But the room had changed. The slick white counter that spanned one wall of the waiting room was now stocked with a steaming silver coffee machine, a fruit bowl, and a newspaper. A handwritten sign stood next to it: Help Yourself.
But still no sign of his suitcase. Why would they bring coffee but not his suitcase? David closed his eyes, on the verge of angry tears.
A heady coffee cloud drifted over and enticed him to medicate his tension away. He bypassed the fruit and headed straight for the machine, punched in a triple espresso, and as the machine sputtered and whirred its wizardry, his eyes drifted to the folded newspaper. DIVORCE RATE SPIRALS UPWARD, the front page screamed at him.
I wonder why.
The unfamiliar panic of the corridor was replaced by a more familiar bedrock—anger. He flipped the newspaper, and the headline below the fold screamed at him: SCIENTISTS DISCOVER HOLDING A GRUDGE COULD KILL YOU.
He took the tiny cup from the machine and perched again on the sofa. Where was this guy? David’s anger was diluted by an unfamiliar sense of helplessness. He glanced at the door, and the idea of going back out flitted past him. No chance.
The siren call of the newspaper headlines wouldn’t be denied. He grabbed the newspaper, and the front page was blunt. Divorce rates in the country were at epidemic levels, and psychologists put it down to the stress of finances, work, and modern society. David huffed. And I wonder how many divorces are because of wives who cheated on their husbands? A church leader lamented the growing number of broken families and pleaded with couples to stay together for the sake of their children.
Another unwelcome feeling joined the anxiety in the broiling whitewater of David’s emotions: the first twinge of guilt over finding Caitlin with her treasured Disney figurines under her bed after another screaming match he’d had with Sharon. He’d tried to shield his daughter from everything, but he didn’t want to think about how much she’d suffered since he discovered the photo on Sharon’s phone six months ago.
A sinking feeling settled in his stomach, a deep ache he was finding harder to push away. He flipped over to the second article. A university study had discovered people holding on to grudges suffered physical damage. Anger and unforgiveness affected everything from the flow of chemicals around the body to brain wave interruption, leading even to increased risk of disease or the inability to think and function clearly.
In a photo a university professor stood proudly in front of his sandstone building: “We’ve found that people who don’t forgive end up not only punishing themselves mentally and emotionally but also physically.”
Nowadays you can get research to say anything you need it to.
But the next line read like a doctor’s diagnosis. “People who stay angry suffer through heart palpitations, headaches, and digestive issues.”
David threw the newspaper to the floor. This was just the latest psychobabble designed to keep university types relevant in the twenty-first century. But his stomach wasn’t on the same page. It twinged, and by instinct, he reached for his antacids. But the ever-present aluminum square holding the pills was empty.
His eye caught that last paragraph again and interrupted his self-assured dismissal. Surely the stomach issues were a sign of stress? He’d been fighting to keep his job for months, so that had to be it. He scanned his memory further and came up with something slightly more than nothing. A nagging thought perched itself at the back of his mind, a thought he could neither read nor dismiss. It caught on his conscience like a saddle burr. It was tiny and microscopic, but its presence profound. He tumbled it over, analyzing it for an element of truth. Was something there?
The door to the waiting room opened.
16
The leather sofa squeaked under Gillian as she tried, unsuccessfully, to reach for patience. Twenty minutes had gone by. She shuddered to think of the havoc it was playing with Becky’s meticulous schedule and the effect that would catch her in its ripples.
Her stomach growled; it had been a few hours since her meager breakfast on the flight. The fruit on the coffee table shone a beacon to her hunger. The apples gleamed with a waxy shine, and the bananas were a stunning bright yellow. She’d never seen fruit quite this bright and luscious-looking before. Well, the Baggage Handler did tell me to help myself.
As she reached for the fruit, the grapes gave away the truth. They, too, had a waxy shine, but down the side of one of them was a line, a seam.
