Wish I Were Here

Chapter 11

B ack at the DeGreco building, the elevator seems to be working properly. I step on and hit the button for the eighth floor. On my way up, it stops at five, and when the door slides open, a tiny gray-haired white woman in a pink housecoat gets on, pushing a walker she’s decorated with plastic flowers. Usually when I pass someone in the hall or ride the elevator with them, I give them a smile, or maybe a polite hello. But Luca must be rubbing off on me, because once the older woman has pressed the number for her floor and the door starts to close, I find myself saying, “Hi, I’m Catherine. I live on eight.”

The woman shuffles her feet to the left, still clutching her walker, to turn toward me and smile. “Mrs. Hartman on nine. I’m so glad the elevator is working today, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I agree. “It seems to be broken a lot, doesn’t it?”

“I can’t imagine what the issue could be,” Mrs. Hartman muses.

The elevator slows at the eighth floor, and I step off. “Have a good day.”

“You, too, dearie.” Mrs. Hartman waves as the door begins to slide into the frame.

And then it hits me. Mrs. Hartman? Is this the woman Luca said has been vandalizing the elevator? “Hey, wait!” I call. But the door is already closed. I give my head a hard shake. That can’t be right anyway. That woman has to be in her nineties, and I doubt she can get around without a walker. How would she possibly manage to break an elevator?

I turn around to find Sal standing alone in the hallway.

“Sal,” I say, stopping in front of him. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, everything is fine. I’m just going for a little walk down the hall. Gotta get my steps in.”

I unlock my apartment door and then glance at the older man. Luca said Uncle Vito won’t be at the club until later tonight, so I’ve got a little time to kill until we head out later. I should probably get started on my research paper, but I’m feeling too antsy to work, and—as I discovered when I checked my email on the drive over—my access to my university accounts has been suspended anyway. I’ll have to figure out how to sort that out tomorrow. “Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?” I ask.

“You know, young lady, I would.” Sal hobbles inside and turns left, crashing into my café table.

I rush over and take his arm. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, sure, sure.” He waves me off. “I just wasn’t expecting that to be there.”

I guide him over to the couch. He settles into the velvet with a satisfied sigh. “Ah. Feels good to take a load off.” While I move to the kitchenette, he gazes around the room. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

“Thanks. It’s my first apartment that’s all my own.” A heavy weight settles on me. If I can’t get my identity back, I could lose this place. I could lose everything. Right now, all my hopes are pinned on a guy who may or may not be a Mafia boss named Uncle Vito. How did I get here?

I stash my pasta fazool in the fridge and then grab the kettle to fill it with water. “Which one is your apartment?”

Sal waves a hand in the direction of the hallway. “Oh, one of those. Not nearly as fancy as this.”

I take two tea bags down from the cabinet. “Is Earl Grey okay?”

“Oh, sure. Whatever you have.” Sal slowly lifts one foot as if it takes some real effort and props his black orthopedic sneaker on the opposite knee.

“You said you’ve been here in the DeGreco for years?” I ask, dropping the tea bags into two mugs.

“That’s right. Lived my whole life in Bloomfield. I grew up in a house just down the street and around the corner. Raised my own kids there, too.”

I wonder if Sal lived in one of those houses in the same row as Luca’s childhood home. My guess is that he did, or on a similar street. I’m starting to see that this neighborhood is a large, interconnected community, at least for the people who’ve lived here for a long time. Lately, though, it seems like every fourth house on the block has turned into a developer flip. It makes places like the DeGreco even more special with all the lifelong residents.

“So when did you decide to move in here?”

“When the kids started having kids, my wife and I decided to downsize and pass the house on to the younger generation. It’s been about thirty years now, and no regrets. We couldn’t have handled that big old house as we got older.”

“And your wife? Is she from Bloomfield, too?”

“Mary grew up two doors down from me.” A shadow passes over his face. “She died a few years back.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Sal gives me a nod. “I was lucky to have my community in the neighborhood, and here in this building. People look out for each other.” He gives me a smile. “A girl like you, though. You must find it kind of sleepy around here.”

I pour the hot water in the cups and place them each on a saucer along with a spoon. “No, I love it. I’ve had plenty of excitement in my life.” I carry the tea over to the coffee table and set it on a place mat that I keep there so the cups don’t leave water rings on the table.

“Well, that’s good to hear. But young people like you need other young people. And we’re just a bunch of old folks, mostly.” He leans forward, taking a cup. “Except for Luca, of course.”

“Yeah, Luca. Luca is… um.” And then he flashes in my mind, kneeling on the ground in front of me, his hand on my cheek, promising that everything will be okay. The warmth of his chest against my back as he wrapped an arm around me, ready to wrestle me away from a police officer. I press my hands to my face. What is wrong with me? “He’s interesting,” I finally say.

Sal chuckles. “He’s a character all right. But a really good kid.”

A couple of days ago, I would have had my doubts. But after I’ve spent this day with him… well, he’s surprised me a lot.

“How did your big meeting today go?” Sal asks.

“Not so great. Kind of a mess, actually.” My shoulders slump. “Everything with my new job is a disaster all of a sudden.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Something kind of unbelievable happened this morning,” I confide as I sit in a chair opposite him. “I found out that my identity has disappeared. I’m no longer in any government records, my Social Security card is useless, and my driver’s license is a fake.”

Sal takes a sip of his tea. “I’ve never heard of something like that happening.”

“Me neither.”

“You know, Luca has a friend down in the Social Security office.”

I nod. “Ellie. She tried to help, but there’s nothing she can do.” I give him a brief overview of the Social Security card / driver’s license / birth certificate conundrum. “We’ve figured out that unless I can track down the original copy of my birth certificate, I’ll just remain…” I trail off at that familiar tightening in my chest. “I’ll just remain nobody.”

I pause with my teacup halfway to my lips.

Nobody.

Wasn’t there a moment a couple weeks back when I wished for it? No commitments. No one expecting anything from me.

But I didn’t mean it like this. I just wanted a little break from it all. But is it possible that I somehow put that thought out into the world, like a wish? Did I manifest this identity mix-up? It’s the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t have a rational explanation for it.

“Sal, do you believe in wishes?” I lean forward and set my cup on the place mat. “Like if you send something out into the universe, you can actualize it?” As soon as I hear the words, though, I shake my head. I’m starting to sound like Dad and his friends talking about horoscopes and magic and cosmic intervention. Usually, those conversations take place when they’re sitting around a campfire at a music festival, smoking weed and staring up at the stars. I can almost hear the strains of a guitar playing in the distance.

I don’t believe in that stuff.

Sal leans back, seriously considering my question. “I believe life is what you make it.” He looks at me across the coffee table. “Maybe something seems like a disaster. But if you look deeper, maybe it’s an opportunity. It’s all about how you look at it.”

I turn that over in my head. How could my entire identity disappearing be an opportunity? The faculty job at the university is an opportunity, one I worked my entire life to achieve. One that’s about to crumble. Sitting around metaphorically staring at the stars asking what it all means isn’t going to fix this.

I need to get that birth certificate back, and I need to get my life back. So it looks like it’s in the hands of the Mafia man.