she thought about it too long.

It rang once, twice. Her breath pulsed against the phone, thick and heavy. Thank God for a slow after-dinner crowd. She looked inside the shop again, the order window glowing brightly in contrast to the gathering dark. Travis must've been in the back because she couldn't see him. Camila leaned her hip against a picnic table and waited. Cars began flicking on their headlights, yellow beams slicing through the purple twilight.

“Hello?” Ben said. “Hello?”

Camila stood up, swallowing hard. “Don't hang up.”

“Who is this?” he asked, his voice growing wary.

“It's your cousin. Don't hang up.”

There was a long pause. “Why shouldn't I?”

Camila paced on the blacktop. She stopped before she got to the street, turned and walked back toward the tables. “Because… Because we're family.”

“Yeah, right.” She could hear the phone pull away.

“My mom ran off,” she said, pressing the phone hard into her cheek. “We…I need help.” She leaned against the splintered tabletop, her head spinning. “I can't do this alone.”

“Well, maybe it's better for you that she's gone.” His voice was so unfeeling.

“God, what did my mom do that makes you hate her?” Camila white-knuckled the phone, a desire to chuck it tightening in her chest.

His voice came closer. She pictured him pressing the phone back to his ear. “You really don't know?”

“My mom…she won't tell me.” Camila glanced up at the order window. Travis peered out, looking for her. She slid the phone around and waved her dishrag at him. She didn't have much time.

A long pause. Ben's voice came back in a whisper. “Fine,” he said impatiently. “But my mom can't know I told you or she'll flip a gasket.” Camila wondered at his age. Seventeen? Fourteen? Was he tall or short? Did he look like her? “What did she tell you about why they came to America?”

Camila thought for a moment, tracking a finger over words carved into the tabletop. “She's never said a word. All I know is she's really pissed and she won't call anyone in the family.”

Ben blew a puff of breath into the phone. “I don't know the whole story, but my mom said back in Bolivia your mom stole her boyfriend, who's my dad, and got knocked up. Our abuelo blamed my mom for it, saying she was the older sister, or for having my dad around, or whatever. So, he sent them both to America in shame.”

Camila looked up, choking on emotion. Her mother had been sent away in shame because of her? Ben’s father was her father, too? “Go on,” she whispered.

“Well, my dad followed them to America and apologized to my mom. She took him back, and they got married and had me. But then ten years ago, your mom showed up and hooked up with my dad or whatever. My mom caught them fooling around. It's your mom’s fault they're divorced.” Bitterness and anger coated his voice.

Camila pressed her hand to her head, trying to nail down all the pieces of his story. Her father was Aunt Bea's husband. But that would make Ben her…half-brother? Mama broke up her sister’s marriage? Mama had never seemed remotely interested in men. She'd never brought one home, never stumbled in the door late with hickies on her neck or numbers scrawled on napkins. Camila shook her head. “That doesn't sound right.”

“What doesn't? That your mom's a whore or that she broke up my family, because it all makes sense to me.”

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