Wish I Were Here

Chapter 10

I t turns out that Luca’s childhood home is only two blocks from the DeGreco building, on a quiet Bloomfield side street lined with mismatched brick and aluminum-siding-covered row homes. Before the developers discovered it, Bloomfield was a predominantly working-class Italian neighborhood, and many of the old families still live here. I’m not surprised that Luca’s is among them. Each house has a porch lined up to the next, and if you walk down this street in the morning or evening, you’ll probably find them occupied with people reading newspapers, drinking coffee, and gossiping with the neighbors.

From the porch of Luca’s family home, he opens the door and leads me into a hallway covered end to end in family photographs. To our left is a living room with a dark wooden coffee table and flowered couch sitting atop beige wall-to-wall carpet. More photos hang on the walls and populate the fireplace mantel. I imagine that this house was passed down to Luca’s mother from his grandparents, and maybe the furniture was, too. It’s all a bit dated, but in that comfortable and welcoming way of things that are well loved. I can picture this house packed with generations of Morellis at Christmas, the decorations on the mantel, a tree in front of the window. Something about that image fills me with longing. When I was growing up, Dad and I spent most of our holidays at ArtSpace, a warehouse where the circus-performer crowd likes to hang out. Our Christmas tree was an old bicycle someone draped in twinkling lights.

I kick off my shoes and follow Luca straight down the hall past a staircase to the kitchen in the back of the house. A woman in her fifties with dark, curly hair sits at an oak dining table in the middle of the room, and a younger version of her stands at the stove stirring something in a pot. When we enter, the older woman drops her newspaper on the table, stands, and crosses the room to embrace Luca.

“My boy,” she says, gripping his shoulders as she stands back to get a good look at him. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.” She pulls him in for a hug.

Luca tries to extract himself from the woman’s hug. “I was just here on Sunday, Ma.”

“You know Ma won’t be happy until you move back home,” the woman at the stove chimes in with a roll of her eyes.

“Is it so terrible that I miss my son?” Luca’s mother laments like he’s been away at war. She reaches out and brushes a wayward lock of hair off his forehead. “Look at you. When was the last time you got a haircut? You’d be so handsome if you’d get your hair out of your face.”

“Stop it.” Luca ducks away and guides me into the room. “Ma, Ginny, I’d like you to meet my friend Catherine. Catherine, this is my mother, Lorraine, and my older sister, Ginny.”

“Hi. Nice to meet you,” I say, lifting my palm in a wave. Both women turn to look me up and down.

“Is she your friend or your girlfriend?” Lorraine asks with zero subtlety.

“Jesus, Ma,” Luca mutters, and two pink spots appear on his cheeks.

“We’re just friends,” I assure her.

“Catherine lives in the DeGreco,” Luca explains.

“Really…” Ginny’s eyebrows go up. “Interesting. How do you like it there?”

“I’ve only been there a month—” I do my best to ignore the pang in my chest when I remember that I might not make it another month. “But so far it’s been good.” I pause, hesitant to mention the broken elevator or bikes in the mail room in front of Luca’s mother. Aside from his hair in his face and too-infrequent visits, I get the feeling she thinks he can do no wrong. “I’ve met some lovely people.”

“You can’t be referring to my little brother,” Ginny says. “So I assume you mean the older people.”

“Yes. They’re all very…” I remember Mrs. Goodwin’s dance in the lobby and Sal hiking up the stairs. “Colorful.” I lift a shoulder. “Although, the doorman is nice, too.”

“Interesting,” Ginny murmurs again.

Lorraine waves us into the room. “Come in. Sit.”

We settle at the table, and she plunks a plate of cookies in front of us. My stomach growls, but I just gulped down an entire chocolate peanut butter smoothie, and I’m not sure a thumbprint cookie should be my next meal.

“So, have you rented out Grandpa’s apartment yet?” Ginny calls over her shoulder as she gives the pot on the stove another stir.

“I did,” Luca says. “A while ago.”

There’s something clipped about his tone that has my gaze swinging in his direction. A few weeks ago, he told me that the Lincoln Town Car belonged to his grandpa. I remember the affection in his voice when he mentioned it and how I hoped that his grandpa had just upgraded to a new car. But now he’s rented out the older man’s apartment, too. Is it too much to hope that it’s because his grandpa found a nice condo in Florida? “I didn’t know your grandpa used to live in the DeGreco.”

