Page 32 of Catching Camila

Camila

Wednesday 10:47 p.m.

There was a guy sleeping in her home.

Camila stared at the dark ceiling, her heart pounding ruthlessly in her chest. There was a guy sleeping in her home. A handsome, sweet, caring guy ten feet away. She listened for each breath, deep, resonant, and entirely male coming from down the hall. She was exhausted, but her body felt charged as if she’d just been sprinting. She rolled over and caught a whiff of his scent, a mix of Dove soap from her shower and a male musk completely his own. Breathing him in, listening for his movements, she knew she’d never get to sleep.

This was crazy. Any minute Mama could blow in like a tornado and rip this moment apart. What would Mama do if she found John here? Mama had said Camila needed to bring a nice guy home, but this was probably not what Mama had in mind.

Thinking of Mama, the guilt gripped her again. God, she hoped her mother was someplace safe. An image of her frail mother soaking wet and shivering under an overpass flooded her mind. She pushed the thought away. Tomorrow morning if Mama wasn't home, Camila would organize a search.

From her bed, she could see his closed bedroom door. She gazed at it in the dark. God, he was so handsome. Was that the reason she'd decided to trust him even though she knew it wasn’t the smartest decision? But his eyes were so…honest. She'd read about liars in her psychology magazines and how to recognize their tells. John was just scared.

And, oh God, he was sweet. He’d made her macaroni, cleaned her dishes. She’d noticed his eyes on her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Would he try anything? Slip into her bed and press himself on top of her, run his hands over her? Her body coiled and uncoiled at the thought. She knew nothing about him and yet, some deep part of her yearned for him to crawl into her bed, to taste his mouth, to feel his hands in her hair, on her neck, lower.

Camila rolled over again and pinched her hands between her knees. She should just go to sleep. Based on his quiet wheezing, he was already out. His life for the last few days had been a nightmare. And not knowing his own identity? John put her torn-apart family in a whole new light.

Finally, fatigue settled over her charged limbs. John, she thought as she drifted away. Where have you been all my life?

* * *

Thursday 7:56 a.m.

Cupboards bangingin the kitchen woke her.

Mama’s making breakfast,she thought, rolling over.

Mama!She snapped upright.

A breeze filtered through the open window, already hot like a breath on her face. The AC unit lay on the floor. So was the sleeping bag she’d given John, folded neatly at the base of the window. Was it John in the kitchen making breakfast? Camila jumped out of bed and ran out of her room.

The spare bedroom door was open. The room was empty.

As soon as she heard the Latin music blasting from the tiny kitchen radio, she knew Mama was home. Relief flooded her, but also deep worry. What state would Mama be in? Camila's nose picked up the smell of burned meat and something else. Cleaning supplies? Camila barged into the kitchen.

Mama stood at the stove, flipping over blackened strips of bacon. The kitchen looked rearranged, not necessarily cleaner, just moved around. She spotted bags of old clothes and records shifted from one spot to another. Mama had cleared off the kitchen counter and wiped it clean, but the counter's contents were in a pile on the floor. This was typical. When Camila was younger she’d try to help her mother clean up by dumping whatever she could lay her hands on in the trash. The minute Mama realized she was throwing items away, she'd slapped Camila's arm. After that Camila had stayed out of Mama’s cleaning escapades, no matter how much she hated the mess.

“Mama,” she called. The music thumped from the yellow CD boom box on the counter. One blown speaker buzzed. She tried again. “Mama!” Still nothing. Mama swayed her hips in time to the upbeat tempo. She was wearing a bright orange skirt and one of Camila’s tank tops. From behind, you might’ve thought she was a teenager with her stick-thin frame and bright clothing.

Camila stomped over and slammed her hand on the radio's power button. The music stopped, leaving the sound of crackling of bacon behind. Mama spun around.

“Camila, I’m making brrrreakfast.” Mama rolled her Rs merrily, waving her hand over the smoldering bacon, not noticing the charred smell.

“Mama, where were you all day yesterday? Where did you sleep?” Camila walked over and snapped off the burner. The glowing orange coil dimmed.

Mama swept around the kitchen, pulling out a carton of milk, boxes of cereal, donuts. She held out the donuts. “Bear claws. Your favorite.” She pushed them into Camila’s hands.

As Mama faced her, Camila's mouth fell open. Mama looked like a twenty-dollar hooker. Her face had been coated in layers of heavy make-up, now dripping in smears of red and beige. Mama’s ponytail had sprung several leaks that hung limply down her face. There was either a bruise or a hickey on her neck.

“Mama, listen to me, I need to ask you something.” This might not be the best time to ask about what Ben had said, but the question had slowly been smoldering for hours. If she waited to ask any longer, her brain might catch fire. “I know you don't like talking about it, but it's time you called Aunt Bea. Whatever happened between you two—”

“Beatriz!” Mama spat the name, throwing blackened bacon on a paper towel. “I not talk to that puta until she apologize.” She waved her spatula like a sword.

Camila backed away from the flying bacon grease. “She's your sister. Your blood.” Camila gripped Mama's arm. “I haven't heard your side of things, but—”

“What you mean hear my side?” Mama stopped in mid-swing, her eyes slowly fixing on Camila. “What other side have you heard?”

Camila tried to look innocent, her face flushing. “Nothing. I mean, no ones.”

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