Page 84 of Wish I Were Here
“Of course I’m happy,” I say, hoping my extra enthusiasm masks the tremor at the end. “Of course I am.”
“Okay, then.” Sal takes another step, and then another. “I’m happy for you.” And then he reaches in his pocket and holds out a butterscotch. “I guess I just can’t for the life of me figure out why you look so sad.”
The next morning, I’m the first person in line at the DMV, but I guess that’s how it goes when you arrive at seven and the office opens at nine. I pace in front of the locked glass door, checking over and over to make sure all my paperwork is tucked into the file in my bag. Iknowit’s there—I checked a dozen times last night—but it reassures me to run my hand over the embossed seal on my birth certificate.
This one is the real thing.
I finally know who I am, and I’m about to get my life back.
My heart squeezes, not quite believing it. There are still so many ways this could go wrong. What if I go in there, and they still can’t find me in the records? What if I’m gone forever? I spent so much time focusing on finding my birth certificate—finding my mother—that I never really let the possibility cross my mind that this wild adventure I’ve been on this past week could all be for nothing.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my pant legs, pacing back and forth again. This has to work. It just has to. I don’t have a plan B, and not even the Morellis can rescue me if my identity is gone for good. My breath hitches, and all of a sudden, I’m unable to suck air into my lungs. Bending forward,I clutch the red file folder against my chest, panting hard. Is this a panic attack? Do I need to call 911?
A middle-aged white man with a mustache comes to the door, clicking open the lock. His hair is thick and dark, waving over the crown of his head, secured with hair gel. He reminds me a little of Luca’s uncles, and that calms me enough to stand up straight and take a gasp of air.
The mustache man squints at me. “You okay, miss?”
I give him a nod. For a moment, I consider asking him if he’s a Morelli. But though my heartbeat is slowing, I’m not sure I can squeak out the words just yet. And besides, I don’t really want to talk about Luca.
When I slipped out the door of the building earlier, Luca was still sleeping on the floor. On the bus to the DMV, I searched my mind for all the other times I’d seen him lying there. Do those times correlate with the elevator being broken? Does he sleep there to intercept the older people and give them a ride on the freight elevator? I remember Sal slipping on the stairs last night after stubbornly insisting on walking. I know Luca would do whatever he could to keep anyone from falling.
But something about that realization nags at me. I’d automatically jumped to the conclusion that Luca had set up camp on the floor because he was too lazy to go upstairs. Or because his apartment was too much of a mess. Or—
somethingthat proves he’s irresponsible and unreliable. If I was wrong about that, was I wrong about anything else?
“How can I help you, miss?” Mustache Man waves me into an office and settles behind a desk. I sink down into the chair on the other side.
With sweating palms, I pull out my driver’s license. “It appears that there’s a problem with my ID.” I wave my red file. “I brought my birth certificate and other paperwork. Can you please add me to your system and issue a new photo ID?”
“Let me see what you have.” He holds out a thick palm.
I slide my license across the desk, and he flips it over, checking the back before he starts typing on his computer. A moment later, he mutters, “Hmmmm.”
Oh God, not “Hmmmm” again. I’ve heard that sound too many times this week, and it only means one thing: not good.
“What?” I clutch the red file in my sweaty hands. “Just break it to me gently.”
Mustache Man types a few more things in his computer, looks up at me, and then flips the card over and back. “Well.” He slides the driver’s license back in my direction. “I won’t be needing your birth certificate.”
My mouth drops open. “What do you mean, you won’t be needing my birth certificate?”
He shrugs. “Don’t need it.”
My heart pounds in my ears. “Can you please check your records again?”
“Don’t need to do that, either.” The chair emits a loud creak as he leans back.
I flinch at the sound. Is this really happening? Are my worst fears really coming true?
“Please take it,” I insist, my voice shaking. “Please check again.”
The man looks at his watch and sighs. “There’s already a line forming outside. I’d like to move this along.”
My entire body goes cold. “You’re worried about a line?” I slap the red file on his desk. “Do you know what I went through to get this birth certificate?” When I flip the file open, the birth certificate stares up at me from its embossed seal like a one-eyed monster. “I nearly got arrested. Not once.” I hold up a finger for emphasis. “But twice.” I flick up another finger. “I realize we just met, and you don’t really know me. But if you did, you’d know Idon’tget arrested.” I slide the paper across the desk. “I impersonated a doctor, I committedseveralfelonies, and I conspired with a mob boss named Vito.”
Mustache Man’s face lights up. “Vito Morelli?”
“Yes, Vito Morelli.” And then, I don’t know where this comes from, it’s probably a combination of exhaustion and desperation, but the next thing I say is, “And if you want to wake up tomorrow with both your hands, you will take the birth certificate andcheck your records again.”
