We All Fall Down: The True Story of the 9/11 Surfer (10 page)

The siren came on, and the ambulance screamed away from the foot of the place where Pasquale Buzzelli had almost died.

“I’m okay,” Pasquale said, lying there on that flat stretcher, machines flashing around him and overhead. “What I need is to talk to my wife. She’s at home. She’s pregnant. I really need to talk to her.”

“Here.” The guy brought a cell phone to his side. “I hope you can get through. The city’s a mess. Everything’s just…out.”

He nodded.
I’ll just keep dialing. I have to talk to her, whatever it takes.

He dialed the familiar number, and the phone rang at the other end. It rang again, and he held on tight, closed his eyes, and pictured Louise. He pictured her there, in their home, and listened to the phone ring.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Just a Moment More…

“As human beings, we need to know that we are not alone, that we are not crazy or completely out of our minds, that there are other people out there who feel as we do, live as we do, love as we do…who are like us.”

~ Billy Joel

At the home of Pasquale and Louise, Antonia and Ugo got out of the car slowly, as if already carrying death between them. There were vehicles there, in the driveway and along the street. Others had gathered, and it didn’t matter who they were. It didn’t matter that people knew and had come to mourn. It was all about Louise and the baby; first the baby, and then they could face what lay ahead.

Louise sat at the kitchen table, with tears streaming down her face. When she saw them, she struggled up from her chair and put her hands out.

In the garage doorway, Antonia stopped. There was something terrible in her daughter-in-law’s eyes. She saw what no mother should ever have to see. She ran across the kitchen floor. A voice was screaming. A voice trailed along behind her, wailing as grieving women have always wailed through the decades. She fell to her knees in front of Louise. Her hands clawed at the bulging abdomen, as if she could hold and protect the child. She cupped her fingers over the life beating underneath Louise’s flesh and closed her eyes. “Pasquale! You
can’t
die!” She threw back her head and screamed toward Heaven. She howled for her son and for his growing child, the warm, safe life beneath her fingers. “You can’t die! This baby needs a father. SHE CAN’T GROW UP WITHOUT A FATHER!”

Louise rested her hands on her grieving mother-in-law’s hair and leaned over her. “Mama Buzzelli, please! Please…”

Ugo neared to help his sobbing wife back to her feet. He led her to a sofa to sit.

She bent in on herself, pulling away from everyone as she cried and shuddered.

Louise put a hand out toward her mother-in-law. Antonia’s agony was so terrible.
But what do I have to offer her as consolation?
Louise asked herself.
What kind words can I possibly whisper?
She had none to offer. There was nothing she could see ahead for any of them. There was no clear path, just as her life had been before.
What can I utter to this woman who’s lost her only child?
The two of them were equally hurting, grieving the loss of a great man—a man they both loved. She looked over at her mother-in-law and felt the tears coursing down her cheeks. They were bound by Pasquale Buzzelli’s death, the two women, as they had been bound by his life and would be bound by the birth of his child—as women have always been, throughout all of time. They were just two bowed figures, victims left to suffer from the hatred and cruelty of others.

People arrived, asked worried questions, gasped at the answers, and cried. Rivers of tears were everywhere.

Louise looked around for Peter, their kind friend, and saw so much kindness to thank people for. “Did Peter go?” she asked Joanne.

Joanne nodded. “He had to, Louise. His brother was in the Pentagon.”

Louise took a seat away from everyone. She buried her face in her hands. What they were all feeling went beyond pain. It wasn’t an ordinary thing; there was no ordinary name for it.

For just a minute, she needed to get away from all of those who’d come, whether out of love of out of grief. For just a minute, she needed to feel his strong arms around her, to hear his deep voice in her ear, to feel his breath against her skin. She needed his strength to be there for her.
Just a moment more of Pasquale…alone.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Windows on the World

“
Will you share with me one love, one lifetime?”

~ Raoul

(
The Phantom of the Opera
)

June 6, 1997

“I don’t really want to go out to dinner down there on a Friday night, with all that traffic.” His voice hesitated on the phone. “Somebody gave me tickets to this dinner, but—”

“Why? Why not?” she said, growing impatient with him and not understanding how he could be so hesitant about Windows on the World, the restaurant on top of the South Tower, down at the Twin Towers, where he worked. “It’s a
free
dinner. It’ll be kind of nice. I’d like to go…if you want to take me.” She knew how to get to him.

“Oh, all right. I’ll think about it.”

And that was that, until she brought it up again: “What are we doing Friday? Should I meet you there? You gonna come here? Should I go to your house in Jersey City?”

“Oh yeah. Yeah, I forgot about it.”

“We never get a chance to go out to dinner in the city. It’ll be a great time.”

He nodded, and they made plans to meet at his house since it was easier to get downtown from there.

So much play-acting—all of it.
She could tell she was supposed to push; he, on the other hand, was supposed to act hesitant. Despite all the hesitation, she sensed he was nervous about something. She wanted to ask him what was going on, but she didn’t dare. For Pasquale, there was a place he went inside, a place that was his alone, a place where he planned and considered and made his judgments. She’d already come up against that solitary place, and she knew better than to push him too hard.

Still, it was Windows on the World, an elegant restaurant. It was going to be a big day, perhaps the biggest of Louise’s life—if her woman’s intuition was telling her the truth.

