Wish I Were Here

Chapter 32

O n the night of the fundraiser, I wade through the crowd at the community center, checking out the silent auction, the food table, and the stage where Dad and his friends will perform later. The entire neighborhood must be here, spilling out of the gymnasium and down the hall to the lobby where the front desk had been transformed into a bar.

“Catherine.” Mrs. Flowers waves from behind the counter. “Over here!” I make my way over, and she gives me a hug. “Don’t you look gorgeous? Luca isn’t going to be able to keep his eyes off you.”

“Well, actually…” I begin, but she’s already moved on.

“Make sure you try the wine.” She slips a plastic cup of red into my hand. “It’s Vito Morelli’s special blend.”

“Uncle Vito is a winemaker?”

“Of course.” She flashes me the bottle. Morelli Winery , it reads. Of course. “He makes it right here in Bloomfield, beneath the club.” Her eyes skate to someone behind me, and she waves frantically. “Darlene! Over here! Try the wine!”

I take a sip, and it’s surprisingly good for a Merlot made in a Mafia man’s Pittsburgh basement. But at this point, it doesn’t surprise me that Uncle Vito has hidden talents. I toss a few bills into the collection jar and keep moving. Next, I mill around, chatting with Lorraine and Ginny and then checking out the book club’s contribution to the silent auction: a giant box full of romance novels, one for every week they’ve been meeting for over a decade. I can’t help myself, and I put in a bid.

An hour passes and then another, and I circle again, keeping an eye out for Melanie, who seems to be nowhere, and Luca, who seems to be everywhere. He’s making the rounds, chatting with all the guests, pulling them into his orbit. I look for an opportunity to talk to him, but I’m not surprised that he’s constantly surrounded by people. A few times, he glances up and sees me watching, but he immediately looks away, going back to his conversations.

After my realization at work, I want to tell him that he was right. And that I’m sorry. But I don’t know if he’ll want to hear it. And maybe this isn’t the right time. I’m still expecting my mother any minute.

I wander back to the front desk / bar. “Mrs. Flowers, have you seen a middle-aged blond woman?” I know it’s a long shot, but I expected Melanie to be here hours ago. “She’s about forty-eight, looks a little like an older version of me, but her hair is cut into a bob?”

Mrs. Flowers shakes her head. “Doesn’t ring a bell, honey, but I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Thanks. If you see her, could you tell her I’m in the gym?”

They’re taking a break between performances, and I think Dad’s act is first after the intermission. I’d hoped I could get the two of them together for a moment before he went on, but they may just have to talk after. I check my phone again to see if she responded to my text, but nothing shows up.

In the gym, I find the burlesque dance troupe all decked out in their sequined leotards and feather hats, and Dad in the center of it all. He, of course, is in his element, surrounded by a flock of bejeweled women and pulling Morellis into the mix to introduce them around. Uncle Vito seems especially pleased when Dad nudges him in Ginger Ale’s direction.

When the dancers see me approaching, they push Dad and Vito aside to fawn over me, fussing with my hair and calling me Kitty Cat. Frenchy Kiss, my romance novel benefactor, pulls me into her arms, and I’m reminded that I want to introduce her to the book club later. Ginger grabs me by the shoulders, looking me over, and declares that I’m “perfection” in my emerald-green dress.

I take a step back to take in the group of women. “Thank you so much for coming to perform at this fundraiser. It really means a lot to me.”

Frenchy reaches over to give my arm a squeeze. “Of course we came.”

“Absolutely.” Ginger’s feathers bob along with her nod. “We were never going to be able to help you out with all those math problems of yours,” she says. “So, when your dad said how important this is to you, we jumped at the chance.”

An ache builds in the back of my throat. My gaze slides from Ginger and Frenchy to Betty Butterfly—who taught me how to drive—and then to Lola Von Crumpet, who found me dancing in front of the mirror all those years ago. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you how much I appreciate everything you did for me as a kid.”

“Don’t be silly, Kitty Cat,” Lola says, adjusting her bustier. “You’ve always been like a daughter to us.”

“We’re so proud of what you’re doing to help this community,” Betty chimes in.

