“Dah dah dah, dah dah dahhh.” Whistling, the Baggage Handler strolled into the waiting room.
David scanned the black suitcase on the cart the Baggage Handler trailed behind him, searching for confirmation. This time it was the right flash of red: his alumni baggage tags, the mighty Rams.
“Finally.” David rose from the sofa. This mix-up had cost him an hour of his precious two-hour extension. “You will be hearing from my lawyer.”
The Baggage Handler shrugged as he spun the cart and placed the baggage in front of David. He tipped his Baggage Services cap and stood, maddeningly silent.
David exhaled his frustration. “Would you like to help me get out of this place?”
“I’d love to.” The Baggage Handler stood back with a sweep of his arm toward the door. “After you.”
David strode forward and grabbed the handle of his suitcase—and almost pulled his arm out of its socket as the baggage remained stuck to the floor. He rubbed his throbbing shoulder and then looked at his suitcase, at the Baggage Handler, and at the suitcase again. He wrapped his fingers around the handle and again tried to lift it, but it wasn’t moving. It was glued to the ground. His pulse thumped in his ears, and his stomach grumbled under the stress of yet another delay.
“What is going on here? What have you done to my suitcase?”
The Baggage Handler checked his clipboard. “Nothing. You can check the baggage tags if you like.”
“I know it’s mine! Those are my baggage tags! What have you people done? Why can’t I lift it?”
The Baggage Handler shrugged. “You saw me lift it with no problem. And it’s locked.”
David tried again to lift his suitcase, but it still wasn’t moving. He closed his eyes and breathed hard. Then the reason for this entire shambles of a trip dawned on him. It was the only rational explanation. No car at the airport. A sweaty, incense-infused cab ride. Someone else’s bag. Now this.
The smallest laugh escaped his lips. He knew what was going on.
“Okay, enough already! If this is some kind of prank for a TV show . . .” He shot glances into every corner of the room, looking for hidden cameras in the ceiling, in the fruit bowl, anywhere. “You’ve got hidden cameras somewhere. Congratulations, you got me.” He bowed to the fruit bowl, where he was sure the hidden camera was. “Whoever has put up this prank, you can come out now. Julian? I presume it’s you.”
It was the only explanation that made sense.
But the Baggage Handler hadn’t moved. “What are you talking about, David?”
“Well, it’s obvious this is a prank. That explains everything. I fly into the city for a meeting, but somehow my suitcase is mixed up. There isn’t a limousine waiting for me. Head office treats me like some kind of leper. I go to a strange depot in the middle of nowhere instead of to the airport, and then I’m left here in a waiting room for an hour. I head out to the corridor to find someone, and it’s like I’m stuck in the Matrix or something. And then when you bring my suitcase back, it’s impossible to pick up.”
David leaned across to the Baggage Handler in a whisper. “You were pretty impressive, by the way. Mysterious, talking like a karate master and appearing at both the airport and the depot. Well done!”
The Baggage Handler looked at David with piercing blue eyes that bored into his soul. “This isn’t a prank.”
David folded his arms. “Well, what’s going on, then?”
“Why do you think you can’t pick up your baggage?”
David threw his hands into the air. “And stop calling it baggage. It’s a suitcase! Anyway, why can’t I lift it? It wasn’t heavy when I checked it at the airport.”
“I think you’ll find your baggage has always been heavy. That’s why it weighs you down.”
David again exhaled heavily. “Will you stop talking as if you’re Confucius or a Facebook meme or whatever? You’ve obviously put something in there. What’s going on here?”
The Baggage Handler spoke in a near-whisper, a counterpoint to David’s simmering anger. “Why are you asking me? You’re a man of action. Why don’t you look for yourself?”
David stood back and folded his arms again. “No. If I open it, it will explode in my face or something. I don’t trust you. You open it.”
But the Baggage Handler sat down on the sofa and crossed his legs. “I can’t. I’m also not the one in a hurry, David. It’s your baggage.”
