Suzannah

My life changed on a stuck elevator.

This was the the first time I saw Suzannah. She was about seven months’ pregnant and had just finished getting her prenatal checkup. I was on my lunch hour and had been planning to stop by my friend Dustin’s house to listen to a demo tape his band had just completed. I hated my job, an my life seemed shiftless and meaningless. I was 22 and had just graduated college. I had no idea what I wanted to do in my life, so I dutifully went to my job as a copy editor and came home every night and listened to music, wrote a little dark poetry, or hung out with my cynical, disaffected friends. I had no girlfriend, and I didn’t want one. I couldn’t see myself committed to anyone or anything. All I cared about was getting through each day and maybe having a little fun along the way. Once in a while it was nice to get laid, too, but getting into a messy relationship? Hell, no, not me. Not for a long time anyway. I guess you could call me a slacker, but without a trust fund (as a couple of my friends, including Dustin had), I couldn’t even make a commitment to true slackerdom. I was a weekend slacker. The rest of the time I felt like an indentured servant to corporate America and the capitalist fuckheads who ran it. Whatever. Things could be a lot worse.

Anyway, here I was on this elevator, thinking about nothing much, except how much I hated my job and how much I wished I had the time and money to be in a band and do something really creative like Dustin. On the 20^th floor (I worked on the 25^th floor), the elevator stopped and this woman got on. She was pregnant but she was beautiful. She looked like she was in her mid-thirties or so, but it was hard to tell for sure. She could have been younger or older. I’ve always been attracted to older women. I have no idea why. Perhaps because they don’t demand as much from you emotionally. They usually have other commitments and are happy to just let you fuck them. They also are just more attractive to me in general. They don’t look or act like girls; they don’t giggle all the time and speak in that way a lot of girls my age seem to. You know, where every sentence they utter sounds like a question?

Except for being pregnant, Suzannah was my sort of woman physically. It was summertime and she was wearing a pink and lavender paisley dress with an empire waist and a full skirt that came to her knees. The color flattered her golden complexion and the empire waist flattered her full breasts (I wondered how full they were when she wasn’t pregnant). I even thought I could make out the outline of her nipples through the thin fabric but it was hard to tell and I didn’t want to stare and be too obvious. The skirt fell softly over her protruding belly and one long-fingered hand rested on the fullest part of her stomach. You always see pregnant women doing that. It’s a protective gesture I guess. She wore pink pumps with low heels and her legs were tanned and bare. Her hair was a dark, rich brown and fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and her eyes were a soft light brown. She wore little or no makeup, and probably didn’t need any. She smiled shyly at me as she found a place against the back of the elevator, then dropped her eyes away, which was a good thing, as I could feel myself starting to blush. I also felt a tingling sensation in my khakis. I was grateful when an older gentleman moved to block her view of me. But I still shifted my battered leather satchel to my front in order to hide any erection that might have been visible.

We had just arrived at the tenth floor when the only other passengers besides the pregnant woman and myself--a couple of middle-aged secretaries and a 40ish yuppie guy--got off the elevator. No one else got on, and the metal doors slid closed.

I wanted to look at her so badly, but I felt too shy. I kept looking at the floor instead, sneaking peeks at her from under my eyelashes.

Suddenly I felt the elevator shudder, and then jolt to a stop. The fluorescent lights flickered, and then shut off completely. Shit, a fucking power outage. Now what was I going to do? I really wanted to hear Dustin’s demo tape and maybe smoke a little weed before coming back to work. Now I was stuck on this stupid elevator.

I also suffered from claustrophobia. Almost immediately, my heart began to flutter wildly in my chest and I started to hyperventilate. Jesus, Jesus, what was I going to do? And that woman, she would know what a wuss I was. I tried mentally composing a poem, which sometimes helped focus me when I was in the midst of a panic attack, but this time it didn’t work, and before long, I was beginning to whimper. I crouched down into the corner of the elevator like a little boy, trembling and beginning to cry. I felt like I was having a heart attack. I tried taking deep, steady breaths but my breathing was shaky and I was hyperventilating anyway.

Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder

“Hey, you okay?”

I wiped my eyes and looked up but of course it was pitch black so I couldn’t see a thing.

“I’m Suzannah. It’s okay, it’s just a power outage. They’ll be here to get us out soon, I’m sure.” Her voice was like wild honey, soft and low. A woman’s voice, not a girl’s. I was grateful to her and relaxed a little.

“I..I know,” I stammered. “I’m sorry, I’m such a wuss.”

“No, you’re not. A lot of people get panicky in these situations.” I could hear the smile in her voice. “Even me, sometimes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” She took my hand and squeezed it. I felt my penis swell like a balloon in my pants.

“Don’t worry about a thing. Besides, at least you’re not alone. You have me to talk to,” she said. “Well, that is, if you want. If you want me to leave you alone, it’s okay, no problem.”

“Oh, I don’t mind talking, Suzannah. It gets my mind off this...you know. I feel better now, thanks.”

“What’s your name?”

“Me?” I sounded like an idiot, I thought. “I’m Brandon.”

“That’s a lovely name. I almost named one of my sons Brandon.”

“You have other kids?”

She laughed softly. “Yes, Brandon, I have four kids. Two sons and two daughters. And this little guy will be number five.” she said proudly.

I was shocked. This woman had five kids? Wouldn’t a lady with five kids be all hagged out? Suzannah sure as hell wasn’t.

“How–how old are you?” I asked, not sure if it was appropriate to do so.

She didn’t seem to mind at all.

“I’m 39.”

Thirty-nine? Wow. “Isn’t that kind of old to have a kid?” I asked.

She laughed her throaty laugh again.

“No, Brandon, these days a woman can become pregnant and give birth right up until at least age 45 or so, sometimes even later than that. Or at least it’s not that unusual.” She paused, seeming to be lost in thought.

“Then again, maybe I’m just one of those super fertile ladies. I do seem to become pregnant more easily than most other women I know.”

“Wow. Well, I don’t know if I’ll ever have kids,” I said.

“Why do you say that?” My hand was still in hers. And our fingertips were touching. I felt currents of electricity radiate from my fingers to my groin. Now I was glad it was dark so she couldn’t see what she did to my dick.

“Um, I don’t know. Just seems like too much of a commitment, you know? It’s a lot of responsibility.”

“That it is, it is a lot of work. But Brandon, someday I’m sure you’ll have children of your own. You’re young now, no guy your age wants a kid. How old are you anyway? Do you work in this building?”

“I just turned 22 and graduated from NYU in May. This is my first job. I’m a copy editor. I write those blurbs that you see on the inside covers of books.” I was babbling.

“That sounds interesting.”

“I hate it,” I blurted, not quite knowing why but having to say it anyway.

“I’m sorry, but maybe in time you’ll find something you’ll love doing. You have lots of time.”

I didn’t know what to say so I said nothing. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the silky warm touch of her hand in mine. My balls were starting to hurt. I was also starting to feel weird, almost like I was going to cry. I had no earthly idea why. I just wanted to bury my head in Suzannah’s full bosom and weep like one of her babies while she stroked my hair and maybe sang me a lullaby...

What was I thinking? I didn’t even know this woman. She had four kids, another on the way, and probably owned a home, probably had a mortgage, an SUV, a dog, and a jealous husband to boot. She was probably a goddamned soccer mom and attended PTO meetings and church every Sunday. She was literally old enough to be my own mother. We were practically from different planets, for Christ’s sake. So I swallowed hard and willed myself not to cry. She already had seen what a pussy I was before. Why make things even worse?

“You okay, Brandon?” she asked.

“Oh, sure, yeah. Just thinking,” I said stupidly.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Uh, just wondering when they’re gonna come get us out of this stupid elevator,” I lied. I actually liked being stuck here with her now, but would rather be drawn and quartered than admit that to Suzannah.

“Oh, I’m sure it won’t be much longer,” she said.

“What does your husband think of having five kids?” I asked, not able to think of anything else to say.

She was silent for a while, then spoke very softly.

