by Taylor Dean
I sigh and glance out the window. The architecturally amazing building that houses Brooks Enterprises—and many other businesses—looms over us, the restaurant literally resting in its shadow. I can hardly take my eyes off of the unbelievable structure. It reminds me of two fingers, criss-crossed, like I used to do when I wasn’t completely telling the truth as a child. The two towers wind around each other as they reach for the sky like growing vines yearning for the sun. It would appear Paul Brooks is a genius. Nearly the entire building is made of tinted glass, which mirrors the surrounding landscape beautifully. It creates a stunning visual effect.
“How was your class today?” Hunter asks and I turn my attention to my friends. September is upon us and school is now in full swing. Mother Nature insists it’s still summer and the hot and humid temperatures haven’t given way. I’ve always liked hot weather and don’t mind the Indian summer common to China’s fall forecast.
Dakota slumps in her seat. “I don’t think my kids are catching on. I was using a set of flash cards with pictures on them and the children were doing great. They would yell, ‘Apple!’ or ‘Ball!’ or ‘Cat!’ and my heart beamed with pride. Then I used a set of cards with no pictures, just the words, and they had no clue. They know their ABCs by heart, so I told them to sound it out. They all yelled ‘A-P-P-L-E!’ and I said, ‘Good, now what does that spell?’ They thought I was telling them what the word was, so in return I heard a confused jumble of ‘does that spell . . .’ It’s so frustrating.”
I wipe my mouth with my napkin. “You’re doing great. Just keep it up. They’ll get it eventually.”
I teach in the afternoon and Dakota teaches in the mornings, which means I have our apartment to myself each morning. It gives me a chance to re-group and I enjoy the daily alone time.
The first two weeks of classes had gone well and I’m in love with all of my children. They’re so precious. Only one of my students didn’t have an English name yet. Lucky for me, she was a sweet little girl, and I proudly named her Emma, after my mother. “I told my kids if they could recognize and recite all of the colors in English, they would each get a popsicle. I was so proud of them, they all did it. So I arranged for the cafeteria to deliver the popsicles. They were the strangest popsicles I’ve ever seen. Seriously, instead of melting, they became soft and rubbery. When the kids moved, the popsicles wiggled on the sticks as if they were alive and trying to get away. I have no idea what they were made of.”
Dakota mumbles, “Gross,” and Hunter says, “I must try one.” Figures.
I don’t really want to talk about teaching today. I have a different agenda. I tap my fingers on the table and glance out the window once again. I’ve always been a fast eater, therefore I finish my meal long before Hunter and Dakota. “I’d really like to go check out that building,” I say casually. “It’s amazing and I’m dying to take a peek inside.”
“Oh, uh . . .” Hunter had just received his second order of noodles.
“I’ll just pop in and out while you finish eating, Hunter. I won’t be long.”
He digs in, seeming relieved. I assume he really isn’t interested in touring an office building anyway, no matter how fascinating it might appear.
Dakota holds her stomach, looking a little green. “I’ll go with you in a little bit. First I need to digest for a while. One of those spices got to me.”
“No, it’s okay, you rest. It’s no big deal. I’ll just take a look and be right back. You guys take your time.”
I take off while I have the chance, feeling slightly guilty, as if I have deceived Hunter and Dakota. In all truth, I actually prefer going alone on this little adventure. How can I explain my overwhelming interest in an office building to my new friends? They’ll dub me crazy and I have to admit, now that the moment is upon me I feel a great deal of trepidation. What exactly do I hope to accomplish? I decide this little foray is simply a quick look-see into the world of Paul Brooks.
That’s all. A harmless peek.
It’ll take some time to know if he is the Paul I’ve been looking for since the ripe old age of eleven.
It’s nice to know Hunter and Dakota are at the restaurant waiting for me while I explore. It makes me feel as though I’m not all alone in big huge China. I won’t leave them waiting for long.