“Okay, fine, whatever. Anything to get out of this place.” David toed the suitcase, and it sat solid on the floor. Immovable. He shoved it again, and it gave a gentle rock before settling back into position. With one almighty push, it rocked past the point of no return and slammed onto the floor.
David bent over and thumbed in the lock’s combination. As he unzipped the bag, his gaze never left the Baggage Handler. “Well, let’s see what we’ve got in here, shall we?” He eased open the lid with a careful eye and breathed again. His much-needed financial reports sat on top of his few overnight clothes. But his eye was caught by something on top of the reports. Something unexpected. Two ferry tickets, a few restaurant receipts, and a man’s polo shirt, which wasn’t his. He picked it up. “This isn’t—”
“Just look at it.”
On the collar was a mark: bright-pink lipstick. David looked back at the Baggage Handler, who gestured toward David’s suitcase with his head. “Have a closer look.”
One more extra thing was there. A printed photograph—a selfie of two people kissing while sitting in the sun on the back of a ferry, the wind in their hair, sea spray on their faces.
Two people enjoying the sun and the scenery. Two people enjoying each other.
His wife was one of them, but he wasn’t the other.
It was Jerry, his former best friend.
The exact photo he’d found on Sharon’s phone six months ago.
19
A familiar tune floated in from the corridor, drawing Michael into an instinctive matching whistle. Where had he heard that before?
The door flung open, and the Baggage Handler wheeled in a cart. “I’ve got your baggage.” He spun it in front of Michael. “Apologies once again.” He placed the suitcase on the floor with a flourish and stepped back, rubbing his hands together with glee.
“Thanks.” Michael stepped forward in a rush and grabbed the handle of his suitcase. But the suitcase stayed steadfastly where it was. His body continued moving while his hand stayed connected to the suitcase, and his legs flew into the air. With a crunch, he landed flat on his back, the ceiling spinning above him.
The Baggage Handler offered his hand. “May I help you up?”
Michael accepted the assistance and stood, rubbing his head. “Sorry. I must have tripped on the rug.” He walked back to his suitcase and again tried to pick it up, but it was rooted to the spot. He stood back, perplexed. “That’s not my suitcase, is it?”
The Baggage Handler tipped his cap. “You’re welcome to check the baggage tags and the barcode on the side.”
Michael checked the suitcase and felt a wave of relief; he wouldn’t need to explain to his father that he’d lost his cherished baggage tags. He again grabbed the handle, gingerly this time, and tried to lift the suitcase. It was going nowhere.
“Why can’t I pick it up?”
“Well, why don’t you check? Open it.”
Michael eyed it again, his hip throbbing from a lesson learned. He nudged the suitcase with a finger. This time it rocked. Just a gentle rock. Michael’s eyes widened as the suitcase picked up momentum, rocking from side to side under its own steam. Michael backed away as it rocked back and forth more and more violently—until it reached its tipping point and crashed to the floor.
Michael gaped as the vibrations shot through his shoes. “What was that?”
The Baggage Handler gave a single nod. “It’s okay. It’s heavy.”
Heavy? Michael squatted down next to the suitcase and gave it a nudge with his finger. It wasn’t moving. He looked up to the Baggage
Handler for approval.
Another single nod.
Michael gingerly grabbed the zipper in two fingers, and with slow clicks, he opened it. Taking a deep breath, he threw back the lid and reached in, expecting to see his running spikes. Instead, sitting on top of his design portfolio was a swathe of red participation ribbons and a sports trophy—a tiny golden plastic figure caught midstride.
Michael looked up at the Baggage Handler. “This isn’t my stuff.”
The Baggage Handler moved past him and sat on the sofa. He laced his fingers behind his head. “It’s your baggage. You checked the tags. You checked the barcode.”
Words of protest again swirled through Michael’s mind, but as was their custom, they didn’t come out of his mouth. “But . . . these aren’t mine.”