“My husband died right after we learned I was pregnant, Brandon.”

My breath caught. What an insensitive idiot I was.

“I’m so sorry, Suzannah.”

“Thank you. It’s been hard, but we’ll make it through. My mother is helping out, I moved back home with her and the kids, and I do qualify for some government assistance.” She paused a beat.

“Not that I like to admit that, but a single mom with so many kids sometimes can’t refuse help...” she trailed off.

“But oh yes, Brian was very happy about the baby. He loved kids, loved me being pregnant.”

“Do you like being pregnant?” I couldn’t believe I was asking such personal questions but the circumstances we were in were anything but normal after all, and she didn’t seem to mind.

She laughed. “Oh yes, I love being pregnant, Brandon. I feel so fertile and lifegiving, so...well...”

I squeezed her hand. “So what, Suzannah? Tell me!”

“So...sexy!” Then she laughed again. My penis twitched inside my trousers.

She was sexy alright.

“My mother was never very maternal. I wish...” I stopped myself, not really wanting to go there.

But she wouldn’t let me stop. “What?” she urged.

“Well, um, I wish she’d been more like you.”

“That’s a sweet thing to say. But what exactly do you mean, Brandon?”

“Well, my mother was always more into her public relations career, getting ahead in the business world, her appearance and image. The whole yuppie thing, only she’s too old to qualify as a yuppie. I’m her only child, and even I was an accident,” I said.

“I’m sorry about that, Brandon, but I’m sure she does love you very much.”

“Oh, I don’t know sometimes. I suppose she does. But she’s not the kind of mother who’s there for you when when you’re down or just want to cry on someone’s shoulder. She’s more into herself than me–or anyone else for that matter. She figures I’m an adult and should take care of my own problems without hers or anyone else’s help.”

“Does that make you angry?”

“A little,” I admitted.

I was intrigued by Suzannah’s attitude about pregnancy. Most pregnant women I’d known did nothing but complain about the discomforts and morning sickness and how ugly they thought they were. My mother especially had hated being pregnant with me, and never let me hear the end of the physical pains I’d put her through during pregnancy and delivery.

“Suzannah, what does it feel like?”

“What does what feel like?”

“Being pregnant.”

She laughed again. “Why? Do you want to get pregnant?”

“Oh, sure.” I laughed. “But no, seriously, most women I know only complain about how much being pregnant sucks, but you don’t. So what does it feel like?”

“Well, it’s hard to explain to a man, especially a young one like you, but I can try. You feel a little uncomfortable and very congested, sometimes a little nauseous in the beginning, but you also feel full, you sort of feel an opening up to the world, an opening up to life. It’s kind of like falling in love. You feel beautiful and well, important. I know that sounds really corny but it’s true.” She paused.

“Your...your breasts hurt but it’s a good sort of hurting, they feel full, and–and well...” she hesitated and dropped her voice so she was almost whispering. “You just feel like making love all the time.”

I was almost overcome with the desire to to wrap my arms around her and start making love to her right then, kissing her deeply, and then cup my hands under her painful, swollen fertile breasts, and rub her nipples with my thumbs. I could feel a drop of moisture seep out of the tip of my penis onto my boxers and my balls ached like a bitch. I didn’t know what to say. I felt something else too, something besides lust, but I wasn’t sure what. Whatever it was ached with an exquisite urgency in my gut and made me want to tell her everything, made me want to shed my cynicism, made me never want to leave her. What the hell was happening to me?

I was confused. I wanted to escape from these unfamiliar and scary feelings. I wished they’d hurry up and rescue us from this frigging metal box from hell already.

I started to feel claustrophobic again and pulled my hand away from hers. Suzannah heard me begin to hyperventilate.

“Brandon, it’s okay,” she said.

I wanted to crawl into a little ball in her lap and at the same time I wanted to push her away and tell her to get lost.

“Leave me alone,” I said pathetically, not sure if I meant it or not.

“I’m sorry. I--I didn’t mean to bother you.” She sounded hurt. Or was it just my imagination? I felt a soft breeze from her skirt against my face as she rose. I could hear it rustle against her legs and then her heels click on the linoleum floor as she went back to the other side of the elevator.

