Page 89 of Wish I Were Here
“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 tossa 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 wason 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?”
