Wish I Were Here

Chapter 16

I sleep for a few hours and wake to find that Dad hasn’t responded to any of my texts or voicemail messages about the birth certificate bombshell. I guess I’ll have to go find him in person. The elevator appears to be on the fritz again, so I take the stairs. In the lobby, I find Mrs. Goodwin sitting on a bench.

“Hi,” I say. “Are you waiting for an elevator? I think it’s broken again.”

Mrs. Goodwin’s eyes widen, and she puts a finger to her lips, indicating that I should be quiet. “You don’t want to wake him,” she whispers.

“Wake who?” I ask, but in a lowered voice.

She waves at the front desk. I don’t see anything unusual, but then it comes to me. Of course. I round the counter and find Luca asleep on the floor. He’s still wearing his janitor costume from the night before. Under his head, he’s tucked his black hoodie and wrapped one arm protectively around it. His dark hair flops over his forehead, and long eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks.

I can’t help but stare. He usually has that teasing grin on his face, and it’s startling to see him looking so peaceful. I’m tempted to pull the blanket up higher and tuck it around him. I’m tempted to climb into his nest next to him.

Instead, I turn to Mrs. Goodwin. “He had a late night,” I whisper.

Her eyebrows rise. “Did he, now?”

My cheeks flush. “I didn’t mean like that.” But then I pause, a little smile tugging at my lips at the memory of his mouth pressing against mine, the warm breeze teasing my hair, the city sparkling in the background. I didn’t not mean like that, either.

Mrs. Goodwin gives me a knowing look. “Well, let’s definitely not disturb him then,” she whispers.

I glance back at Luca. “Why does he sleep on the floor? He said he has an apartment upstairs.” Is it possible that’s not really true? Maybe he really is homeless and doesn’t want anyone to know?

But Mrs. Goodwin nods. “He does. On two.”

“So why…”

She shushes me again.

“Sorry.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Are you waiting here because the elevator is broken again?”

“No.” She nods at a couple of boxes next to the bench. “Luca was going to carry those over to the community center for me. I have some donations for the fundraiser. We’re doing an auction. Eleanor up on five donated some of her designer clothes from the sixties. She was a fashionable lady.”

“Oh.” I glance at Luca again, and his chest rises and falls rhythmically. “I hate to wake him. Maybe I can carry the boxes.” I pick them up, and though they’re a little bulky, they’re not too heavy. With another glance at Luca, who hasn’t stirred, I follow Mrs. Goodwin out the door.

The community center is around the corner from the DeGreco in a sprawling redbrick building that looks like it used to be a Catholic school. Large, curved windows reveal high ceilings, and the original brickwork looks to be in great shape. A wooden wheelchair ramp has been added to the front, but otherwise, everything still looks original. I can see why developers want to buy the place and turn it into condos; they’d probably go for a million dollars each. I realize how lucky I am to have found an affordable apartment at the DeGreco since so many people are getting priced out. It must be especially hard for all the families with multiple generations rooted here to see their neighbors unable to afford their homes anymore.

Inside the building, we approach a front desk, and a sixtysomething Black woman with graying hair and a purple tracksuit greets us. Mrs. Goodwin introduces her as Mrs. Flowers.

“This is Catherine,” Mrs. Goodwin tells her. “She’s a special friend of Luca’s.” Turning toward Mrs. Flowers, she cups a hand around her mouth. “They were out late together last night.”

“Ohhhh,” Mrs. Flowers says, clapping her hands together. “Any special friend of Luca’s is a friend of ours.”

I imagine Luca has flirted with everyone at this community center, just like he has with the residents of the DeGreco. Knowing Luca, he’s probably made his way down the block, tossing his charm like candy at the Memorial Day parade. Of course they love him. But my heart warms at the way they automatically welcome me just by association.

Mrs. Goodwin gestures at an upholstered chair. “Wait here, Catherine. I’ll go get the key to the storage closet.”