Oh, God, what had I done? Why did I suck so much? Why did I always have to treat women like garbage? She had only been trying to help.

And besides, I didn’t want her to leave. She just scared me. Or to be fair, the way she made me feel scared me.

“Suzannah...”

“Yes, Brandon.”

“Suzannah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean–“

“Nothing to be sorry about. I’m not upset.”

“Are you sure?”

She hesitated. “Yes,” she finally said.

This time I went to her, and hesitantly and shyly, we embraced. I allowed myself to rest my head on her bosom and I could feel the hardness of her protruding stomach against my groin. I wondered if she could feel my hardness too. Her heart was beating strongly under her breast and I allowed my own breathing to synchronize with hers. We said nothing. I felt like I was drowning in something gooey and thick and delicious and dangerous. It scared the shit out of me but I was becoming addicted fast.

Suddenly I felt a fluttering against my erection. I heard Suzannah gasp softly, then she reached behind her to grasp my hand and place it between us so it was resting on her hard bulge.

“Do you feel that?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Yes, I do.”

“I am going to name him after you, Brandon, if you don’t mind. I already told you we almost named one of our other sons that, but settled on Anthony instead because that was my father’s name. My other son’s name is Justin. But you seem sweet and Brandon is a nice name for a sweet little boy.”

I felt tears prickling at the corners of my eyes and my throat felt full.

“Is that okay?”

“Yes,” I said, and my voice cracked in spite of myself.

I closed my eyes and let the tears roll down my cheeks. They felt good, like a summer rain. At first I tried to keep this a secret from her, but my nose was running and I had to keep sniffing back the snot.

“Are you crying?” she asked.

She knew, but oddly, I wasn’t embarrassed.

“Yes,” I choked.

Then the dam burst. I began to sob then softly at first, then with abandon, until I was sure I would never stop.

Suzannah rocked me in her arms like another one of her babies. Occasionally I could feel little Brandon shift under Suzannah’s dress, and my heart would clench inside my chest.

***

Finally, after what seemed like a very short time but was actually at least two hours, the power came back on and the elevator shuddered and began to move.

I started, but Suzannah still held me.

I didn’t want to leave her. I wanted to be stuck in that elevator with her forever.

“Hey, um, can we hook up sometime?” I said as we emerged at the lobby level.

She smiled her warm smile.

“Walk me to the subway, okay?”

“Sure!” I said, as we left the building and began to walk. The day was hot and humid and the sun was still bright. The streets were packed with people rushing home from work to start their weekend. The world seemed filled with hope for a change.

“If you’d like, you can come to my house tonight and I’ll whip us up some spaghetti and meatballs and we can talk some more. I can arrange to have my mother watch the children tonight upstairs. She won’t mind a bit, she’d raise them herself if I’d let her.”

“So your mom is as maternal as you then, I guess.”

Suzannah laughed. “Yeah, I guess she is. She’s Italian, you know!”

So she would be Italian too, at least half. God, I loved Italian women.

Especially this one.

“So anyway, what time do you want to stop by? “

“Um, well, how about seven?”

“Seven’s fine. I’ll talk to my mom as soon as I get home. I know she’ll say it’s okay.”

She reached into her oversized tapestry satchel and pulled out a pen and a tiny notepad. She scribbled down an address in Queens and handed it to me.

“She owns the house,” she added. “I had to move back in after my husband died.”

“What did he die of?”

“Car accident,” she said in a soft, sad voice. “He died instantly. At least he didn’t suffer,” she said, putting her pen and pad back in her satchel.

“I’m so sorry, Suz,” I said.

“Thanks.”

Then she brightened. “So I’ll see you at seven, then?”

“Yes,” I said. I could hardly wait.

