I was riding the elevator in
the Professional Arts building to the thirteenth floor to visit my dentist when
it jolted to a stop, and then the lights blinked out.
I'm sure the young woman
riding with me was as surprised as I was. We had no warning. Just a
breath-stealing jolt.
Then darkness.
Then darkness.
The woman said,
"Oh-oh!" not very loudly but with a definite note of panic in her
voice. She probably hadn't figured on being stuck in an elevator this morning
with a man she didn’t know.
"Are you all
right?" I asked. No answer. Only the raspy
sound of her breathing.
When she'd boarded the
elevator just before the doors glided closed, I'd caught a clear impression of
a tall, slender woman, about my age—thirty—with a tumble of blonde hair. I
remembered a white blouse. A floral-print skirt. And I remember thinking Wow! And my heart going Thump!
I wondered if the elevator
jolt had sent her sprawling to the floor.
"Are you all right?" I asked. "I'm an off-duty policeman. Don't panic. We'll
be okay."
I eased toward her in the
darkness. Her hand found mine and squeezed hard. "Are you claustrophobic?"
I asked.
I sensed her head nodding
frantically as her breathing became heavy, almost a pant, and then she
whispered, "Yes."
I gripped her hand with both
of mine. "Look, everything's going to be fine. We've experienced a
momentary power outage. The power will kick in, the lights will come back on,
and then up we'll go."
"Oh my, oh my...I hope
so. This is Friday the thirteenth—such a
gloomy, cloudy day outside. And I'm going up to the thirteenth
floor..."
"You're
superstitious?"
"A little."
Like frightened people often
do, she suddenly couldn't stop talking. She told me she'd grown up on a family
farm. When a tornado ripped through the area on a Friday the thirteenth, her
mom, dad, older brother and sister, and she scurried to the basement.
They survived, but their house and outbuildings were blown away.
They survived, but their house and outbuildings were blown away.
Before I had a chance to
point out how lucky she is to be alive, she went on to tell me she was here to
visit her lawyer. She'd been divorced two years and she was here to sign papers
that her ex had finally signed. On this day three years ago, she'd discovered he was having an affair.
The elevator
lights blinked on. I felt a gentle bump, a surge of power, and then we rode the
elevator to the thirteenth floor. When the doors swished open and we
stepped into the hallway, she sighed heavily.
"I'm sorry," she
said. "I'm so embarrassed..." Pink crept into her cheeks. "Claustrophobic. Superstitious. Rattling
on about myself...so stupid."
"Forget it," I
said. "I've been a cop eight years. I've heard lots of frightened people
tell me their stories."
She thanked me for listening
and for being so kind.
An hour later when I left my
dentist's office, I spotted her approaching a door in the hallway that said
STAIRS.
I shuffled up beside her and
said, "You really should take the elevator. Otherwise you'll be climbing
steps in tall buildings like this forever."
She offered me a sheepish,
blue-eyed smile. "You're right. Absolutely right. Like if you fall off a
horse, get right back on him. Or a bicycle."
"Exactly. I'll ride
down with you."
"Thank you," she
said.
Her smile and blue eyes
started my heart thumping again.
By the time we reached the
elevator we exchanged names: Sara Spencer, Bret Carter. She sold real estate.
Inside the elevator, she took a deep breath and silently watched the lighted
numbers over the elevator door click off our descent. When we glided to a stop
at the lobby level, I swallowed a big lump in my throat. "Look, I'm not
married, never have been, and I was wondering if—"
But she cut me off.
"I've got to ride this thing by myself. All the way up. All the way down.
Will you wait? Please."
"Sure."
I stepped out of the
elevator, the doors closed, and now I watched the lighted numbers track her
assent and descent. No doubt about it: I felt smitten.
When she got off the
elevator, her face beaming in a triumphant smile, she said, "It's nearly lunchtime. My treat."
I blinked. "That's not
fair—I was going to ask you to dinner tonight."
"Oh, my!" she
said. "I accept. But only if you have lunch with me."
"A deal." We shook
hands.
"I can't believe
it," she said. "Maybe this is a lucky day."
Now it was my turn to smile:
"I know it's my lucky day," I said, as we headed out the building's
front door into a day suddenly filled with bright sunshine.
The End
Enjoy reality! Contemporary YA fiction with an impact. Don't wait! Visit: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=jon+ripslinger
Enjoy reality! Contemporary YA fiction with an impact. Don't wait! Visit: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=jon+ripslinger