Wish I Were Here

Chapter 13

F or the first time in as long as I can remember, I wake up to a day where I have nothing I have to do. I could work on my research paper, or develop a computational algorithm, or plan my syllabi. But until Luca hears from Uncle Vito, I’m not sure I’ll be able to concentrate. I could clean my apartment, but Sunday mornings are for cleaning, and it’s only Tuesday. I haven’t been here very much in the past few days, so dust hasn’t even had time to settle. Still, I wipe down the counters in the kitchen and run the vacuum over the rug in the living room. Then I sit down on my couch and stare at the walls.

I’m about to jump out of my skin when the phone rings, lighting up with Dad’s name. Grateful for the distraction, I answer.

“How’s it going, Kitty Cat?” comes Dad’s voice through the phone. Like we didn’t even talk yesterday.

“What do you mean, how’s it going? ” I snap. “How do you think it’s going?”

Dad hesitates and then finally says, “I guess you didn’t figure out your dilemma from yesterday.”

“No, I didn’t. And I can’t believe you just walked away.”

“I’m sorry I can’t tell you about your mother.”

Can’t? Or won’t? I sit up straight. “Don’t you care that this is going to ruin my life?”

“I’d care if I believed something like a silly little piece of paper could ruin your life. You’re the smartest, most capable person I know. Ever since you were a little kid, you always worked things out.”

And with that, I’m filled with a wave of anger. “That’s because I never had any choice. Working things out shouldn’t have always been my job.” It should have been Dad’s. Or even my mother’s. And now, here I am, with a problem that only the two of them can solve, and they’ve both abandoned me.

For a moment, Dad is silent on the other end of the phone. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he finally says.

I press a hand to my temple. “Please, Dad. All I need to know is how to reach her.”

“Kitty Cat…”

I grasp at a fresh idea. “Or maybe you could reach out to her? You could call her and ask her to help?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

So that’s it. But strangely, I’m not as disappointed as I expected to be. Because for the first time in my life, the possibility that I might learn something new about my mother—that I might even meet her—is real. She’s been nothing but a mystery for thirty years, and the fact that Dad has been so adamant about not talking about her makes me want to know even more. So maybe I’ll take my chances with Fabrizio.

From somewhere far away, I hear Sal’s voice.

Maybe something seems like a disaster. But if you look deeper, maybe it’s an opportunity. If Fabrizio really can dig up dirt on anyone, then maybe this is an opportunity to learn about my mom that I’ll never have again.

And with that, I find myself reenergized and ready to accomplish something.

“Okay. Thanks anyway, Dad.” I hang up the phone.

My dry cleaning bag hangs on the closet door—I wasn’t going to take any chances with having it delivered, so I picked it up earlier this week—and Mrs. Goodwin’s trousers are inside, cleaned and pressed.

I text Luca. What is Mrs. Goodwin’s apartment number?

He writes back immediately: Apartment 1109 . And then less than a minute later: How are you?

Me: Fine.

Luca: You’re climbing the walls, aren’t you?

Me: No.

But apparently, Luca knows me well already. Deep breaths. Uncle Vito will come through for us.

I stare at those words. For us.

Outside Mrs. Goodwin’s apartment, I hear the upbeat tones of “Build Me Up Buttercup” pulsing on the other side of the wall. I knock, but the chorus kicks in, and the thumping of the bass and something that sounds like footfalls increase in intensity. I knock louder, and finally, the door swings open. Mrs. Goodwin stands in the threshold, her feet tapping, shoulders shimmying, fingers snapping to the music. “Catherine!”

She backs up, still bopping, and I follow her inside just in time to catch the swell of the music and her elaborate finish complete with a double spin and jazz hands. “Ta-da!”

I clap because she’s genuinely good at this and her energy is infectious.

“Thanks.” She lowers the music. “It wasn’t my best work. I’m really better with a partner.”

This, of course, makes me think of Luca. There’s no way he’s manning the desk, or Mrs. Goodwin would be downstairs dancing with him. So he must be off on an errand somewhere.

I don’t know why I care where Luca is.

“You seemed pretty good all by yourself,” I say. “Are you practicing for something?”

Mrs. Goodwin blinks in surprise. “It’s for the big fundraiser, of course.”

“Fundraiser?”

“For the community center. Luca didn’t tell you?”

I shake my head. “Luca and I don’t really hang out.” Although, I guess that’s not completely true. I remember his hand squeezing mine. The warmth moving through me after our courage shots at the bar.

“Oh.” Mrs. Goodwin lifts a shoulder. “There aren’t many in the under-eighty crowd in the building, so I assumed you young people stuck together.”

