Page 55 of Wish I Were Here
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 isSeema.” 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 readingThe 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 forThe 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 aboutThe 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’syou?” 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 byLuca’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 itisnecessary? 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 wasprobably 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.”