I stand on the sidewalk for a moment, staring at the nearly all glass facade structure. It looks like something right out of a futuristic movie. It doesn’t belong. It’s as out of place as I am, as if it has been plucked from another planet and transplanted here with the hope that it will grow. And it certainly has. Flourished even.
The building is modern and sleek, just as I imagine its designer. Is Paul Brooks inside? The odds of running into him are slim to none. But that isn’t what today’s venture is about. Today is all about learning more about Paul Brooks and figuring out a way to meet him. It’ll take careful thought and strategic planning.
Yikes, I sound like a stalker.
Regardless, I’m not changing my plans. I read that Paul lives in the top story penthouse of this very building and my heart races at the close proximity. Maybe, at this very minute, he’s staring outside his window wondering about the American woman standing on the sidewalk staring at his brainchild. Except from his penthouse view I probably look like nothing more than an ant.
I slip through the sliding doors that silently whoosh as I enter. The air in the lobby feels cool and inviting on my skin. My eyes adjust to the dim mood lighting as I notice plush couches lining a sunken waiting area. Muted classical music plays over hidden speakers. My sandals click on the marble floors and I’m glad I chose to wear a perfect fitting sundress. I don’t match the professional wear of the ladies I pass, but I don’t look horribly out of place either, and no one casts me a suspicious look.
Every detail of the elegant lobby screams classy. Perhaps it’s a glimpse into the mind of Paul Brooks.
Two plaques—one in English and one in Chinese—boast interesting facts about the building. Although it gives the illusion of being two towers, inside it’s actually one cohesive unit. Brilliant.
After I walk the circumference of the lobby, I pause and study the English sign listing the various companies taking up office space in the building. Paul Brooks still owns the building and has done well for himself. I decide to ride the elevator all the way to the top just for the heck of it. Then I’ll get back to Hunter and Dakota.
I step onto the elevator and ponder my actions. Is my far and wide search for Paul nearly over? Will this Paul be the Paul? I’ve traveled halfway around the world to meet a man I know nothing about, just because his name is Paul. The full impact of my actions hits me like a ton of bricks. Are my sisters right? Is this ridiculous? A fool’s errand? Feelings of uncertainty overwhelm me.
The elevator noiselessly takes me to the top floor and opens for a brief second to a silent hallway. Surely Paul Brooks has a private elevator to his penthouse. This hallway couldn’t possibly lead to his top floor home. If so, the security leaves a lot to be desired. Regardless, I won’t risk exploring any further. To do so would be crossing the lines of etiquette. Wandering around an office building uninvited already feels a little shady. The elevator doors close quickly as if disappointed at the prospect of no new passengers.
I know exactly how you feel.
Am I chasing a dream? Just like the fireflies my sisters and I tried to catch on the warm summer evenings of our youth, the dream seems beyond my grasp. The fireflies always eluded us, flying within inches of our eager fingertips, their incandescent lights teasing us with the promise of magic.
Just like the elusive fireflies, will my dream of the mysterious Paul always be just short of fulfillment? Am I clutching at the tenuous threads of enchantment?
Is my desire to find Paul just a silly fantasy?
Maybe it’s high time I accept the foolishness of my dreams. Maybe it’s time I live in reality and stop dabbling in the realms of the supernatural.
Then I remember
the Red Bird and my confidence bolsters. My vivid memories of Miss Pearl remind me that she hadn’t felt like a lady who would lead me astray.
It’s real. It’s all real. Please let it be real.
The elevator stops again on the sixth floor and in my peripheral vision, I see a man enter. He steps in, but doesn’t turn around to face the door. Instead he remains facing me. Feeling awkward, I don’t meet his eyes, keeping mine downward. Hopefully the man won’t spark up conversation and question my presence in the building. What exactly will I say?
I’m here to find a man named Paul. And I’m not giving up until I find him.
He’ll label me crazy and I won’t blame him. The elevator begins to descend, gliding with ease. The first clue I have that something is very wrong is when the elevator music comes to a horrific end, sounding as though the soundtrack has just melted. I cringe as the sound echoes around the small space.