The other women nod, their crystal headpieces glittering in the overhead lights, feathers waving. Beyond them, across the gymnasium and out into the hall, the crowd mingles. There’s still no sign of Melanie.

And then it hits me.

Melanie isn’t coming.

Melanie never wanted a daughter, and she still doesn’t. It’s fine to meet up for coffee when she can fit it in her schedule, but she’s not going to go out of her way to come to the fundraiser because it’s important to me. She’s not going to make me a priority. Not like these women did. And still do.

How did I miss this? How did I miss that all along, I’ve had this slightly eccentric but deeply loving group of bedazzled godmothers who helped raise me? Who understood what I needed more than I understood it myself? These women, they weren’t just teaching me how to shimmy and jazz walk. They were teaching me about life, just like any parent would do.

My eyes burn, and a lump forms in my throat. How did I ever think I was alone, that I was on my own , when all this time, ArtSpace wasn’t just Dad’s community, but mine, too? And the dancers, artists, and performers there had my back; they took me in; they were my family. A slightly eccentric family, maybe. But—I gaze around the community center gym at all the Morellis gathered there— isn’t that the best kind?

I give another round of hugs so nobody will notice my eyes growing wet.

Eventually, Uncle Vito manages to reclaim his space next to Ginger, and Lorraine sidles up to Lola. I glance over at Dad, who was watching my exchange with the burlesque dancers, and his eyes look a little red.

“Hey,” Dad says, pulling me into his chest. “I haven’t had a chance to hug my girl yet.”

I give him a squeeze, breathing in the faint, familiar scent of weed and sandalwood that’s lingered on him since my childhood. “When do you go on?”

“In about ten minutes, I think.”

It’s now or never. I step back, bracing myself. “Dad, I have something to tell you.”

“Tell me anything, Kitty Cat.”

“The thing is…” The crowd mills around us, laughing and talking. Music blasts from the speakers. “I know you said I shouldn’t. But—I found Melanie. I went to her condo, and I got my birth certificate back.”

Dad takes it well. Better than I was expecting, honestly, and instead of reacting at all, he just kind of stands there silently for a moment, nodding and processing the whole thing. Finally, he meets my eyes. And then he says, “I know.”

He knows?

“Wait.” I hold up a hand. “How do you know?”

He pushes his hands into his overall pockets. The left one won’t quite fit inside, and when he pulls it out, he’s holding a yellow juggling ball. “She reached out last week. I guess it was the day after you and Luca met her at the hospital. Excellent work on the food poisoning ruse, by the way. I’d honestly pay money to see you and Luca pull that off.”

“You don’t have any money,” I point out. But then I focus on the other part of the conversation. “You’re saying you knew I met her a week ago, and you didn’t tell me?”

Dad shrugs. “It wasn’t my place. I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.” Which is just such a very Dad thing to say. For most of my life, I might have been annoyed by that and taken it as a sign of his complacency.

Whatever you want to do. Whatever makes you happy, Kitty Cat. When I told him about studying math in school, and getting my PhD, and moving to the DeGreco. Whatever makes you happy, Kitty Cat.

But maybe—like so many other parts of my life lately—I was looking at it all wrong.

He’s never told me what to do or injected his opinions. He just let me be me in his own quirky way, even if that meant I turned out to be a rule-following mathematician instead of a happy-go-lucky juggler.

Which reminds me of Melanie.

“What did she say when she called you?”

He gives the juggling ball a couple of short tosses into the air. “Well, first, she had a really hard time believing I’d raised you.” His amused expression fades. “And then she said…” His voice drops, and his words are cut off by the music and noise from the crowd.

“What?”

“Some other things.”

“What other things?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

I huff out an indignant breath. “Why are you still covering for her? I mean, I get it that she didn’t want a kid knocking on her door. But that doesn’t mean that you had to go along and agree to change the birth certificate so she could be nothing but an egg donor. It takes two to—” I wave across the room, where Mrs. Goodwin is warming up with a kick step double spin combo. “You know. To Carolina shag, so to speak.”

“She didn’t want to be involved, and I didn’t want to force her.”

Whatever you want to do. Whatever makes you happy.

I sigh.

“Besides…” Dad starts tossing the ball higher. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. “She wasn’t completely just an egg donor.”