***

She lived on the bottom floor of a red brick two-family house in Jackson Heights, Queens. The apartment she and her children lived in was laid out in railroad style, with a large kitchen at the back of the house. The smell of garlic, onions and spaghetti sauce that permeated the whole house was as intoxicating as she was. She had made a cursory attempt to straighten the house, but it was clear that children lived here, with toys, games and books stacked in piles in almost every corner. The living room was small but cozy, with a steel blue carpet and upholstered furniture with a floral pattern that matched the rug and salmon-colored walls. Nothing pretentious or intimidating, and nothing tacky or tasteless either. It was simply inviting and comfortable. Pictures of her children adorned the walls and every bookshelf. You could tell what her priorities were in life. My own mother never kept family pictures around her apartment, as she felt such a public display was “provincial and tacky.”

Suzannah’s kids interested me. I had never before been interested in anyone’s children.

It turned out Anthony and Justin were not much younger than me. They were now 16 and 17, respectively. Justin would be started college in the fall. Her girls, Lucia and Mariella, were much younger, eight and six, respectively.

“My boys had a different father,” Suzannah explained. “We were divorced.”

“Really? And Brian didn’t mind them around?”

She laughed her silky laugh as she stirred the spaghetti sauce.

“No, not at all. He adopted them. Like I said, he loved all kids. He would have had a dozen more.”

“Wow,” I said dumbly.

I could hear thumping noises above our heads.

Suzannah and I looked up toward the ceiling.

“Don’t mind that, it’s just the girls giving my mom a hard time up there,” she said, laughing.

“Where are your sons?”

“Oh, Justin and Anthony are both out with friends, raising hell, I am sure!”

“I can’t believe you have sons almost as old as me.”

“Yeah, weird, isn’t it? It’s hard to believe sometimes they were babies once,” she said, rubbing her belly.

“He’s moving again,” she said.

I went over to her and placed my hand on her stomach.

I could feel little Brandon moving but this time I didn’t cry. I just kissed her instead.

The kiss was soft, moist and deep. Her lips tasted like buttered honey and her dark hair was even softer than it looked.

I heard her breath catch.

“Brandon...”

“Yes,” I said, my voice cracking with desire.

“Brandon, let’s eat first. My sauce will burn!”

“I think something else is burning,” I said, approaching her again. She grabbed my hands and slapped them playfully.

“Time for that later,” she scolded.

***

The dinner was delicious and so was the red wine Suzannah had provided. She had even set the tiny table in the dining alcove off the kitchen with a dark blue tablecloth and white candles in ceramic holders. It was very romantic, and it didn’t bother me a bit. I was really enjoying this, and I was enjoying her even more.

Tipsy from the wine, we decided to make love. It was the first time I had ever made love to a pregnant woman. At first I was afraid I might rupture something, hurt the baby, but she assured me it was okay, and both her husbands and she had made love right up until her children were due. Slowly I undressed her, unbuttoning her paisley dress which she still had on, and letting it fall to the bed. My fingers trembled as I unclasped her bra. I felt dizzy and my knees felt weak as her swollen breasts burst from their confines. My penis strained almost painfully against my trousers. Her breasts felt spongy, almost hard, and were networked with light blue veins. The nipples were dark brown and protruded like ripe raisins. I cupped them in my hands, feeling their weight, and kissed each one reverently. Her taut, shiny belly had a light brown streak running up and down its length. I ran my index finger down it until I reached the waistband of her plain cotton panties. She began to unbutton my trousers and they fell to the floor, then she removed her panties. Her bush was dark and thick, and I could just make out a pair of dark pink, almost purple, vaginal lips between her long tanned legs. I ran my finger down her bush and dipped it in the cleft. She was wet and I had to taste her. She was sweet. She sat down on the edge of her bed and eased my boxers down my hips until they fell to the floor. My penis bounced out, hard and purple and swollen. I knelt down on the floor and embraced her, kissing her deeply, as our intimate parts touched as if also kissing.

It was a strange experience, making love to Suzannah. I still felt I had to be careful not to hurt her or the baby, even though she’d assured me it was perfectly safe, and we made love gently and tenderly. The care I took not to hurt her paradoxically made our lovemaking more intense and more emotional. I felt like we melted into each other as we gently rocked together, and her hot velvet walls closed around me as if I were her missing piece of the puzzle.

