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Invisible Boundary
"I learned this, at least, by my experiment: that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours. He will put some things behind, will pass an invisible boundary . . . If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them."
- Henry David Thoreau
Rosalie – May – 1932
The elevator stops moving . . . all is still. The light above me is out, and I can't even see my hand in front of my face. The absolute terror creeps in like waves crashing over a barrier reef. I feel them hard and steady as they crash impetuously and violently over my frame. My bag and jacket falls to the ground and the banging noise causes me to scream again. I can feel my legs give out as I fall aimlessly to the carpeted ground.
I wait in agony for something to happen, but nothing is occurring. It's as if the building has shut down and I'm utterly alone. It can't be possible, I tell myself frantically, fisting my hands in my day skirt. My silk shirt is probably wrinkled, but I cannot care, I am about to lose my mind.
More time elapses, and I have no idea how much. With my fears comes my absence of rationality. It's as if I'm a little child again, clawing the walls of the thick, insulated pantry, trying helplessly to get out.
"Hello?" I scream, knowing that it only comes out as a squeak due to my fright. No one answers and the silence still reins.
Tears start to prickle my eyes; it was only a matter of time. My hat slides off my head as it slams against the back wall of the elevator. Perhaps if I hit my head hard enough, I can knock myself out until someone finds me.
Knowing that isn't a plausible action, I allow the fear to completely over take me. I don't try to hold anything back and I don't try to be brave. I want the panic to overtake me wholly. I remember information, from one of my courses, explaining the reason why a body faints: the mind becomes overwhelmed and to deal with the stress the mind blanks out and allows the body to rest. It's exactly what I need right now.
I know it's ridiculous for a woman, on the verge of trying to find a life partner, being scared of something as useless as the dark and enclosed spaces. But I don't care about being ridiculous because I actually feel no prudence. Irrationality courses through my veins and mind. I try to apply my mask because fainting isn't happening, but even that doesn't work.
I am uselessly and utterly reduced to a sniveling ball on the ground. I can only imagine how affright I look and what a hag I must resemble.
"Nothing's working," I cry weakly. I crawl over to the scissor gate and start to pound on it. "Please," I beg piteously. "Hear me!"
Again nothing happens and I feel myself start to lose any shred of hope. I now have absolutely no idea of the time. My hand bangs feebly before my strength gives out. I pull my knees to my chest and hide my face.
I start to hum Johannes Brahms's lullaby. In my mind, I picture a little golden-haired child, sleeping peacefully as I rock her to sleep. Her little eye-lids flutter like butterflies wings as she dreams of impossible things. I look at the little angel and become astonished. I can't understand how something so pure, beautiful and angelic can come from me . . . She's even more gorgeous than I could ever imagine. And even if she isn't pleasing to other people's aesthetics, I know it wouldn't matter one jot. She is the most precious thing in my world. I love her eternally and like no other.
Scraping noises start to sound in my ear. I can't understand why I would hear scarping while rocking my child to sleep. It continues as I try to rock steadily and not wake my darling.
The scraping becomes screeching and I have to cover my ears. It's too loud and pulls me away from my picturesque dream. I want to scream for him or her to stop with the noises. And before I can open my mouth to make the demand a hand closes over my wrist, pulling my hand from my ears.
I slowly feel a little of the dream receding along with my fear. I open my eyes and see a head directly in front of me. Their head is back-lit from the light flooding into the elevator. My knees fall down; I become lost in the imperial-jeweled eyes in front of me. It's all I can see.
"Esme," I mumble emotively. I can only imagine how vulnerable she must think me.
"No, love," I hear spoken gently and in a masculine voice. I am once again floored. I feel like the only thing waiting is for the floor to open up and finally swallow me whole.
"Sorry," I mumble for so many things I'm not even sure of.
"Are you able to stand; or are you hurt more than I'm able ascertain?" I want to answer his question, but his speech and tone are glorious to listen to. I want to sink into his voice and be wrapped in it endlessly.
"Love . . . can you hear me?"
I breathe out sadly, knowing I can't stay in his voice forever. I blink to readjust my eyes to the intruding light. I hope not to get a headache later.
"Y-Yes." I hate that I sound so weak and puerile to such a refined and caring voice. "Sorry," I apologize again. I can't stop making a fool of myself, not that appearance is any different. "Something happened to the elevator and I became stuck," I explain stupidly. He probably already figured it out. "I think I'm able to stand," I answer his original question.