Maybe the other young people stick together. Like Luca and the woman on eleven. I shake my head to dislodge that thought. “So, what is the fundraiser for? You said it’s for a community center?”

“Yes, down the street. It’s been there for decades, serving people in Bloomfield. They offer exercise classes, bingo, book club. And they have a full day program for older people to get out of their apartments and have a place to spend their time.” Her mouth stretches into a thin line. “A lot of people here in the building have lost their spouses, and their kids are grown and off living their lives. Did you know that research shows loneliness is as bad for your health as smoking?”

I blink in surprise. “As bad as smoking ?” But it makes sense to me. It must be hard for people living by themselves without any family nearby. Nobody to call, nobody to count on in an emergency. How would that slowly wear on you, day in and day out? What would that eventually do to your heart? “That’s so sad,” I murmur, and I’m not sure what’s happening, but my voice comes out hoarse, and there’s a lump in the back of my throat.

I look up to find Mrs. Goodwin watching me, her head cocked.

“Do you have any family nearby, Catherine?” she asks in a gentle tone. “People in your circle?”

“What? Me?” I clear my throat. “I—” Dad and I get together every Sunday for dinner. I mean, I usually spend most of the evening trying not to get impaled by a pair of stilts and rolling my eyes at his math jokes. But I could call Dad in an emergency, couldn’t I?

I clutch my phone in my hand as our conversation comes back to me. My voice as I pleaded with him to help me find my mom. How he said no. But I also remember the way his face lights up every time he sees me. Dad loves me. I know he does.

“Oh, I’m fine,” I say in a breezy tone.

Mrs. Goodwin’s brow furrows, and I’m aware that I didn’t really answer her question.

“We were talking about the fundraiser,” I prompt.

Mrs. Goodwin sighs. “Yes, the fundraiser. The community center building is up for sale, and developers are swooping in. You know how real estate in Bloomfield is these days.”

I nod. This neighborhood is hot property, and developers have bought up dozens of houses like the one Luca grew up in, installed new kitchens, replaced the siding, and put them up for sale for three times the price.

“The nonprofit that runs the community center managed to get a grant to buy the building, but it’s not enough. We need to raise ten thousand dollars by next month or that evil Oak Street Capital is going to buy it out from under us and turn it into condos.”

“So, you’ll be doing your dance at the fundraiser?”

“Yes, and we’ve got some other performers, too. Hilda Bradley in 307 used to be an opera singer. And Jerome Washington in 902 plays the trumpet. But we need more if we want to attract ticket buyers from all over the city.” Her gaze zeroes in on me. “Do you have any talents, Catherine?”

“Unfortunately, no.” I laugh. “Not unless you need someone to solve for x .” Just a little math humor. Dad would be proud.

Mrs. Goodwin shakes her head. “No, but thanks for the offer.” She gives me an up-and-down look. “But you know what you could do? Help me practice these steps.”

“Oh, no.” I hold the dry cleaning in front of me as if it will offer some protection. “I really couldn’t. I don’t dance.”

But Mrs. Goodwin waves a dismissive hand. “You’ll be fine. I just need a warm body. Put that thing down.”

“Really,” I say nervously. “I shouldn’t. I’ll just throw off your rhythm.”

Mrs. Goodwin points a not-taking-no-for-an-answer finger at the couch. With a sigh, I drop the bag there. She did take off her pants for me, so maybe I owe her this.

“I’ll lead,” she says, reaching out to take my shoulders and position me in the center of the living room. Her phone is on the kitchen counter, so she leaves me to press play on the music. Then she scurries back over to where I’m standing and takes my hand just in time to catch the last notes of the song’s intro.

“Two, three, four…” Mrs. Goodwin tugs me sideways, crossing her left foot over her right and then giving me a gentle shove backward, stepping away from me in the opposite direction. Her hips swish in time with the beat, feet moving in an elaborate kick step before she pulls me back in toward her, repeating the kick step.

I watch her orthopedic shoes flying across the floor and do my best to mirror her movements. Back, kick step, to the center, kick step, back, kick step. I’m concentrating hard, counting to myself, and hoping I don’t step forward when Mrs. Goodwin steps back, or trip over my own feet and take us both down. But by the end of the second verse, I’ve gotten the hang of the rhythm, and my feet are moving automatically.

When the chorus picks up again, Mrs. Goodwin grabs me by the waist, pulling us both around in a circle, and then with a gentle shove to my hip, she sends me spinning out on my own. I follow the beat of the song, turning once, twice, and then I take hold of Mrs. Goodwin’s outstretched hand. We settle back into our kick steps, spins, kick steps, and as the notes of the song build, Mrs. Goodwin pulls me toward her. Without even having to think about it now, I twirl under her arm, we both kick backward, hop forward, and stop abruptly in the middle of the room, jazz hands flying for the final piano chords. An exhilarated laugh builds in my throat as I bend to catch my breath and shove my sweaty hair off my forehead.