The Baggage Handler picked up the design portfolio and flicked open the cover.
Michael started toward the sofa. “Hey! Don’t! Those are very—”
“Good.” The Baggage Handler thumbed his way through Michael’s artwork. Each new drawing brought a small squeal of appreciation or a deep sigh of contentment. Music to a creative’s ears. “In fact, they’re beyond good; they’re amazing. You might be the most talented artist I’ve ever met.”
Michael stopped dead in his tracks, the compliment unfamiliar but welcome. “Um, thanks?”
“How long have you been drawing?” The Baggage Handler turned another page to find a penciled self-portrait of Michael. “See, look at this one. The lines, the contrast . . . It’s like a photograph.”
Michael was torn. No one looked at his design portfolio. He’d been burned before by people who had handed it back to him with disinterest . . . or worse, advice. But this guy was getting what he was trying to do with his art.
The Baggage Handler turned another page with another sigh. “Oh wow. Look at this one. It’s amazing!”
Michael shuffled his feet, uncomfortable with the praise coming his way, but craving more.
The Baggage Handler looked enthralled. He traced a finger over the face of Michael’s mother as he looked up. “The sadness in her eyes, the despair. You express so much emotion through your art.”
Competing thoughts clashed in Michael’s head in raging combat. He gets what I’m doing, but who is this guy?
“Michael, why do you draw?”
The last time Michael had been asked that exact question was in high school art class; the only people to appreciate his talent were there. Whenever that question was asked at home, the word draw was always replaced with the word bother.
The Baggage Handler’s finger slowed. “The fact you don’t know what to say now would suggest you’re not very good at expressing yourself other than through your art.”
Michael blinked as he felt himself blush. His emotions were best kept to himself, although he had learned to express them through the language of art. This Baggage Handler, who had known him for all of five minutes, had summed him up as if he’d known him forever. Was his art teacher behind this?
“Do you dream of being an artist?” The Baggage Handler fixed him with clouded blue eyes, a look approaching wistfulness.
How did this guy know so much about him? About his dream? “Of course. Every day.”
“So why aren’t you pursuing that dream?”
Michael felt his face flush again. There was one answer here, but he couldn’t force himself to say it. A more common phrase entered his thinking. “Remember: the future belongs to those who believe in their dreams.”
“What does that mean?”
“Dad’s been saying that for as long as I can remember.”
The Baggage Handler’s eyes narrowed. “What does he do for a living?”
“He works in hardware.”
The Baggage Handler chuckled. “That’s usually the way. Anyway, you’re a talented artist, not a shelf stocker in hardware. And the correct quote is ‘those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.’ Wise words.”
Michael yearned for this praise to continue, but it was shadowed by a matching discomfort. He wanted—no, needed—to get the conversation back on track. “Look, as much as I appreciate your comments, I need to get out of here. If I mess up this scholarship . . .” Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. “I can’t leave here with someone else’s stuff in my suitcase. Whose is this?”
The Baggage Handler looked up from the design portfolio. “Have a look.” Then he went back to sighing in impressed amazement as he turned a new page.
Michael squatted next to his suitcase and picked up a participation ribbon with a white button that had floral script rewarding the recipient for simply turning up. The button was surrounded by a bright red rosette, and two thin strips of red trailed beneath it. They were known in his house as loser ribbons. Michael had brought home one of these ribbons in his first race as a seven-year-old, and his father had hit the roof, wanting more. Demanding more. The memory rapped lightly on the lid it had nailed down on his self-esteem many years ago. He reached in and grabbed a handful of the tiny buttons. The suitcase seemed full of them.
Michael offered them to the Baggage Handler. “I didn’t put these in here.”
The Baggage Handler looked up at him. “I know. You didn’t.” He returned to the portfolio with another exclamation of glee.
“You know?”
The Baggage Handler put down the portfolio. “You didn’t put them in there, but you are carrying them around.”