His grasp slides from my wrist to my hand. It seems to all but swallow my own hand. I never felt so tenuous before. I feel more delicate than ever. His left hand forms around my elbow and after he counts to three, I start to lift myself up with his help.
My legs seem a little unreliable as I accidently tumble into his chest. I'm quick to make apologies as I think how muscular he is.
Goodness me, I need to get my head together. This is most improper, Rose. I lift my head from his rumbling chest and look up at him in surprise.
Is he laughing . . .
His face, however, is serious, softened in what looks like concern. I could be confused. I think he was laughing earlier when, indeed, he wasn't.
"I have you," he murmurs, and I'm lost to him. I am shamelessly floating in his soft voice and don't feel like ever retreating back to the shores. Beyond glorious.
These actions are bizarre to me, and I can't understand what's happening. One minute I'm a frighten kitten locked in a dark box, and the next, I'm hanging onto a boy I hardly know and not wanting to be taken from his shelter.
I must have lost more of rationale then I previously thought.
"Thank y-you," I stammer horrendously. "Could we please leave the elevator? I'm f-frightened of small, enclosed spaces." I should be ashamed to tell this person something so personal about myself, but I feel as if he won't make fun of me or exploit it. It's as if he can hold my confidences; not that there are many.
"Of course, ma'am. Allow me to assist you." I want to ask him not to call me "ma'am". It makes me sound old and decrepit. I want him to go back to calling me "love". I wonder if he knows how special it makes a girl feel, especially spoken as he speaks. He makes a girl feel like the very center of his world.
I watch as he respectfully straightens out my wrinkled skirt. My shirt is beyond hopeless wrinkled, but still fully intact. After he exams me, to make sure I'm presentable, he bends down and retrieves my bag and fallen hat. He switches my things to one hand before fastening his hand around my waist.
I let out a stupid little gasp. I blush a little. It's not something I do often and feel ridiculous.
This situation usually comes with dancing and nothing else. I'm not sure how to act or even respond. I do know, however, that I like the way his sure hand feels around my shaken body. I feel as if nothing can hurt me again.
Impossible, I know, but there, nonetheless.
He starts to lead, and I follow like a scared little lamb. Is it wrong for me to be so docile and fragile-like?
"Almost there," he reassures me. It feels as if his mouth speaking directly into my ear, but he isn't. We walk a little ways away from the death contraption and further into the stacks.
"I don't care how much I sweat next time," I say shakily, trying to be unaffected and failing miserably. I hobble along. "I'll take the stairs. What's a little perspiration compared to that mechanical nightmare?" We stop and my stranger laughs deeply. I want to be affronted, but realize I like that I can make someone laugh out of goodwill and honesty, not practiced, artificial lines in front of my mirror.
"Sounds like a sensible plan." I give him an actual shy smile before looking down. I'm not sure how to act or what to even say. I feel as if all my training and previous ambitions have fled from my mind, deserting me.
"I may be able to stand on my own, now," I speak softly for some peculiar reason. There is no one around us and the sun looks to be fading over the horizon. I can't see his face, but I know he will have a sheepish look on his beautiful visage. His shuffling feet tell me as much.
He gently removes his hand from around my waist and starts to move back. I become a little unsteady, and he is right back where he started, as if he hadn't ever let me tumble. I want to bury my head in his chest and cry for some unknown reason. I don't know what is wrong with my mind or why my mask has abandoned me so effortlessly.
I sigh breathlessly and gather my courage. My head starts to rise and look at him before I hear someone approaching.
"Miss. Rose," I hear called behind my Good Samaritan. I advert my face from looking to him and glance around his frame because he is too tall for me to see over his shoulder.
Clarence, my heart sighs. He seems nearly as frantic as I feel. He rushes by us and pulls me into his embrace. This is past the realm of decorum, but I don't care at the moment. I can hear my mother's voice chiding me for making such a spectacle, but I ignore it. My tears start to sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I have to retain some flailing dignity.
"Clar," I mumble into his beefy chest. "I'm fine . . ." I leave hanging.
"Did . . . Did this person do anything to you?" he asks, and I can all but see the steam metaphorically pouring from his ears and nostrils.