Suddenly, the elevator lurches and groans and shudders—and comes to a grinding halt. The lights blink a few times, then go out. Dim emergency lighting takes over.
I would’ve fallen over, but my elevator companion grabs my shoulders and rights me.
When I look up, I stare into the eyes of none other than Paul Brooks. I recognize him immediately.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
His deep, rich, and authoritative voice hits my ears, sounding just as I’d imagined.
“I-I think so. What happened? Are we stuck?” My hands hold tightly to his arms, feeling the heat of his flesh through his suit coat.
As far as physically touching someone for the first time, the experience does not disappoint. The transference of his warmth travels up my arms and wanders straight into my heart. He’s real. This isn’t my imagination. Fate has once again intervened in my life. In the nick of time too. I’d been feeling a little skeptical in spite of the Red Bird reminder. The coincidence of my situation can’t be argued. This doesn’t happen in real life. I feel ashamed for doubting the events that had led me to this moment.
Are you the Paul I’ve been looking for?
His hands loosen their hold on my shoulders, but he doesn’t release me. Nor do I release him.
He sighs. “We’ve been having trouble with the elevators lately. I’m sure it’s just a glitch.”
“A glitch?” A glitch that leaves me trapped in this small little box with the world’s most handsome man.
It isn’t a glitch. It’s destiny.
“They’ll fix it soon. All of the elevators are monitored.”
“M-monitored?” I repeat, my heart racing and my hands shaking. Oh my gosh, he smells good, like the men’s cologne counter at Dillard’s. I’ve never met a man who actually smells like that.
“Yes. An emergency alarm will sound, letting them know one of the elevators has stopped mid-floor.”
All conscious thought leaves me as I stare into his deep brown eyes. They’re like molten chocolate. His breath smells of mint too. A man doesn’t get any more perfect than him.
“Are you all right, ma’am?”
“Uhhhhhh,” I stammer. Words elude me and I curse my lack of finesse when it comes to speech. Overwhelmed, I can’t think of one single smart thing to say. Even a simple I’m fine seems beyond my capabilities. He pulls me close to his chest and hugs me tightly.
“It’s all right. Don’t be scared. I’m here with you.”
I stand in the circle of his embrace, close my eyes, and bask in his comfort. I feel like I’ve arrived home and found the place where I belong. His immediate kindness touches me like nothing else can. This man is the right Paul. The one I’m meant to spend my life with, the one the mystery lady from my youth told me about.
I feel sure of it.
His even heartbeat thumps in my ears and I imagine falling asleep to the calming sound every night of my life. He’s much taller than I thought and my head rests perfectly on his firm chest.
Mmmmm, this is nice. I could stay here forever.
Maybe this whole crazy search for Paul will be a funny story I tell at dinner parties after Paul and I are married. Everyone will laugh with delight at my scheming. Then Paul will take my hand under the table and gently give it a squeeze, thankful I’d gone to such great lengths to find him.
Whoa. I rein in my overactive imagination. I shouldn’t get ahead of myself.
“Don’t worry. They’ll get it fixed as quickly as possible and we’ll both be on our way,” he soothes.
Reality slowly seeps in.
I’m stuck in an elevator. Trapped. Ensnared. In a box with no windows. No air. Like a coffin.
My eyes fly open as my breathing turns short and shallow. Is there enough air in here? What happened to the air conditioning? Its low hum can no longer be heard. All at once, it feels as though ice streams through my veins. My entire body is frozen with paralyzing fear. Now that I’ve found the right Paul, we’re going to die together before we’ve ever had a chance to live. As the temperature gradually rises, we’re going to be cooked alive like a roast in a slow cooker. Without air, we’re going to asphyxiate in this dark little box as we claw the walls with our fingernails, begging for one more gulp to appease our starving lungs. Without water we’re going to dehydrate and wither away as our parched bodies give out on us. My eyebrows furrow as I think about the two cans of Sprite I’d downed during lunch. Heaven forbid, what if I need to pee?
