Page 42 of Wish I Were Here
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, herfeet 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 thatthought. “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 assmoking?” 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 findmy 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. “Doyouhave any talents, Catherine?”