“What are you talking about? When I put my spikes into my bag this morning at the airport, these weren’t in here.”
“I’ve already said that.”
Michael was totally nonplussed as he looked back into the suitcase. “And who put a trophy in here?”
The Baggage Handler folded his arms. “Have a look.”
Michael picked it up. The plastic, gold-colored athlete ran proudly on top of a hefty faux marble tribute to someone else’s achievement. He’d won many trophies over the years, but he’d never seen this one before.
The Baggage Handler leaned forward and fixed a gaze on him with clouded blue eyes, a look approaching wistfulness. “A name on there should tell you who put all this into your baggage.”
Michael sighed heavily and held up the trophy.
There was a name on there.
He stopped breathing.
It was his father’s.
20
The photograph trembled in Gillian’s hand. She lifted her glasses in slow motion, and her family smiled again. She reached down and picked up the other photos. Her family home shone in the afternoon sun as her boys raced their bikes on the driveway. Her family room was now the scene of a delightful evening with the five of them cuddled up on the sofa to watch a movie. Her church group, Gillian included, threw back their heads and laughed over coffee.
These were photos to be kept.
These were memories to be treasured.
But she’d never seen them before.
Blinking, her mind on overload, Gillian lowered her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose. The photos went back to their original state. Misery. Loneliness. Neglect.
Gillian opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. She lifted her glasses again and then lowered them. Lifted and then lowered. Scowling, smiling. Train wreck, cozy. Weeds, sunshine. Happiness, misery. Togetherness, solitude. Contentment, neglect.
She took off her glasses and inspected the lenses. She held them up to the light. They were clear, as they always were.
She held up the glasses to the Baggage Handler, her thoughts exploding in a thousand directions at once. “There must be something wrong with these.”
The Baggage Handler sat down and threw an arm across the sofa. He pointed to the far wall. “Who is quoted on that poster?”
Gillian repositioned her glasses and zeroed in on the caption below the sunflower. “Miranda Kerr. Why?” She again removed her glasses and held them at arm’s length, as if they were contaminated.
“Well, there’s nothing wrong wi
th your glasses. You could read her name.”
“But when I look at the photos with them on . . . I have to wear these. I can’t see much without them.”
The Baggage Handler smiled. “I suggest you can’t see much with them either.”
Gillian flicked through the photos and alternated between glasses on and glasses off. “How are you doing this?”
“I’m not doing this, Gillian. You are.”
“What do you mean I’m doing it?”
The Baggage Handler cocked his head. “A buildup on them keeps you from seeing the world as it is.”
Gillian waved her glasses at this strange young man. “Buildup? There’s nothing on them.”
The Baggage Handler smiled again. “I’m not talking about dirt or grime. I’m talking about envy and comparison. You’re looking at your world through distorted lenses. It’s how you’ve come to see life.”
Gillian folded her arms in defense, her glasses dangling from one hand.
The Baggage Handler fixed a gaze on her with clouded blue eyes, a look approaching wistfulness. “Look, you’re not the only one who does this. I’ve seen it time and time and time again. A whisper is in the back of everyone’s mind. You know it’s there, and you can feel it. It asks you one simple, infuriating question: How am I doing? So you look around and measure yourself against everyone else.”
The Baggage Handler had zeroed in on Gillian’s greatest weakness: how she saw herself.
“It becomes a problem when you start to look at your own life while listening to that whisper more than anything else. It condemns you, and you now see your life, your family, your job, and your home in terms of disappointment, not value. You end up changing how you see your entire world.”
Images flashed across Gillian’s memory. The car that broke down so often she hated driving it. The family holiday that was never exotic enough. The house she found too embarrassing to invite new friends to. The boys she often apologized for. The husband who wasn’t the cook Susanna’s husband was, the mechanic Vicki’s husband was, or the breadwinner Debbi’s husband was. The too few number of friends. The clothes always three seasons behind everyone else’s. The figure she cloaked at the beach.
The Baggage Handler Page 8