I set the boxes on a table and sit down near a group of older people in a small sitting area. Someone has moved aside a couple of chairs to accommodate one of the women’s wheelchair, and everyone forms a neat circle around a coffee table with teacups and paperbacks scattered on top. I check out the books and realize that all of them match. On each cover, a muscular man in old-fashioned breeches and a flowing white shirt unbuttoned to the waist clutches a long-haired woman in a torn blue gown. His chest glistens in the sunlight, and her bosom heaves.

The Viscount’s Secret . I read that one in high school.

“Montague should have told Penelope about his past before he deflowered her,” an older Indian woman in a red kurta argues passionately. “She had a right to know.”

The plot of the book starts to come back to me.

“He couldn’t tell her until he trusted her completely,” the white woman in a blue dress argues.

“I didn’t like that Montague,” the silver-haired white man in the navy sweater says, slapping a mottled hand down on the book cover for emphasis. I realize I’m completely eavesdropping on their conversation now. “He was so in love with that house of his. Always fixing it up and worrying over the renovations. He loved that house more than Penelope.”

I can’t help but cut in now. “He didn’t love it more than her. It was a symbol of his happy childhood from before his mother passed and he had to live with his domineering father.” I turn in my chair to look at the group. “He fixed it up to try to re-create the idyllic days of his youth. But what he didn’t realize was the house would never fill the hole in his heart. Only Penelope could do that.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” The older Black man sits up, straightening the hem of his white button-up shirt. “I think she’s right.”

“The house was a symbol ,” murmurs the woman who had objections to the deflowering.

“Exactly.” I point at the book in her hand. “When the house was burning, and the evil Archibald kidnapped Penelope, Montague could only choose one to save: his beloved house or his true love.”

“And in the end, he chose Penelope,” the first man chimes in.

“Yes. Because she represented love and happiness. He didn’t need that house anymore.”

The entire book club is staring at me.

My teenage love of romance novels isn’t something anyone would have guessed about me with my pile of math books and my seat in the front of the class, hand perpetually raised. But while Dad’s friends were certainly comfortable with their nudity—growing up, I saw enough skin at Burning Man to last me a lifetime—I didn’t have a mother to answer my questions about sex and love. Luckily, Dad’s friend Frenchy Kiss stepped in, making sure I had a firm grasp of the basics and giving me a pile of romance novels to fill in the blanks. The viscount, his virgin bride, and their wealthy, titled friends were a font of information.

“I’m Walt Offerman,” the blue-sweatered man says, and then he goes around the circle and introduces the others. He gestures to the woman in the red kurta. “This is Seema.” He points to the woman in the dress. “Dolores. And my husband, Martin,” he finishes, referring to the man in the white shirt. “Our book club meets once a week. Next week, we’re reading The Highlander’s Baby . You want to join us?”

I read that one in high school, too, and it’s probably still in a box in Dad’s apartment. The thought of Dad pulls me back to my current predicament. I need to finish helping Mrs. Goodwin and find Dad to get some answers about my mother. And then, by this time next week, I plan to be back at work, teaching my mathematics classes and immersed in my research papers. I don’t have time for The Highlander’s Baby . But as I stand to pick up the boxes and find Mrs. Goodwin, I wish I did.

“It was so nice talking to you about The Viscount’s Secret , but I don’t think I can,” I say with real regret. “I’m about to start a new job at the university, and I’ve kind of got a lot going on right now.”

“Wait a minute,” comes a voice from behind me, and I turn around to find Mrs. Flowers approaching. “I overheard you mention your new job, and I just put it together. You’re the Catherine who lost her identity.”

“I—”

“That’s you ?” Dolores asks, like I’m some sort of celebrity. She smacks Walt on the arm. “Did you hear that? This is Luca’s Catherine. The one who’s trying to track down her birth certificate.”

I’m momentarily distracted by Luca’s Catherine . But then I focus on the other part. “How—how do you know about me?”

“We heard from Ruth, who runs the bingo games,” Walt explains. “I think she heard from Vanessa over at the bank.”