“Yeah.” Luca lifts a cookie from the plate and then sets it down again. “Until he died last year.”

“I’m so sorry.” I look around the room. “For all of you.”

“Thank you. He was a good man. Luca had a hard time renting out his place after…” Lorraine waves a hand. “They were close, and it’s hard to move on.”

My gaze settles on Luca. His usually animated eyes have gone dark. I find myself wanting to do or say something to bring that light back. But when I look up, both Lorraine and Ginny are watching me watch him.

After a beat, Lorraine turns back to Luca. “So, you got someone nice in the apartment?”

“Very nice,” Luca says in that same clipped tone.

“ Anyway … that’s enough about that.” He pushes the plate of cookies in my direction. “We’re here because Catherine needs to eat something.”

“That’s not why—” But I stop talking when my stomach growls again. It’s late afternoon, and that smoothie is starting to slosh around. Whatever is on the stove smells delicious. I grab a cookie and stuff it in my mouth.

“Of course you’ll eat something,” Lorraine says, swinging open a dark wood cabinet near the sink and taking down two vintage white bowls with a blue flower print. She hands them to Ginny, who ladles in whatever is in the pot. Then Lorraine carries them to the table and sets them in front of Luca and me. A heavenly garlic and herb scent wafts toward me. I look down to find white beans and small bits of pasta floating in tomato broth.

“This looks amazing.” I’m already reaching for the spoon.

“It’s just a little pasta fazool,” Lorraine says, placing a hunk of crusty white bread next to each of our bowls.

“Pasta—what?”

Luca’s lips curve. “Pasta fazool.”

I take a bite and my eyes involuntarily close as I savor it. “Well, whatever you call it—it’s delicious.”

Lorraine pats me on the arm in approval.

“What do you do for work, Catherine?” Ginny sits across from us with her own bowl, pushing a pile of mail, a baseball glove, and a coffee mug off to one side. Normally, this kind of clutter stresses me out, but it doesn’t really bother me now. Knowing Luca, it wouldn’t feel right if his childhood home were perfectly organized.

“I’m a—” I take a deep breath. “A mathematics professor.” At least I hope that’s what I am.

“God.” Ginny shakes her head. “Good for you. I hate math.”

At that moment a kid wanders into the kitchen. The owner of the baseball glove, I’m assuming. He’s about thirteen by the thin line of awkward hair that’s popped up on his upper lip and the way his hands and feet look too big for his body. “I hate math, too,” the kid agrees, snatching a cookie from the plate on the table.

“No, you don’t,” Ginny says, swatting at his hand. “Go do your homework.”

“I don’t have any homework; it’s summer vacation.” The kid grabs another cookie and makes a break for the door.

“Go mow the grass, then,” Ginny calls after him. When he’s disappeared around the corner, she turns to me. “Please excuse my son, Angelo.”

“Do you two live nearby?” I ask, taking another bite of soup.

“If by ‘nearby,’ you mean ‘upstairs,’ then yes. We’ve lived with Ma ever since my kid’s sperm donor stopped paying child support.”

Luca grins. “She means her ex-husband. Angelo’s dad.”

“But sperm is pretty much all he’s contributed,” Ginny says with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We like it here. Ma can help out with Angelo, and I can help out around the house.” She kicks Luca under the table. “Since my deadbeat brother never comes around.”

“Hey.” Luca kicks her back. “I was here on Sunday .”

“Leave your brother alone,” Lorraine calls from across the kitchen. “He’s a good boy.”

Ginny rolls her eyes.

“So, speaking of absentee parents,” Luca says, standing up from his chair. “Catherine and I want to get your take on something.” He whisks my bowl away, fills it with more soup, and sets it in front of me again. I inhale it while Luca gives them a quick overview of my situation.

“Wow,” Ginny says when he’s finished talking. She turns to me. “I can’t believe that you just don’t exist.”

“Me neither.” I take another bite of my soup for comfort.

“And your dad thinks your mom has your birth certificate?” Lorraine asks. I nod, and she shakes her head. “Why in the world wouldn’t he just tell you what he knows? If it were my kid, I’d be knocking down doors if it meant I could help.”

“We know you would, Ma,” Luca says with an affectionate smile.