"No!" I come to my rescuer's defense immediately. I can only imagine the damage Clarence can do to someone. "He assisted me, Clar." I look away from my friend to the other person.
He is blindingly handsome, and I can hardly stand to look at him. His little, thankful smile turns into a slight frown, and I wonder if he can read the expressions on my face so openly. I start to feel terrible for thinking such a thought. It's just that I feel like an ugly duckling in his presence.
"I was stuck in the elevator and he, somehow, was able to open it. He didn't leave me alone," I explain softly, overcome by this stranger's kindness and sweet actions. He could have easily left and told maintenance about someone being stuck, but he did. He, at risk in getting hurt himself, opened the elevator door and saved me. I smile stupidly at him. Instead of sneering at my childish answer, he returns my smile with a soft, wobbly one.
Clarence clears his throat and pulls me from my stranger's gaze. I can't help but be a little peeved at Clar; I want to stay lost in the goodness and purity of this stranger.
"Mr. Clar, is it?" the soothing voice asks, and I giggle inappropriately. I haven't heard anyone else refer to him as "Clar" and it simply strikes me as funny.
"Golly, Miss. Rose," my bodyguard truly whines. It makes me laugh even more. He's careful not to curse in front of a lady. I appreciate that about him: he thinks I'm important enough to want to watch his language. "You got people thinking my name is Clar."
"But it suits you so well," I playfully banter back. I appreciate the distraction from thinking about being stuck in a dark, congested, tin elevator. I shiver.
He doesn't say anything in return but smiles indulgently at me.
"The names Clarence Ryder," he clarifies. "This little trouble-maker here just calls me Clar. I tried breaking the girl of the habit, but couldn't. I just assume let the little miss thinks she won. I save my time and attention for bigger battles." I stick my nose up in the air while folding my arms over my chest.
"Poppycock," I say regally. Both of the men laugh at my snobby attitude. I can only imagine how mussed I look with wrinkled clothes and disheveled hair.
"Well, Mr. Ryder, I happened upon the lady while waiting for the elevator myself. When it didn't appear after a while I thought something wrong. I tried listening, to see if there was anything the matter when I heard Miss. Rose humming frightened. I thought something amiss. Be it providence or happenstance, the elevator seemed stopped on my floor. I became worked up and was finally able to pry the door opened."
He continued to explain his side of the story, but I was lost at my name falling from his lips: not Rosalie, but Rose; the name by which I privately called myself. I've never heard it sound so beautiful or enticing. I've also never known myself to be so flighty and smitten with someone. I am someone unrecognizable. Liberating . . .
"That's very much appreciated. I don't want her having to walk that far," I hear Clarence say as I tune back into the conversation.
"Walking how far?" I ask, confused.
"I'm going to retrieve the car while this fine lad walks you out side to meet me."
"I'll be sure to see she makes it safely and in working order to you," my rescuer agrees.
I feel panic well up inside me. I don't know how to react or what to say. Clarence looks at me and nods his head, thinking I agree with his plan. Before I can even voice my concerns, he starts to briskly walk away, leaving me alone once more.
I truly and somehow instinctively know I have nothing to fear from this virtual stranger. He can hurt me at any time but hasn't. He's only been the most upstanding gentlemen. Even his attire tells me he is a true gentleman, not that I would think less of him if he were clothed differently.
I sigh in confusion. This is the exact uncertainty I feel around him. How am I to act around someone when all I feel in my tummy swarming with insects? How am I to retain my mask of polite, demure, most beautiful girl around him when all I feel is timid, bumbling and (dare I think it) attracted.
He doesn't really give me time to think, which I'm thankful for, before he gently places my hat on my head and smiles. "Shall we, Miss. Rose?" I feel like I'm soaring when he says my name. Is he able to hear my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest? Does he think me as unrefined and idiotic as I feel?
"Please, don't call me Miss. Rose. It makes me feel something I'm not," I whisper shyly. I'm completely honest with him, in that I don't feel like a proper lady around him. I only feel as if I've made a fool of myself and my family's name.
"What shall I call you then . . . love?" I felt unbidden tears come to my eyes. Like a granted boon, he gives something to me that I had wanted to hear again. It sounds like a summer night (peaceful and eternally youthful) when he calls me "love". It must be how every girl feels when that lovely endearment falls from his sculpted lips.