My head spins. Ruth? Vanessa? I’ve never met any of these people. But then I remember the front porches on Luca’s childhood street, perfect for chatting with neighbors over coffee, and the Morellis stationed all over town. I guess in tight-knit communities, people talk.

“Listen, honey,” Dolores says, reaching over to set her teacup on the table. “Don’t let it get you down.”

“That’s right,” Walt agrees. “You’re in good hands with Vito. But I know a guy at the DMV, if that will help.”

I look up. “Actually, it might.”

Mrs. Flowers puts a hand on my shoulder. “And I heard that all your money is gone.”

I look around the circle. They really know the whole story. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Well, the folks in the Meals on Wheels program have put together a little care package for you. Just to make sure you have enough to eat.”

“Oh, that’s really not necessary…” But I trail off, because what if it is necessary? Two hundred dollars isn’t going to get me very far.

Mrs. Flowers raises a palm. “It’s already done. They’ll drop it off for you at the DeGreco when they do their rounds.”

“Wow. Thank you. All of you.”

“Nothing to thank us for,” Walt says. “We look out for each other.”

“You know where to find us,” Seema chimes in. “Stop by if you need anything else.”

Dazed, I pick up the boxes and head in the direction I saw Mrs. Goodwin go moments before. On my way down the hall, I pass a game room where several long tables are taken up with silver-haired older people stamping bingo cards while a younger woman calls out letters and numbers. Ruth, I suppose.

A few doors down, I can’t help being drawn to the doorway of a gymnasium where a song by Lady Gaga blasts from the speakers. A woman who can’t be much younger than Mrs. Goodwin directs twenty or thirty people—some standing, some sitting on chairs, and a few in wheelchairs—to shimmy their shoulders, get their hearts pumping, and “love yourselves!”

Everyone seems to be having a blast. The song switches from Lady Gaga to Britney Spears, and the exercise instructor switches from a shoulder shimmy to a bop. She spots me in the doorway and waves me inside. “Come on in and join us, honey!”

Juggling the pile of boxes, I shake my head and back up.

I find Mrs. Goodwin standing in a storage room full of what I presume to be donations for the fundraiser. “You can unload those and put the clothes over there.” She points to an empty shelf.

I pull a couple of 1960s coats and dresses from the box. They’re in good condition, and Mrs. Goodwin said the owner was known for her fashion, so I assume they’re by some sort of famous designer. “Do you think all this stuff will fetch good money at your auction?” I ask, surveying the other shelves of donations. There are old watches, a couple of first-edition hardback books, and other stuff that was probably donated by the members of the community center and residents of the DeGreco.

“I think they’ll do okay. But only if we can attract enough people to come to the fundraiser in the first place.” Mrs. Goodwin pulls a dress out of the box and smooths the wrinkles. “Quite a few people from the neighborhood have bought tickets to support us, but we need a wider reach. Maybe a band or a comedian or someone to draw people in.”

I nod, wishing I had something more to offer. But I’m the last person who can help. I have two hundred dollars in cash, and the only jokes I know fall along the lines of “Why is six afraid of seven? Because seven eight nine.”

Nobody wants to hear math humor except Dad.

“This place seems to serve a lot of people.” I remember Mrs. Goodwin telling me that loneliness is as bad for your health as smoking. If this community center closes down, where will the book club meet each week? And the exercise class? Will all those people just be stuck at home? Alone?

What about their community? What about looking out for each other?

“We serve over three hundred on a typical day. Plus, another hundred and fifty homebound seniors through the Meals on Wheels program. These days, Bloomfield makes the news because of the housing market.” Mrs. Goodwin drops her hands to her hips. “But they never talk about the fact that we have one of the largest populations of seniors who are aging in place. If the community center isn’t here to serve them, I worry many people will end up having to leave their homes and move to nursing facilities.”

I can’t imagine that anyone would have an opportunity to dance to Lady Gaga in a nursing facility. Again, I wish I had more to offer, but all I can do is help Mrs. Goodwin unpack the boxes and organize the donations.

And then I head out to grab the bus and find Dad, and hopefully some answers.