Gillian picked up the grape and examined it, feeling the slickness of plastic under her fingers. She squeezed air out of it with a rush and picked up a second grape. Plastic. She dropped an apple on the coffee table, producing an empty, dull thud. With a soundless bounce it rolled onto the carpet and came to rest, a telltale hole in the bottom revealing its molded creation.
Gillian flicked the decanter with a fingernail and heard the dull clunk of plastic. She removed the stopper, and instead of heady red wine vapor, the familiar tang of grape juice enveloped her. She clinked one balloon glass against the other. Another dull clunk. Plastic. Everything on this table was fake.
She poured the grape juice into the plastic “glass.” She laughed to herself. This is a low-cost airline, all right.
Gillian settled back into the sofa, the leather creaking under her. Her upward glance caught her reflection in the mirror. She scooched down in a hurry, out of her own eyeline, and looked instead at the TV on the wall. She lifted a remote and punched up the volume on the soap opera.
“But, Ranch, I can’t love you when I’m in love with your twin brother.” The brunette with the heaving bosom walked past her costar toward the camera and stared off into the middle distance over Gillian’s shoulder.
Ranch moved in behind the brunette and placed his hands on her bare shoulders. An emotive piano tinkled away. “Kourtnay, my love, my soul mate. I’m not Ranch, nor am I his twin brother, French.” A string concerto joined the piano as the music swelled and drew Gillian into the soap opera’s manufactured pain. “I am their long-lost triplet, Caesar.” The music climbed to a crescendo; a final, moody piano chord hung out to dry as the screen faded to black.
Gillian jumped as her senses were assaulted by pulsing graphics and thumping dance music. “In this week’s edition of Perfect Woman magazine, has Taylor Swift finally had a bad hair day? We have the photos!” The voice-over grated on Gillian’s nerves as an unflattering portrait of pop royalty getting off a plane in a windstorm was smeared across the screen.
Gillian’s hand patted down her own hair out of reflex. That’s pretty unfair.
“Ten ways for you to look fantastic 24/7!” A woman rolled over in bed to reveal a perfect, lipsticked smile and a cheesy thumbs-up. “Our celebrity makeover judges give you the tips to look fabulous at any time of the day or night!”
Gillian shook her head. No one with kids looked like that. Did they?
“And we’ll fulfill every woman’s dream by revealing the makeup secrets that will catch the eye of every man in town!”
As she sipped her juice, Gillian racked her brain for one woman she knew for whom that was a dream. She came up empty.
“All in this week’s edition of Perfect Woman magazine! Out now!”
On the screen, popcorn spilled across a carefully groomed rug.
Now that’s more like the real world.
Three boys wearing crisp jeans, white T-shirts, and impossibly perfect tousled mops of blond hair bounced on the sofa in a family room. Their mother swept in, her hair perfect, her makeup immaculate. “Boys!” An ever-so-slightly disapproving look drifted across her face as she pulled a steaming muffin tray from behind her back. “Who’s the best mom on the street?”
“You are!” the boys shrieked as they raced over to her, grabbed a muffin the size of a small Volkswagen, gave her an energetic hug, and sped off to the kitchen table.
The mother sighed in triumph—another job well done—as a deep male voice floated across the scene of domestic bliss. “Sweet Dreams muffins. Do you want to be the be
st mom on the street?”
Mom turned to the camera and smiled widely.
The voice-over continued. “Well, do you, Gillian?”
Mom winked.
Gillian dropped the grape juice on the carpet. She stared at the television. What?
The brunette with the heaving bosom was back and spun on her heel. “Caesar? Ranch said the rest of his family died in the plane crash that gave him the inheritance to build that school for bikini models.”
A faint whistle came from behind the door, a tune familiar and yet somehow elusive. The door opened, and the Baggage Handler strolled through, pushing a baggage cart loaded with a suitcase. Gillian recognized her travel agent’s logo on the red baggage tags and sighed in relief. The Baggage Handler spun the baggage cart, took off the suitcase, and placed it in front of her.