"Rosalie," I answer, too afraid to say "love is entirely fine". He studies me, and I can attest he is looking into my heart.
"Are you apposed, for some reason, to me calling you Rose?" he asks calmly. And though he doesn't sound it, I wonder if I've offended him in some manner.
"N-Not at all," I stammer again. I feel as if I'm making the biggest fool of myself. I want to weep with frustration. "It how I usually introduce myself: Rosalie Hale. Although, many people just call me Miss. Hale," I continue to babble.
"So you prefer I call you Miss. Hale, then," he asks. I look down and bite my lips. I wonder if I'll ever be able to redeem myself. I only sink further and there's nothing there to stop the descent. I want to save face by running far from him, but I don't.
I stupidly look up, knowing I'll see disappointment on his face. It surprises me to see quite the opposite. How can someone be even more gorgeous then one initially thought? His entire face is transformed into the most breathtaking smile I'd ever seen; mine included.
"You were joshing me," I clarify with a sheepish and relieved look plastered against my pinking cheeks. He nods and I nod in return.
He holds out my jacket, still in his hands, and waits to assist me.
I turn and slide my arms in. When I am situated, I turn around and he starts to button it up for me. I want to weep at his tenderness and soft affection. No man (sans my father, brothers and Clar) treats me with such respect and dignity.
Most either look at me as if I'm the greatest prize to win, or as if I'm this unapproachable goddess to be put on a pedestal. And though I usually encourage this behavior, I seem quite the opposite with him.
When he's finishes lacing up my buttons, he stops to take in every feature of my face. I feel as if he is about to paint me – he studies me so intently.
"Rose," I finally answer, and with some decorum. I smile at my overwhelming behavior. "I would never be opposed to you calling me Rose."
"Rose it shall be then. Perhaps a few Rosalie's to make the situation interesting." I give him an encouraging smile.
"One can never forget 'love'," I finally say, finding the courage to be so bold in his eyes.
"There is also that." His hands fall from my lapels before settling naturally at his side. He seems impossibly tall. He is quite regal and beyond breathtaking. It's as if he knows how magnificent he is, and yet, doesn't care. I can't understand this behavior. My mother has raised me to be quite the opposite. But I find it fresh and quite alluring. His countenance pulls me in like nothing ever has before.
"Edward," he speaks his name. I would place my hand on the holy Bible and swear in blood that I have never heard such a name sound as mesmeric and enthralling as it does when he speaks it.
I tentatively reach my hand out and wait for him to reciprocate. I don't have to wait long. He looks as if he hesitates for a moment, as if he is unsure about touching me. I gaze at him more intently, but the look is cleared from his face. I can be wrong. It won't be the first time this afternoon.
"It was wonderful to have met you, Edward," I speak, absolutely loving the way my tongue and lips caress his name. My cheeks become pink from the thought and I turn away.
"You as well, Rose." I look back to him from under my eye-lashes. It is a move I have practiced hundreds of times in front of my vanity mirror under the direction of my mother, but feels like the first time as I bashfully do it now.
"Thanks for everything, and most especially, saving me. I felt as if I were going spare in there." I point in the direction of the tin trap.
"It was only a pleasure. Think nothing of it, Rose. I would gladly do it again."
My smile turns mega-watt at his emphatic declaration. I want to say something brilliant and encouraging, but find myself insufficiently lacking. All I can do is continue to smile.
I turn around and start to walk. It's as if all we needed to say has been spoken. There is a lingering question hanging in the air inside my lungs, but I'm not brave enough to broach it aloud. I'm usually confident, but Edward has me at a disadvantage; not that it's intentional or his fault. He seems like a kind, honest and level-headed young man.
I hear his feet keeping pace next to mine as we make our way out of the library and down the walk leading to my waiting ride. The sun has already set.
My mind and heart are at one (for once), pleading with me to find the strength to ask him what I want. I grapple with myself as I try and wipe the sweat from my hands. It is a reaction I haven't really had before. I wish I'd worn my gloves.
We all but make it to the car before Edward stops and turns to me. My brain automatically takes in his halted stance and responds.
"Thanks for the adventurous afternoon, Rose. I had expected my afternoon to be quite tedious, but you proved otherwise. I like to be proven wrong at times, love," his silky voice trills out. I don't know if he does it on purpose or not, but the effect is the same on me. I quiver with something I can't recognize. It's something I've never really experienced before. And, I've never really been talked to like that. I welcomed the newness.