Lorraine reaches over to give his shoulder a squeeze. There’s something about the unconditional love and fierce protectiveness all wrapped up in that small gesture that has my heart tugging. Is that what it would have been like to have a mother?

I know my dad loves me. But I never really felt that kind of protection , like he was looking out for me. It always seemed like I was the one looking out for him. Maybe I’m romanticizing, though. Maybe, in reality, my mother would have been a total nightmare. She left, after all. Who does that?

“And your mother,” Lorraine continues, echoing my own thoughts. “I can’t imagine what would compel her to leave her own child like that. There must be something wrong with her, because you’re obviously a lovely girl.”

“ Ma ,” Luca cuts in. “Maybe Catherine doesn’t want to talk about this.”

“No, it’s okay,” I assure him. She’s not saying anything I haven’t thought about a thousand times. And quite often, I concluded that if my mother left, it meant there was something wrong with me . Lorraine doesn’t really know me at all, but I’ll take any reassurances that it wasn’t my fault.

“Maybe you’ll think it’s sexist of me,” Lorraine continues. “But I speak from experience when I say that men take off all the time.” She huffs out an indignant breath. “But what kind of mother leaves her kid?”

I glance around the kitchen. Is Lorraine referring to Angelo’s sperm donor when she speaks from experience? Or was there a man who left her, too? For the first time, I wonder about Luca’s dad. Is he in the picture? I search Luca’s face for signs that this conversation upsets him, but when he catches me looking, the corners of his eyes crinkle and his lips curve upward. But this time, it’s not that signature grin that lights up a room. This smile is more subtle, and even though we’re here with his mom and sister, I know it’s just for me. A shakiness radiates out to my limbs. I never noticed the little hazel flecks in his dark eyes before. I want to keep staring, keep searching for what else I can discover about him.

Ginny clears her throat and leans forward, propping her elbows on the table. “So, what do you know about her?”

My cheeks heat, and I tear my eyes from Luca’s. What were we talking about?

“Any idea where she might live—or anything?”

Oh, right. My mother.

I shake my head. “My dad won’t tell me anything about her.” I glance at Ginny. “I guess you could call her my egg donor. I’ve never even met her.”

Ginny presses her lips together in sympathy, and Lorraine gives me a squeeze on the shoulder. I have the strangest urge to grab her hand and hold on.

“So what do you think?” Luca asks, leaning back in his chair. “How can we find her?”

Ginny and Lorraine share a glance and then in unison say, “Uncle Vito.”

Luca nods. “You think he’ll help?”

“Of course he’ll help,” Lorraine says fiercely. “You’re family.” She turns to me. “Don’t worry. If Luca cares enough to go to all this trouble, Vito will look out for you.”

“Who’s Uncle Vito?” I murmur to Luca. But I already have a pretty good idea. He’s a Morelli, of course. I hear they’re everywhere. And well connected. And possibly in the Mafia. I’m not sure if that should encourage or terrify me.

“You’ll see,” Luca whispers.

I think I’m going to go with terrified.

“He’ll be at the club tonight,” Lorraine says. “Go see him there. Just make sure you arrive before eight so you don’t interrupt his card game.”

“Okay, we should probably head home, then.” Luca pushes his chair back. “Catherine will want to change out of her work clothes before we go to the club.”

I set my spoon in my empty bowl and carry it to the sink. “And the elevator,” I remind Luca. “Don’t forget you’ll want to check on the elevator.” He hasn’t mentioned Dante all day, and I haven’t seen him call to check in.

“Yep, and the elevator,” Luca agrees.

We head down the hall to put our shoes on, and a moment later, Lorraine meets us there with a Tupperware container. “Take this for later.”

“Oh, I couldn’t. That’s your dinner,” I say, but I can’t seem to keep my eyes off it.

“We have a whole pot.” She slides it into my hand.

“Are you sure?”

“Take it, Catherine,” Luca says. “Never argue with an Italian mother who’s trying to feed you.”

Lorraine smiles, patting Luca’s cheek. “I taught my boy well.”

“Okay, I’ll take it. Thank you.” I clutch the container, already thinking of when I can heat it up later.

“I like a girl who can eat.” Lorraine turns to give me a pat on the cheek, too. “Apparently, so does Luca.”

“Jesus, Ma,” Luca mutters, yanking the front door open and stepping out on the porch, but not before I catch a glimpse of his face heating up.