We came simultaneously, and the orgasm seemed to never end. When it was finally over and I opened my eyes to gaze into hers, her cheeks were wet with tears.

“Thank you,” was all she said.

I was still unable to speak at all, and just kissed her again. Then I kissed her wet eyelashes and could taste the salt on them.

We talked for a long time after that. We told each other things we had never told anyone else. I felt as if we had always known each other.

She told me about her first pregnancy, in 1979, when she was 17. All her friends and teachers had had pressured her to have an abortion even though she had not wanted to. She was in love with the baby’s father, and even though he had bolted when she told him of her pregnancy, she still wanted to have his child. She would find a way to raise it herself. Her Italian Catholic mother had had mixed feelings about it, but eventually she too had urged Suzannah to have the abortion.

“You’ll ruin your life,” she had told her. “You’ll never be able to go to college.”

“I don’t care about college, Mama,” she had said.

“You’re too young. You’re not married.”

“I know, but I can’t kill my baby, Mama.”

Pressured by everyone she knew, even her mother now, and unable to assert her own wishes, she had finally opted for the abortion. But because she had waited so long to decide, it was too late to opt for the suction method or even D&C, and the only alternative left for a second-trimester pregnancy was partial birth abortion. She had cried on the way to the hospital, holding her slightly bulging stomach and praying the Hail Mary the whole time. She had cried throughout the procedure, which involved actual labor and delivery of the a dead fetus. She had wanted to die herself.

Behind a curtain in the same ward, a new mother was giving birth to a full term baby, and Suzannah could hear the husband coaching the woman along, telling her to keep pushing, you’re doing great, honey.

It was ironic how the most tragic things in life were so close to the miraculous, how birth and death coexisted in the same antiseptic smelling room with its sickly green walls. Suzannah had not been able to stop sobbing but the unsmiling nurse assigned to tend to her told her that this would hinder the delivery process, and finally, in obvious impatience, had given her a tranquilizer.

When she finished, her eyes were wet.

“He’d be a year older than me,” I said. “I was born in 1980.”

“Yes,” Suzannah said. “He would be. Sometimes I wonder what he’d look like today if I’d let him live.” Then she swallowed hard. “I can’t talk about this anymore, Brandon,” she said.

“It’s okay, I understand,” I assured her, cradling her in my arms and pulling her toward me.

I wanted to make a baby with Suzannah. So what that she was so much older than me? I never thought it would happen, but in a matter of a day, I went from commitment-phobic slacker to lovesick Romeo. I would have married her right then and there, no questions asked. I wanted to be the father of this child, and her next child, and the next after that, if that is what she wanted.

But of course that was stupid, wasn’t it? Why would she want me? I was just a kid with a low-paying job and no real ambition. I had no savings and I was immature. My friends still got high and went to raves and rock concerts, for Christ’s sake. We all had furniture cobbled together from orange crates and Goodwill. We had posters of Weezer and Nirvana and Buffy the Vampire Slayer on our grimy walls. Suzannah needed someone strong, her age or older, someone to take care of her and her young children, to take her out of her poverty. She needed someone mature and financially stable.

She didn’t need me.

So I decided to bolt before I got in this too deep.

“I have to go,” I said, disengaging myself from her arms.

Suzannah looked perplexed.

“So soon? My mother agreed to let the kids stay upstairs for the night, and I still don’t expect the boys home for awhile.”

“I know, it’s just...well, I just have things to do, that’s all.”

God, I was so lame. She probably thought I was brushing her off. I guess in a way, I was.

She looked disappointed but I could tell she was trying hard not to show it.

“Well, alright, Brandon, if you must...”

I put my clothes on and went to the bathroom to pee.

When I came back out, Suzannah had pulled an oversize T-that skimmed her thighs and sat forlornly on her bed, her legs pulled up under her. She hadn’t bothered to put her panties back on. They still lay on the floor in a sad little heap. “I’m sorry,” I said, then hugged her tightly as I felt my throat closing up again.