This isn’t good. I momentarily envision the repairman opening the elevator doors to find us standing in a puddle of pee.
Paul Brooks will never want to see me again in this lifetime. And I wouldn’t blame him.
I didn’t know small spaces terrify me, but now that I find myself in one, I feel an overwhelming desire to start screaming and never stop.
Am I scared of small spaces? Yes! Yes, I am.
Panic at being stuck in the elevator quickly overrides my excitement at meeting Paul Brooks. This isn’t exactly how I planned on meeting him.
No, this is completely wrong.
“I can’t breathe,” I whisper. My fear begins to supersede all rational thought.
“Excuse me?”
“I . . . can’t . . . breathe,” I say and as if to prove the point, a deep wheeze vibrates around the room.
“Look at me,” he says, breaking our embrace, and placing his hands on either side of my face.
Oh my, his skin is soft.
“Breathe in, breathe out,” he coaches. “That’s it, look in my eyes and breathe deeply and slowly. You’re doing great. There’s plenty of air in here, no need to panic.”
I shake my head in the negative, my breathing becoming even more labored. His words, meant to placate, have the opposite effect. Instead he just confirmed my fears out loud. Saying it made it real. We’re about to suffocate. A most unladylike wheeze slips past my dry lips.
“Perhaps you’d better sit. You’re awfully pale.”
Pale? I’m about to die and he’s worried about my color? I collapse against the wall of the elevator and sink down until I hit the floor and my knees hit my chest.
“Lean down a little and put your head between your knees, that’s it. Now relax and let your body do the work. It knows what to do.”
“Mister Brooks, is that you?” a nameless voice says from the elevator speakers, his Chinese accent strong.
“Yes it is. Would you mind telling me what is going on?”
“Elevator is broken.”
“Really?” he says sarcastically.
His derision is completely lost on the Voice. “Yes, Mister Brooks. So sorry. Repairman is on his way. Be here soon. Is everyone okay?”
“The lady is not feeling well. Please call a doctor immediately.”
I object. “There’s no need. I’m fine.” Another wheeze makes me a liar. I can hardly catch my breath.
“Who is lady?” the disembodied voice asks.
When I look up, Paul is pointing at a small glossy black ball embedded in the ceiling. “Wave, you’re on candid camera,” he jokes.
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I wave a taut and tingly hand, looking like an alien. My fingers refuse to separate, my thumb seems to be stuck to my palm, and my hands insist on staying perpendicular to my arms. If I don’t die from lack of air, I’ll soon die from sheer embarrassment.
All humor gone, Paul kneels down next to me and begins to massage my hands. “You’re hyperventilating, Miss . . .?”
“Savannah. Savannah Tate.”
Loudly, so the speaker will catch his voice, he says, “Savannah Tate is my lovely elevator companion today.”
“American?” the Voice asks.
“Yes,” I whisper, my hands relaxing under Paul’s ministrations.
“Yes, American. Does it really matter?” Paul barks with exasperation.
“No, sir. So sorry.”
“Which office do you work in?” he questions.
“Don’t work here,” I breathe.
“Visiting someone?”
“Yes.” Wait. What if he asks who? “No,” I correct. Oh my gosh, just kill me now.
“Just get someone here and hurry up about it,” he hollers to the Voice. “Heads are gonna roll,” he mumbles under his breath. “After all we put into this building, the elevators stink. I wanted high end and they gave me crap.” Then his voice softens as he speaks to me, “Are you claustrophobic, Miss Tate?”
A resounding yes seems in order. “Only when I’m in tight places.”
He laughs out loud. “I do believe that is the definition of claustrophobia, Miss Savannah Tate. Or is it Mrs.?”
“Miss.” This is not how I envisioned my first meeting with Paul Brooks. This is downright humiliating. While he massages my alien hands, my head is stuck between my knees. A most unflattering position. Not exactly romantic. No eyes meeting across a crowded room. No chance encounter on a bustling street in China. No accidently grabbing the same box of cereal in the supermarket.
“Do they have cereal here?”
