Page 80 of Catching Camila

Camila

Friday 9:37 a.m.

Camila watched them go, not quite believing it was real. John wouldn't leave her in this rubble with a beast silently smoking into ash at her feet. He wouldn't just leave like that, would he? No, he didn’t leave her. He was taken.

Tears spilled down her cheeks. The air was acrid and filling her lungs at an unhealthy rate, but she didn't move. If she just waited right here, he'd come back.

Her vision blurred with smoke. Deep racking coughs shook her body. Her lungs wanted clean air, but her body was cemented in place. If she left this spot, his leaving would be real.

Men poured into the hole Nomad had made. Hands clasped around her wrists, her waist.

Light blinded her. She blinked and coughed as the alley came into focus. Behind her, Lizzy's was smoking as if it had caught fire. Her eyes locked on the dumpster, the place she'd met John. She doubled over, light-headed.

A man in blue put his arm around her. The cops had pulled her out of the building. Their blue and red flashers glanced off the brick, making her head swim. She stumbled forward.

“Easy, miss. Easy,” the cop said, grabbing her arm to steady her. “The ambulance will be here soon. If they can even get here through all that mess. Jesus,” he said.

“All that mess?” she croaked, not really caring. Her eyes tracked upward.

The cop thumbed back his hat and wiped sweat off his brow. “We had a hell of a time getting here. Road's all tore up. Goddamn craters.”

He had her full attention. “Craters?”

“Yeah.” He looked back toward the road, still shaking his head. “Craters like those ones in the bark park. Dozens of ‘em.”

* * *

Monday 1:57 p.m.

Two days later,Camila picked her mother up from county lock-up. Mama looked wrung out and in need of a shower, but otherwise unharmed by her time behind bars. She fell into Camila's arms, sobbing. Camila patted her back and murmured reassurances until she managed to get Mama out the door, down the steps, and into Fer's mom's car.

Mama apologized over and over. She promised to get a job, to get back on meds, to really take charge of her life this time. Camila just patted Mama’s back. It would be good to have her home.

The store dropped the charges because the items she stole added up to less than one hundred dollars and because it was her first offense (that they knew of). Mama was free to go. This time.

The rest of the ride back to the trailer park was quiet. Fer's mom drummed her fingertips on the steering wheel to the beat of some Jack Johnson tune. Camila sat at the window and let her eyes drift over every cloud. She'd been doing this ever since he left, looking up, staring. Waiting.

She drew her eyes down to her hands, clutched in her lap. The pink cast on her wrist was just one more painful reminder. She squeezed and squeezed, but she couldn't compress the pain. In her mind one thought rang out. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone.

“We're here,” Fer's mom said, pulling up to the curb in front of their trailer. Mama and Camila thanked her, slipped out, and shuffled up the steps. The loose porch railing creaked as they climbed. Soon it would detach and be yet another eyesore on their eyesore of a life. Camila fought back tears and pushed up a smile for Mama. She was back. That was something, after all.

The door flew open and a man stood staring at them from inside the trailer. His white hair was coiffed into a stiff wave across his head. He wore a loose cream-colored shirt, tailored black pants, and actual penny loafers. A gold necklace and bracelet flashed from his neck and wrist. Who was this stranger in her hou—

“Papi!” Mama cried. “What are you doing here?”

Abuelo.Her grandfather. He had come.

He pressed Camila into a tight hug. The smell of his aftershave brought images swimming back to her, the hot day at the airport, the big bed in the house in Bolivia, the scratch of his stubble against her cheek when he kissed her goodnight.

Abuelo half-walked, half-dragged Mama into the house. Camila followed, her legs feeling unsteady.

Inside, her grandfather set Mama on the couch. There, standing awkwardly in the back, was Aunt Bea.

“Ay dios mio,” Mama said, gaping at her sister. “What are you doing here?” Mama could barely catch her breath. She leaned on the couch arm for support.

“We came because we heard you were in trouble,” her grandfather answered in accented English. “A young man showed up at my door two days ago. He spoke English and said I must come here. Things were very bad. I called Beatriz. It's time to heal our familia.”

Bea nodded, tears flooding her eyes. “I should've come when Camila called me. I had no idea.” She looked around the trashed trailer.

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