Then I turned away and left the room, being careful not to look back so she wouldn’t see my tears.

And so I wouldn’t be tempted to change my mind.

I ran down the stairs and then jogged to the subway, trying to relieve some of my tension.

That night I couldn’t eat and cried myself to sleep.

For the next few days I couldn’t stop thinking about Suzannah. When I returned to work on Monday I hoped I might see her in the elevator again, but she had told me her prenatal visits were only once a week and never at the same time, so it was very likely I would never see her again.

She invaded my thoughts and in my dreams we made endless, passionate love. I couldn’t concentrate on my work or on much of anything at all, not even TV. My balls ached so badly I could hardly sit down.

I stocked up on Icehouse beer and spent my evenings getting quietly drunk to ease my loneliness.

***

After about a week I had enough. I had to see Suzannah at least one more time. I still had the piece of paper she had given me with her address on it but unfortunately she had never given me her phone number. Hopefully her name was listed.

There were no Petronellis listed in Jackson Heights. So I was out of luck. I would have to go to her house.

Without hesitating, I pulled on my jeans and a black T-shirt and practically ran to the subway. Suzannah didn’t work, so she would likely be home. Even if she weren’t, I could at least tell her mother to have her call me. I thought I would die if I couldn’t see her again.

My heart thumped in my chest and my mouth felt dry as sand as I rode the subway to Jackson Heights. I ran to her house, about three blocks away from the station. It was starting to rain, and my hair was plastered to my head with rain and sweat. As I approached her door, I shook it out and attempted to smooth it down. I knew I looked like shit. Well, there was nothing I could do about that. It was now or never.

I pressed the buzzer and noticed my hand was shaking visibly. I clasped my hands behind my back. For a moment, I was tempted to turn around and go home, but before I could do that, the heavy wooden door was opened an a heavy sixty-ish woman in a flowered dress appeared behind the screen door.

The woman’s eyes were red and she looked like she hadn’t slept in years.

“May I help you?” she asked. She had a thick Queens accent.

“Um, are you Mrs. Petronelli? Suzannah’s mother?”

The woman’s face crumpled and she covered her face in her hands.

Something had happened. What the hell had happened? My heart hammered in my chest.

“I...uh...I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sure whether I should try to find out what happened or run away forever. “Is...is Suzannah okay?”

The woman wiped her face and tried to compose herself.

“You must be a friend of hers?”

“Well, yes, we just met, but yes, I am a friend.” I cleared my throat. “My name is Brandon Asplundh.”

“Brandon, yes...yes, she did mention you, I believe. Said you had been very kind to her. She said you were special.”

She thought I was special?

Mrs. Petronelli smiled weakly and finally opened the screen door. “Come on in then,” she said, sounding defeated.

She led me upstairs to a small dark sitting room with lace curtains and a tatty brown sofa with doilies on the armrests. The room was filled with baskets and vases of flowers and it didn’t occur to me immediately what they might be for.

“Have a seat,” she said, “and I’ll get us some coffee. Cream or sugar?”

“Black is fine, thank you, ma’am.”

She left the room and my mind reeled. I sat on my hands to hide their trembling. The anxiety I felt was making me nauseous, and I was afraid I might puke.

She came back in with the coffee and some anisette cookies and sat in a recliner across from me, also with doilies on the armrests.

“Suzannah died,” she said.

My heart stopped. I stared at her for a long time. I wasn’t sure I had heard her right.

“What?” I finally said, stupidly. “How?”

“Miscarriage. Bad one, I’m afraid.”

I kept staring at her stupidly.

She continued. “She started having bad pains and was screaming, in horrible pain. One of the girls came up here and told me to come down right away, that something was wrong with her mama. She had already called the ambulance. She’s a great kid, Lucia, very mature for her age. She’s only 8, you know.” She sipped from her teacup of coffee. “So anyway, I came downstairs to see what was going on and there was my Suzannah, lying on her bed, doubled over in pain, and...and...”

She put her teacup down and covered her face in her hands again, sobbing. I went over to her and put my hand on her shoulder. I had to be strong now, I couldn’t break down too. I had to be a man. This woman needed me now.