They’d been dating for two years. They knew each other well and fit together as if there’d never been a time before they were a couple. They’d already shared so much, she and that big, strong, comforting man—that good-looking man who could dim her painful past just by his touch. Pasquale was her amazing friend and lover, the man she’d dreamt of but had almost come to believe didn’t really exist—at least not for her. They’d been introduced by friends, Mike and Jill, and he’d bowed slightly as Jill said, “This is my friend Louise.” He’d taken her hand as if to shake it, but it was so much more: the immediate connection, the laughter behind his formality, the feeling of her small hand in his. There was safety there, protection, and promise—so much promise.

Even if she was wrong about what Pasquale had up his much larger sleeve, it would still be a big evening for her, a chance to dress up. She made careful plans: a powder-blue business suit with the skirt above the knee and a pretty little jacket. It was corporate enough, since she’d be coming from work at an executive training company, Point & Click, but it was equally chic enough for an evening on the town with her man.

June 13, 1997

She hoped she wasn’t wrong, sensing something different about him as he took her arm and helped her toward the tall, magnificent buildings.

There wasn’t going to be any other man in her life, at least none like that Pasquale Buzzelli, with his serious look, his ready smile, his keen intelligence. He’d simply appeared, and everything had changed for her: the way the world seemed, her place in that world, her sadness.

There had been so many adventures: dates and outings and trips together; meeting his mother and father; learning to communicate with his Italian mother, who spoke little English. She’d even taken Pasquale to meet her father, who was already melting into the deep depression that would be with him until he died. The two men respected each other immediately.

Those weren’t things she’d ever dared to dream about. Her life hadn’t worked that way up until that point. There had to be limits to what she told herself, to the dreams she dared to dream.

The elevator was golden and large. Pasquale pushed the button, and they changed elevators and went up to the revolving restaurant.

As the doors opened to a long hall, Louise felt a flutter of nervousness.
Is this going to be the place where my life will change forever, or am I just kidding myself? Maybe there’s only a nice dinner ahead.
Disappointment began to set in. She told herself to enjoy the evening, the restaurant, the food—another wonderful night out with Pasquale—and expect nothing more. She’d learned to expect nothing so she wouldn’t be so let down. For Louise, expecting nothing meant not getting hurt…again.

“Buzzelli.” Pasquale gave the tall
maître d
’ his name.

The man led them to a table by one of the huge windows that hung all around the restaurant. The world lay beneath their feet, all of New York. It was still light out, so they had a panoramic view of miles and miles of New York, with its buildings, rivers, and bisecting streets and avenues.

Around the room were huge bouquets of flowers in elegant vases, atop white linen-covered tables. Candlelight gleamed off the perfectly shined silverware. It was a beautiful place, and it was so good to be there with him. Louise smiled, showing her gratitude for how special he’d made her feel, for how he’d made her feel a part of something bigger than both of them.

“Knowing where I got these tickets, I thought for sure we’d be sitting by the kitchen,” Pasquale joked, leaning across the table toward her to speak in his low, rumbling voice.

They began with an appetizer, Seafood of the World, and were presented with three tiers of shellfish: lobster, clams, and crab.

“I can’t believe you didn’t want to come here,” she said, shaking her head at him as if such a bad decision astounded her.

He smiled, and his eyes sparkled.

Something was going on. She was sure of it. She saw it in the odd flicker in his eyes.

“Yeah. Well, maybe we’ll come here again sometime.”

They talked and laughed as the sun went down and the lights of the city came on. Bridges were slowly outlined. The boroughs beyond Manhattan came to life. Streaks of white headlights and red taillights—almost smeared—streamed through the roads and streets. The couple ate while they marveled at the city, maybe even a little at themselves, and at where they were.

Their waiter brought a dessert menu.

“I’ll be right back.” Pasquale stood. He looked preoccupied at first, then a little distant. “I’ve got to find the men’s room.”

She nodded and watched him walk away, noticing the straight, wide back of his business suit, the neatly cut dark hairline above his white shirt, and the walk that seemed so sure. Then she looked over the dessert menu, trying to make the seemingly impossible choice between so many luscious descriptions that she could almost taste them from the words on the page.

A moment later, Pasquale was back, weaving his way between the labyrinth of tables. His eyes were locked on hers.

In that instant, as she caught his gaze, she knew.
Oh my God! It’s real.
She opened her eyes wide and watched, waiting for what was going to happen.
He’s going to propose to me right now, right here!
She knew it. She saw it in that nervous look of his, that dear, handsome face of his looking so…concerned.

Then, he was at the table and down on one knee.

Impossible! In this place, above all places in the world, he’s going to ask me to marry him?

“I love you very much.” He took her hand in his. His eyes were warm, and his face was like that of a little boy. Maybe he was even a little afraid of what her answer might be. “Will you share with me one love, one lifetime?”

It was a lyric from one of their favorite songs, “All I Ask of You,” from
The Phantom of the Opera
. They’d seen it so many times that the words lived within both of them, but never like that—never about the two of them, a kind of uniting anthem.

“Will you marry me?” His voice shook just a little.

Louise closed her eyes. She had to encapsulate that moment, to make it a part of the long memory of her life, to weave it into a fabric so fine and lasting—all perfect.

When she opened her eyes, he was holding the loveliest ring in front of her.

Her eyes filled with tears.
How can any woman contain this much happiness? How can I simply say, “Yes” when a simple “Yes” isn’t enough?
She reached out, not for the ring, but for him.
If I could just hold him. If I could just put my arms around him and feel the warmth, the welcome.

There were tears in his eyes too, as he reached out to her.

Around them, people cheered and clapped. A dessert of chocolate, adorned with celebratory candles and sparklers, appeared before them, illuminating their sweet joy.