I grab the bright yellow orb from the air. “What does that mean?”

“Well…” He shoves a hand back into his pocket. “We had an agreement.”

“What kind of agreement?” This is the first I’m hearing of this. Melanie certainly didn’t mention an agreement.

“Melanie’s family is rich. Very, very rich.”

I nod, remembering the expansive front porch and stately columns on the mansion where Luca and I had our stakeout. The well-dressed older woman. “I think I met my grandmother once.” The door slamming in our faces. “Very briefly.”

“Yes, Victoria.” Dad sighs. “She was angry that Melanie got pregnant at the age of seventeen, especially with my baby. Even though I was just a kid myself. So—” From the depths of his pocket, Dad unearths another ball—blue, this time—and starts tossing it into the air. “She wrote me a very generous check.”

“She—” I blink. “How generous?” We never had any money when I was growing up. “How much money could it have been?”

“Enough to put you through college and graduate school.”

That’s not possible. “I got scholarships.”

“You did.” Dad cocks his head. “But for an absolutely brilliant girl, I wondered that you never looked into the Cirque Foundation.”

The music swells around us. From somewhere over my shoulder, I hear Uncle Vito’s booming voice and Lorraine’s buoyant laughter. But my gaze is focused on Dad. “You’re saying Victoria’s money paid for me to go to college, and you never told me?”

“I couldn’t. It would have broken the terms of our agreement.”

I give the bright yellow orb a squeeze over and over, like one of those stress balls people keep on their desks. Dad had money all along, and he’d saved it for me. He’d saved it so I could go on to become a rule-following mathematician.

“And now that we’ve broken the agreement, Victoria wants her money back?” I ask.

“Pretty sure she wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.” Dad lifts one leg high in the air, holds his arms out wide, and wobbles around like he’s about to fall over. Classic clown move.

“How would we possibly pay her anyway? In juggling clubs?”

“Hey!” Dad presses a hand to his heart like I’ve wounded him. “Those clubs have real value.”

“Sentimental value, maybe.”

“Sentimental value is all I care about.” He shrugs. “But no, she doesn’t expect her money back. She wanted Melanie to tell me that we wouldn’t be getting any more.”

My mouth drops open. It’s loud in here, but I’m pretty sure he said—“ More? ”

“She was going to write another check on your thirtieth birthday. That’s why I couldn’t tell you how to find her. Not until you turned thirty.” His shoulders slump. “I’m sorry, Kitty Cat. I know how you worry, and I hoped that money would finally give you the security you always needed.” Dad shoves his hands in his overalls, produces an orange ball this time, and starts passing it back and forth with the blue.

He can’t not be juggling. It’s just who he is.

“Can I ask you something, Dad?”

“Sure thing, Kitty Cat.”

“Did you give up your dreams to raise me? You really could have gone into the circus, but you were stuck with a kid.”

Dad lets both balls drop into his hands. “I didn’t give up a single thing. You were the best thing to ever happen to me.”

But I know he did. I see how much he loves performing. How the jobs I’ve been pushing him to take at the grocery store and the fast-food restaurants slowly wear away at his spirit. He could have used Melanie’s money to fund his own career aspirations. Instead, he saved it for me.

I grab his arm. “Dad. I don’t need my apartment at the DeGreco. I can move back in with you to save money and to support you to pursue your clown dreams full-time.”

“Nah.” Dad waves me off. “It’s time you stopped worrying about me altogether. Besides, Vito hooked me up. Turns out he owns a bunch of nightclubs, and he needs regular performers to open for the national acts. He’s booked me and the girls”—Dad nods at the burlesque troupe—“five nights a week.”

I can’t believe Vito came through for me again.

But that’s the Morellis for you.

I gaze around the room at all the people who’ve come together to support the community center. To combat loneliness and make sure everyone has a place to go. I don’t need my estranged grandmother’s money for security, not when I have this . This community of people who care about each other.

And who care about me , who stepped up to help me when I needed it most. The aerial troupe is in front of the stage, testing out the silks that Uncle Vito’s guys secured from the ceiling. The burlesque dancers are warming up in the back of the room. I can hear the belly dancers’ tassels jingling. All of these people showed up because I needed them. My gaze slides to Mrs. Goodwin, and Fabrizio, and the book club. To all the people who jumped in to offer advice, or a pair of pants, or their help in breaking and entering. What would I have done without them?