“Take your time,” I said.

She rubbed at her eyes and took a deep breath.

“She...she was bleeding from...from down there. There was a pool of it on the bed. I’ve never seen so much blood. Then the ambulance came and took her away. All the kids were crying, they were so scared...”

She paused to wipe her eyes. I rubbed her shoulder, not knowing what else to do.

“She didn’t make it. She was dead before she got to the hospital.”

“Mrs. Petronelli–“

“Call me Gina, please.”

“Gina, I am so very sorry,” I said thickly.

“My Suzannah, she was my youngest, my favorite. The placenta detached and she bled to death.”

I felt like I’d been hit in the gut with a blunt weapon, the way she said that, and then the dam broke and I cried too.

Was it my fault? I dared not ask. Suzannah had assured me that making love to her would not harm the child.

As if reading my thoughts, Gina took a deep breath. “I know you and she, well, she always told me everything and she said you and she...you know. Please don’t blame yourself. Her doctor warned her there was a problem with the pregnancy and that this could happen.” She sighed.

“It’s God’s will.”

Many cups of coffee and many tears later, I asked what would happen to Suzannah’s children.

“I would take them myself, but I’m just too old and have health problems. So Suzannah’s sister Juliana has taken them in. She’s a good mother, has two babies of her own, God bless her.”

“Yes, that is a very good thing,” I said.

“She told me before she died she was going to name her baby Brandon,” Gina said quietly.

“Yes, she told me,” I said.

“But the baby wasn’t yours...?” This came out more as a question than as a statement.

“No, it wasn’t.”

I had to get out of there, this was all too much.

“Gina,” I said as I rose, “I’m sorry but I must go. Please take care of yourself.”

Gina smiled and led me to the door.

“Thank you so much for coming by. It’s been a comfort to me.”

“You’re welcome,” I said woodenly.

I felt like I had died. Maybe, in a sense, I had.

***

That night I dreamt I saw Suzannah. She was wearing a long white dress and was smiling radiantly as we walked hand in hand through open fields of wildflowers. We made love in tall prairie grass under a massive tree with branches that reached out like arms to the heavens. The late afternoon sun wafted through the thick foliage and turned the world golden. Suzannah held me in her arms and stroked my hair after we finished making love, as she sang me a lullaby. I closed my eyes and slept.

...and awoke in my lonely dark room, remembering how alive I’d felt the short time we’d been together.

***

Yesterday I was walking through the Village with my fiancé, Heather. Heather has a lot of common sense, she’s beautiful, funny, outspoken, and she loves me. She’s ambitious but not too ambitious. She wants kids someday. She’s a caring person. I love Heather, and am looking forward to being her husband, but I still often think about Suzannah. I have never mentioned this to Heather, as there is no reason for her to know.

It was one of those crisp, brisk fall days and we were passing through a neighborhood playground where a few mothers were sitting on benches as their young children played.

And there she was, her long brown hair blowing in the wind, the bright October sun bringing out its red highlights. She was laughing at something, and I followed her gaze to one of the toddlers playing in the sandbox. It was a little boy with light brown hair, and she started toward him. “Brandon, come on, we’re going to be late!” Heather admonished me from somewhere on the edge of my consciousness. But I could not move.

Suddenly the little boy looked up at me and a wide grin spread across his fat cheeks. He got up and started to toddle toward me.

“Brandon!” Suzannah scolded, then she saw me too. A radiant smile broke across her face and she stood there staring at me. Brandon stumbled and fell, then got himself back up.

“Dada! Dada!” the little boy cried.

“What’s with you, Brandon? Let’s go!”

I waved at Brandon and then turned away, realizing Heather hadn’t seen anything.

“What on earth is wrong with you? It was like you saw a ghost or something.”

I looked back once more at the playground, and Suzannah and Brandon were gone. The only people I could see were a couple of elderly nannies and two little girls playing in the sandbox.

“It was nothing, Heather. Let’s go.”

But perhaps she was right about the ghosts.

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