And then, “Bravo!” calls a voice from across the room.

I jump and look up to find Luca leaning against Mrs. Goodwin’s doorframe, clapping wildly. I’m certain my face is turning about ten shades of red, so I spin abruptly and hit pause on the next song that’s kicked in through the phone speaker.

“You told me you don’t dance,” Mrs. Goodwin says, her voice accusing.

“I really don’t.”

“Well, you could have fooled me. Right, Luca?”

I’m still out of breath, and sweating now, but I don’t think it’s entirely related to the exercise. I pull my long blond hair off my neck, twisting it into a bun. I usually secure it with a pencil, but since I don’t have one, I let it fall down my back. When I look up again, Luca is watching me. Even from all the way across the room, I can feel the heat of his gaze, and something stirs in my chest.

“You looked great to me.” His voice is low, with a little rasp at the end. “Where did you learn to dance like that?”

I pick up the dry cleaning bag from the couch, shake it out, and cross the room. “Mrs. Goodwin must be a good teacher.”

“Uh-huh,” Luca murmurs, but he doesn’t sound convinced.

The truth is, I actually can dance. As a little girl, I was fascinated by the burlesque dancers Dad used to hang around with at ArtSpace. The glittering costumes, the glamorous makeup, the grace of their matching kick steps across the floor. I used to sit at my homework table in the corner and watch them practice their routines, memorizing the way their feathered hips shook and their high-heeled feet tapped in time with the music. Later, I’d sneak off to the dressing room and practice in front of the mirror when nobody was looking. One of the dancers, Lola Von Crumpet, found me there, shimmying in a too-large pair of Ginger Ale’s vintage patent leather pumps.

Lola took me by the hand and marched me into ArtSpace’s rehearsal room. I was sure she was going to report everything to Ginger, and I’d get in trouble. Maybe Ginger wouldn’t let Dad and me stay at her house anymore when we got kicked out of our apartment. But instead, she took one look at me teetering in her high heels and declared that she was going to buy me a pair that fit so I could practice the steps properly.

“If you want to learn to dance, we’ll teach you,” Lola added, pushing a lock of hair off my cheek and tucking it behind my ear. I remember how my heart used to constrict at that maternal gesture. “You’ve got natural talent. Don’t hide away in the corner.”

The dancers taught me their kicks and spins, shuffles and hip swings. And I learned all kinds of other things from them, too. How to braid my hair and put on lipstick. How to deal with a man who got too handsy. How to hold my head up high and keep moving, even if I miss a step.

Eventually, though, my homework began piling up from all the school days I’d missed while crisscrossing the country going to music festivals and fairs with Dad. We got kicked out of another apartment, and the reality sank in that someone needed to pay attention to whether the rent was paid. That quiet hum of anxiety—the one that’s been with me for decades now—began around that time. I hated to give up dancing with Lola and Ginger and all the others to go back to that homework table in the corner. It was so lonely being the one who had to worry about holding everything together. But I didn’t have time to perfect my peacock prance if I ever wanted to go to college, land a good job, and finally find some stability for once in my life.

I haven’t danced in years, and I certainly didn’t intend to start up again today. Especially with Luca watching.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” I focus my attention on hanging the dry cleaning bag on Mrs. Goodwin’s closet door.

“I was just strolling by, and I heard the music.”

I look through the doorway, past Luca, at the other apartments along the hallway. It’s not lost on me that Mrs. Goodwin lives on the eleventh floor. The same one as Luca’s late-night friend. Is he coming from her apartment? My gaze skates to his feet and back up to his face. He’s in his doorman uniform, so if he’s coming from there, at least he’s not doing the walk of shame in that tight T-shirt he wore last night.

Maybe she tore it off him. Maybe it’s still on her floor.

I press my hands to my eyes. For God’s sake, Catherine, get a grip. Who cares where Luca’s T-shirt is?

“I’m glad I found you here, though,” Luca says. “The eagle flies at midnight. Dress like a crow.”

I must be spending way too much time with him, because I think I actually know how to decipher this cryptic message. “Did Uncle Vito call you? Do you have some information?”

He gives me a grin. “Affirmative.”

“What?” My spine stiffens. “What did he find out?”

Luca pushes back away from the door. “Meet me in the lobby at the rendezvous time. I’ll tell you everything then.”

And before I can argue, he turns and heads down the hallway, rounds a corner, and disappears from sight.