I wish there were a way to thank them. But I have no idea how to say what’s in my heart.

At that moment, Mrs. Goodwin climbs the stage and steps up to the microphone. “Ahem.” The speaker gives a high peal of feedback, and Mrs. Goodwin leans back slightly. “Testing? Testing? Okay.” She looks out at the crowd and spreads her arms wide. “I hope you all made sure to try some of Vito’s tasty wine during the intermission. And remember that you can place your silent bids on all our wonderful auction items laid out in the game room.” She clears her throat. “And now, we’re going to resume the entertainment portion of the evening with a very special treat.”

And then it comes to me. I turn to Dad. “Remember how you asked if I still remember that partner juggling routine?”

Mrs. Goodwin continues her introductions. “Not only is this performer incredibly handsome…” She fans herself with her hands. “But his balls are huge!” The crowd gasps. “Juggling balls, people. Get your minds out of the gutter!”

The crowd roars with laughter.

Dad’s eyes sparkle. “ Do you remember the partner juggling routine, Kitty Cat?”

“Of course I do.”

“Without further ado…” Mrs. Goodwin says.

Dad takes my hand and tugs me toward the stage. “Come on.”

“I present to you…”

We climb the stairs.

“Andy Lipton… oh!” Mrs. Goodwin’s hand flutters to her lips as she spots me.

Dad picks up the juggling clubs and hands half to me. Then he takes his place on one side of the stage, and I cross to the other side.

Mrs. Goodwin turns back to the microphone. “Actually, I present to you the father-daughter juggling duo of…” She pauses for dramatic effect. Down on the floor, someone beats on a table in a makeshift drumroll. “ Andy and Kitty Cat! ”

And Dad and I are off. He tosses a club in my direction at the same moment that I toss one in his. We mirror each other’s movements, reaching out to catch the club coming our way in one hand while we throw the next club with the other. Soon, we have four clubs flying back and forth across the stage, then six. The crowd cheers, and the bass from the music thumps through the speakers. Dad gives me the nod, and we each do a spin, landing back in our original formation in time to catch the next club. The movements come back to me, the steady rhythm of throw-catch-throw-catch like a song that’s been playing in the back of my head for all my life.

The crowd begins clapping along. Dad goes left and I go right, keeping the clubs flying as we switch places on the stage. The crowd stomps its feet. We execute another spin, flip the clubs under our legs, and turn around to throw them backward over our heads with perfect precision. Finally, we each do a double spin, toss the clubs as high as possible, and seamlessly catch them, ending in a bow.

The crowd goes wild.

Laughing, Dad wraps me in a hug, and I squeeze him back.

And then I spot Luca in the crowd. He’s staring back, and when he sees me looking, he gives me that smile. Not the wide, charming grin, but the smaller, more subtle smile. The one that he saves just for me.

The crowd screams for an encore.

Keeping my eyes trained on Luca, I lean over to Dad. “I have to go.”

He nods and gives me a light shove in the direction of the stairs. “Go get him.”

I hold out my hand, letting the crowd know that Dad will take over from here—he’s the real star, after all—and then I jog off the stage and wade into the crowd in the direction I saw Luca. I catch a flash of his white T-shirt and colorful limbs, but the audience surges around me. I talk to Lorraine and Ginny, Fabrizio, and Walt and Martin from the book club, and then a whole bunch of people I’ve never met before but who want to give me hugs and rave about my performance.

By the time I manage to slip away, Luca is onstage with Mrs. Goodwin, and the opening notes of “Build Me Up Buttercup” are blaring through the speakers. He reaches out a painted hand, and she takes it with her age-spotted one. I stop in the middle of the gym and watch as Luca pulls Mrs. Goodwin into his chest and then spins her back out. He matches her, kick step for kick step with his dancer’s grace, that familiar grin flashing with each turn toward the audience. I can’t help but smile and clap along, as charmed as the rest of the crowd.

