Page 47 of Catching Camila

“Nothing.” Camila rubbed her forehead. Where was John? Was he alright? A deeper worry throbbed at the back of her brain. Had she been wrong about him this whole time? He'd told her the cop thought he'd killed the man when he hadn't. That they’d let him go.

She pulled out her phone and started looking at dates and times of the murders on local news stations. When she found the date and suspected time of the third murder, she let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. She’d been with John at the time they suspected the last person had been killed. That night he stayed over. He couldn’t be the one.

But that sketch sure looked a lot like Nomad.

“Camila, what did they say?”

Camila looked up at Mama. The joy of the moment had been sucked out of the room. Camila strode to the table and started clearing off dishes, tossing napkins and paper plates in the garbage.

“But, you haven’t finished eating,” Mama grabbed for the humitas, which Camila was attempting to swath in cling wrap.

“I’m finished,” Camila said, pulling the dish back. Her voice was steel as her hands clenched the Pyrex. “Thank you for the meal. Really. Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Mama crossed her arms. “You don’t sound like you appreciate it at all.”

A rage bubbled inside of Camila. She swung around and narrowed her eyes. “What I’d really appreciate is if you’d get back on your meds and stop this madness. One home-cooked meal doesn’t change the fact that we live like crazy people all the time!” Camila dropped the Pyrex to the table and shook her hands in the air. “You think one meal makes up for the nights you never come home? The days there’s nothing in the fridge but ketchup? Worrying that the cops,” she pointed to the door, “are going to show up and arrest you.”

She slammed her hands into the table, rattling the glasses. “Thanks for the humitas, Mama, but what I’d really appreciate is a mother who isn’t a criminal.”

She’d gone too far. She knew it. Yet her chest felt lighter. The years of pent-up frustration, of never saying a word had slowly eroded her life one square inch at a time.

Mama’s face contorted into a look of astonishment, then rage. Her five-foot-two frame rocked back and forth. “How dare you speak to me that way!”

“Mama, I—”

“Shut up,” Mama snapped.

It felt like a slap. Camila dropped her jaw.

“Now you listen to me.” Her hands shook as she racked them through her wild curls. “I am sorry that you haven’t had a perfect life, but I always loved you. I always done the best I could for you.” Mama punctuated the word with her finger. “You might think you'd have some perfect life with a better mami, and maybe you would, but we don’t get a choice in our familia. Just like I didn’t get a choice when my papi kicked me out at sixteen because I was pregnant with you.”

Tears filled Mama's eyes. “But, I would never, ever do that to you.” She paused, sniffled. “Those pills make me feel like I'm dead. Dead!”

Tears rolled steadily down Mama’s cheeks. She shoved them away with the back of her hand. “I won’t stand for this kind of treatment in my own home.”

“I’m sorry,” Camila mumbled, but Mama grabbed her purse and streaked for the door. “Mama, wait. They said we shouldn’t leave.”

Camila watched as Mama slammed the door behind her, rattling the kitchen window. The sound cut through Camila like a quake. Tears trickled down her cheeks and she let them fall. Hot, angry tears. She wanted a million tears. Enough to wash this shitty trailer away. To wash her away.

Camila walked over to the cluttered roll-top desk, shoved a wad of papers out of the way, and rolled it back. Bills, receipts, and envelopes covered every surface of the desktop. She heaved a frustrated sigh. It would take ages to dig through all this. She pressed her hands to the chipped wood lid. Two tears slid down and splatted on a wrinkled Kmart bill from 1999.

Her eyes landed on a yellowing address book with a faded kitten on the front. Camila blew the dust off and flipped through. The pages were littered with old addresses, long scratched out, names that once had meant something to her mother. There was her babysitter from second grade crossed out. The next page listed Mama's friend Holly from a church they no longer attended. Each name was like a stake through her heart, one more person that her mother had cut them off from. She wiped away the tears and kept going.

Cruz Acha, her grandfather, was on the first page, but all the numbers had been inked through. Camila stared at the digits, cut through with blue pen, and ached. The numbers and addresses were severed ties to a family she could never reach. Her eyes fell on the last number, crossed out. What if it wasn’t an old number? What if Mama had crossed it out in anger?

Camila dug her cellphone out of her pocket, heart pounding. She dialed the international area code as Mama had taught her so many years ago. Then she pressed the numbers and held the phone to her ear, barely breathing.

There were a series of clicks and a long expanse of silence. What would she say to him if he answered? She hadn't talk to him since she was eight years ol—

“Hola. Residencia Romos,” a woman’s voice said.

Camila’s brain flipped to Spanish mode. “Hola. Estoy tratando de llegar a mi abuelo, Cruz Acha. Abuelo? Entender?” Why hadn’t she thought about what she would say before she called? She pressed the phone to her ear until it hurt. Please let him be there.

The woman on the other end paused. “No. No hay nadie llamado asi aquí.”

Her translation was slow. No one here by that name? “Wait. There has to be a mistake,” Camila stammered. “Uh…Error. Por favor.”

“No comprendo.” The phone clicked.

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