“Thank you so much for sorting out my baggage.” Gillian moved to pick up the suitcase.
“My pleasure, ma’am.” The Baggage Handler tipped his cap.
Gillian grabbed the handle and smiled at the Baggage Handler as he stepped aside, but the suitcase wouldn’t move. It was stuck to the floor, impossible to lift.
She let go of the suitcase and stood back, confused. “Are you sure this is my baggage?”
“Of course. Check the tags.”
Gillian bent down and read her name and address, written in her hand on the travel agent’s tags.
“And the barcode on the side of the suitcase.”
Gillian checked this as well. Her name again. This was definitely her suitcase.
She stood back and studied it. She attempted again to lift it, but still it wouldn’t move. It weighed a ton; she could never pick it up, let alone carry it. She stood back and folded her arms. “What have you done to my suitcase? Someone has put something in it.”
The Baggage Handler fixed a gaze on Gillian with clouded blue eyes, a look approaching wistfulness.
“You’re right there. Why don’t you unlock it and have a look inside?”
17
Gillian walked a slow circle around her suitcase. She flicked the baggage tags and stepped back. The Baggage Handler gestured at the suitcase with his hand.
“I’m not opening it!” she told him.
The Baggage Handler checked his clipboard. “Well, I can’t open it. You’re the only one who can.”
Gillian shook her head. She couldn’t stand here and argue with Becky waiting, so she tried to lay down her baggage. There was a weight in it, a heaviness that fixed it to the floor. She gave it a shove, and it teetered on its edge and settled back into position. She pushed hard, and it toppled and fell with a heavy thud, rippling a shudder through Gillian’s feet. The Baggage Handler looked at the suitcase, his face a picture of unbridled joy.
She snapped open her lock and clicked the zipper—slowly—as she ran through the options. Someone had put something heavy in her baggage. How could they do that? Obviously, it wasn’t anything illegal; otherwise she would have been stopped at the airport. It wouldn’t be dangerous, because the Baggage Handler was still standing there. There was no way she had packed anything remotely that heavy in her baggage, and even if she had, she wouldn’t have been allowed to check it.
Who put something in there? Rick? Was it a surprise to help her survive Hurricane Becky?
She carefully lifted one corner of the suitcase lid and peered into the darkness. She saw a flash of familiar duck-egg blue; her cocktail dress—the one Rick had insisted she wear to the wedding reception—was still there. That was a relief. As she carefully peeled away the lid of her suitcase, she saw her makeup case nestled under her favorite navy scarf. She flung the suitcase open. It was the same as when she packed it.
Except for one thing.
Sitting on top of her clothes was an item foreign to her: a beautifully crafted, ornate, silver hand mirror.
This is what was making my suitcase so heavy?
Gillian pointed at the mirror. “Um, whose is that?”
The Baggage Handler leaned in and had a look. “You checked that this baggage is yours, right?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And you packed it yourself?”
“Who are you? You sound like airport security.”
“Then it must be yours.”
Gillian gestured to this intruder in her suitcase. “But I’ve never seen that before. I didn’t bring it with me on my trip.”
The Baggage Handler placed his clipboard on the counter, rocked back on his heels, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You take it everywhere with you, Gillian. I suggest you have a closer look.”
Gillian reached in and nudged the mirror. Nothing happened, although what would it do? Rise up and float in the air? Her fingertips brushed the raised silver relief of a beautiful woman, who could have been a Greek goddess, with flowing hair and a crown of flowers. She was surrounded by a motif of swirling ribbons and bouquets. The ribbons framed the back of the mirror and twisted their way down the handle, where they met, crossed over, and wrapped around the tiniest engraving. Two words in Victorian script had been scratched into the facade with a practiced hand.
Gillian knelt over the suitcase and adjusted her glasses. The two words came into focus. The script was a name.
Her name.