When the dance is over, Mrs. Goodwin and Luca take bow after bow while the audience cheers. Finally, Luca gives the crowd a wave and jogs offstage, disappearing in the wings. Mrs. Goodwin steps up to introduce the aerial troupe on the floor below, and I make my way across the gym to sneak up the steps and duck behind the curtain. I find several of Uncle Vito’s guys moving props and sets, but no Luca. I ask around, but nobody’s seen him.

A moment later, Mrs. Goodwin joins me. “Wonderful show, Catherine. Everything is going beautifully.”

“You and Luca were perfect, Mrs. Goodwin.” I lean over to give her a hug, but I just can’t linger any longer. “Do you know where he went?”

She checks her watch. “Oh, it’s ten o’clock. He had to go put Mrs. Sterling to bed.”

I blink. “He had to what?”

“Mrs. Sterling, who lives on the eleventh floor? She had a stroke about three weeks ago? Wait…” Mrs. Goodwin trails off, looking up at the ceiling and counting on her hands. “Maybe it was four weeks ago…?”

Mrs. Sterling, the older woman who won Luca’s money playing poker. I remember her movements with only one hand, and I’d wondered if she’d had a stroke.

“It doesn’t matter how many weeks,” Mrs. Goodwin continues, brushing it off. “At any rate, her stroke was in early August.”

“And Luca… puts her to bed?”

Mrs. Goodwin nods. “They wanted her to go to a nursing home, but you know, those places are where old people go to die.” She waves a hand like, Forget it . “Mrs. Sterling has a nurse who comes by each day, but Luca checks in on her every night.”

Mrs. Sterling is Luca’s mystery woman on the eleventh floor? When he was running late to meet me, he was helping the older woman? “I didn’t know anything about this…”

Mrs. Goodwin looks surprised. “He didn’t tell you about finding Mrs. Sterling in the mail room?”

The mail room? My head jerks back. Did she say early August? The pieces begin to slide together. “No—” I stutter. “He didn’t.”

“I guess I’m not surprised Luca didn’t say anything.” Mrs. Goodwin sighs. “He doesn’t like to accept praise. But he was a real hero that day, picking the poor woman up and rushing her to the hospital. Doctors say she wouldn’t have made it if it weren’t for Luca’s quick thinking.” She presses a hand to her heart. “But that’s Luca for you. Always taking care of us.”

I picture Luca trailing after Mrs. Goodwin in the pharmacy aisle, patiently waiting for her to choose a lipstick color and hand cream. “Like taking you to run errands or stop at the pharmacy.”

Mrs. Goodwin nods. “You have no idea how hard it is to give up driving. It’s like someone’s stolen your freedom. But my eyesight isn’t what it used to be, so I had no choice. I could get my water pills delivered, but I like to get out and pick things out for myself. It makes me feel like I’m still in charge of my life.”

I’d been annoyed that day when I was along for the ride—that Luca was wasting my time, that he wasn’t doing his job at the front desk. “So Luca helps you.” I gaze around the community center at all the people milling about. “He helps all of you.”

“The truth is…” Mrs. Goodwin leans in, like she’s about to tell me a secret. “The DeGreco doesn’t really need a doorman. We never had one before Luca started coming by every day to look in on his grandpa when he was sick. He came so often and helped us all out so much, Vito insisted on putting him on the payroll.”

“Uncle Vito?”

Mrs. Goodwin nods. “He owns the building. Someday it will go to Luca. And good thing, too. It will never get into the hands of those nasty developers that way.”

I feel my body flush with shame at the memory of how I’d hounded him about shirking his responsibilities, complaining that he wasn’t following the rules.

A doorman’s job is to be at the door , I’d insisted.

Only if you look at everything from your narrow view of the world , was his reply.

My view of the world had been as narrow as the cold, soulless hallways of Melanie’s apartment building. But thanks to Luca, it’s stretched and expanded and grown to include older people and Mafia men and burlesque dancers and… Dad . And a doorman who reminds me of my dad in all the best possible ways, with his charm and generosity and openness.

I throw my arms around Mrs. Goodwin and plant a giant kiss on her weathered cheek. “Thank you, Mrs. Goodwin.”

She pats me on the back. “Of course, dear. You go get him.”