"Anytime, Edward," I respond candidly. He gives me an endearing smile that wipes the mischievous one from his lips. They are both quite the distraction.
I look over to my right and see Clarence watching us with rapt attention. I know it's time to leave. Our time has come to an end. I look back over and bat my eyelashes a few times; not trying to be coquette, but trying to make sure this ethereal, sublime man is real.
He doesn't disappear. You're not disappearing.
I smile to myself, knowing I haven't completely lost every sane thought in my head. I don't think I'd even be able to conjure up someone so wonderfully real.
I give him one more bashful smile, telling myself to stop being so stupid and shy.
What's overcome you, Rose? Gird up your strength and walk away. It's something you can do.
I heed my silent words and start to walk to my car. When I approach the door and wait for Clarence to open it, Edward precedes me and opens it himself. Clarence gets into the car and waits.
I thought I already left you. My strength is failing me.
"Thank, Edward." I'm truly scared I won't see him again and all of this would have been a sad figment of my imagination.
"With honor, Rose." He opens the door and hesitates before opening it all the way. I look to him, seeing him wrestle within himself. I know the look is real this time because he is actually struggling with some internal decision. He finally looks determined, yet oddly at peace. "I usually frequent here on Fridays, Rose. I know this isn't your campus, not that I even know you're a student," he starts to mumble, and I find it sweetly refreshing.
"I'm a student," I clarify for him, trying to save him from my earlier embarrassment.
"Well, long ramble – short, I study here on Friday afternoons. If you should so happen to ever be in need of a study partner, or simply want someone to bounce ideas off of, or are in need of a hanky to wipe the sweat after climbing the stairs, I'm usually found in the Medical section. Don't ever hesitate to find me."
A happy and cheerful grin creeps onto my lips. Again, without even having to ask, he gives me what I somehow need.
"I'll keep that in mind, Edward. And I may just someone to read over my paper for my English Lit class Friday next. It can never hurt to have a second opinion, right?" I ask, seeing if he picks up on the double-entendre.
"Never, Rose." He bows at the waist before finally opening up the car door. I seem to float inside. I give him the biggest smile I can conjure before the door is shut. I raise my hand and wave as the car pulls away from the curb. He repeats the gesture before turning around and walking back to Rush Rhees Library.
"Quite a young man," Clarence finally opines. I grin secretly before humming in agreement. I can't even look at my friend, afraid he will see the twin stains on my cheeks. He's never seen a Miss. Rose like that. I've never seen a Rose like that.
I now know what it feels to be on the other side. I now know what men feel like when they look at me, watch me, and salivate over me. It's quite the eye-opener. It makes me scared and uneasy. Now that I'm not in his presence and the euphoric fog starts clears, I can see how sad it is in some instances.
I'd like to believe this experience will change my ways, cause me to act differently, more respectful of men vying for my attention, but I know it won't. The Madam would never allow me to make such a spectacle of myself. And the truth of the thought saddens me. I would bend down to my mother's desires every time. Her way is the only one I know, and lived. It is the one that will get me closest to my goal of having that beautiful angel in my waiting arms.
I don't know any other way to be . . .
Or so you think, my traitorous heart beats.
Perhaps I won't be deserving of this Edward, after all. I'm vain where he's uncaring. I'm haughty where he's charitable.
Would I have done the exact same thing he did for me if someone else was stuck in the elevator . . . I don't know. And the answer makes me seems as callous and shallow as I suspect.
My mother would be proud.
Perhaps there isn't such a distinction between 'Rose' and 'Rosalie' as I would have hoped.
Some things, it would seem, are unattainable to me, contrary to what my mother says and preaches to my impressionable ears.
Author's Ramblings: Thanks to all those who continue to read! I hope you liked the chapter, lovelies, and Edward's entrance. I'm quite nervous writing him . . . hmmm?
Happy Easter . . . to all those who observe the religious holiday. Also, Happy Passover! Have a glorious weekend, everyone. I also wanted to wish my Sister a Happy B-day. Love you very much, sis!
Please, if you have the time, leave me a little review. I'd love to know what you think of the story. Is it still interesting anyone? Anyhow, until next week, lots of love!
Updated: Sunday, 8 April 2012