She looked up at the Baggage Handler, her mouth open. “But I’ve never seen this before. Did Rick buy this for me?”
The Baggage Handler fixed a gaze on Gillian with clouded blue eyes, a look approaching wistfulness. “No. He tries to stop you using it, but you use it every day.”
“What do you mean I use it every day? I’ve never seen this before in my life.” She curled her fingers around the mirror and lifted it gently from her suitcase. The mirror was light as a feather. This wouldn’t keep her from picking up her suitcase.
Gillian put the mirror on the sofa and leaned back over the suitcase, ready to rummage for the source of the extra weight in her baggage.
But the Baggage Handler stopped her with a hand. “Look at the mirror, Gillian. Flip it over.”
Gillian turned the mirror over and regretted it in an instant. She looked beyond exhausted. Heavy black bags hung under her eyes, her hair was flying in all directions, and her blouse was badly creased. She threw the mirror back into the suitcase, but it didn’t land on her blue cocktail dress. It bounced and settled on a handful of photos she hadn’t seen when she found the mirror.
“I didn’t put these in here either.” Her hand froze as she started to pick up the first photo. A house. Her house. Through five-feet-high weeds dotting the front yard, Gillian could see her home was falling apart, its paint peeling away and the shutters hanging on for dear life. Junk mail was scattered across the porch. Tiny patches of green lawn struggled to rise above a sea of brown.
Gillian looked up at the Baggage Handler, unasked questions in her eyes. He nodded toward the suitcase.
She picked up another photo. Her family room was strewn with toys, discarded sports uniforms, and socks. Pillows were scattered across stained carpet; fingerprints were smeared along the black screen of the family’s television. Muddy footprints ran through the room. She picked up the next photo. Her women’s group from church was sitting around their regular table at CJ’s Café, but they all scowled, boredom written large. At which meeting was everyone so upset to be there? Did I miss that morning? But there she was, in the corner of the photo. Sitting glumly at a table. On her own.
She looked back at the Baggage Handler, trying to form words. “What is . . .”
The Baggage Handler gestured to the open suitcase with his head. “There’s one more.”
Gillian picked up the last photo. It was a photo of her family, in a traditional portrait shot. And this, like the other photographs, was one the photographer should have been embarrassed to keep. A cross-eyed Tyson poked out his tongue; James punched Alex in the stomach, while his twin’s hands clasped around his neck. Gillian stood behind her sons, scolding them with a pointed finger and a frown. And Rick, di
sappointment plastered on his face, had turned away, looking like he wanted to walk out of the photo.
Gillian waved a trembling photo at the Baggage Handler, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. Her voice reduced to a quavering whisper. “What is this?”
The Baggage Handler sighed, compassion flaring in his eyes. “This is your life, Gillian.”
“When were these taken?”
“Yesterday. The day before. Every day. These are the images you carry around with you in your baggage every single day.”
“Who would take photos like this?”
“You’ve asked an excellent question.”
Gillian pointed to the photos scattered in the suitcase as sobs rose in her throat. “Why is my house so run down? Why does my husband look like he wants to walk away from his family? Why is everyone in my women’s group so miserable?” The tears caught on her glasses, and she pushed the frames up onto her forehead to rub her eyes.
“They’re not.” The Baggage Handler knelt beside her. “That’s just how you see them. Look again.”
Gillian glanced at the photo in her hand. Everyone was now smiling, the boys’ headlocks now loving arms around shoulders, and Rick had his arm around his wife. He was a proud father standing guard over his family.
Gillian’s heart skipped a beat. She staggered back to the sofa in shock and collapsed onto it. Her glasses dropped back onto her nose. She looked down at the photo again. Her family had gone back to frowning and fighting, and Rick was again looking for the door.
18
“Dah dah dah, dah dah dahhh.”
David couldn’t place the tune that wafted in through the open door. It was both familiar and yet elusive. He was sure he’d heard it before. Hundreds of times before.
The Baggage Handler Page 7
