The Baggage Handler

by David Rawlings

  A blinding white light shone out of the mirror, and Gillian shielded her eyes as tendrils of golden light sprung from the mirror and reached out to her. She raised a hand, and the tendrils wrapped around her fingers. Pulsing. Stroking. Warm. Loving. And something else.

  Accepting.

  More tendrils of light swept toward her, stroking her cheek and her hair and wrapping her in a warm embrace. The tears flowed down her face as she breathed deep to capture this affirmation and hold it within her.

  In the mirror, Rick stepped forward and wrapped an arm around her reflection. He turned to Gillian and spoke. She didn’t hear his words as much as feel their resonance deep within her.

  “Gillian, you’re good enough as you are.”

  With his words, the tendrils released her and retreated into the mirror. The bright light pulsing from the mirror dimmed.

  The gray smoke drifted back across the mirror as the figures dematerialized. With a final squeeze of her reflection’s hand from Tyson, the boys faded away. Rick leaned forward and kissed her reflection’s cheek, and then the color drained from him as well. Her family was gone. Then, in an instant, the cloud dissipated, and Gillian stood staring at her own reflection, radiating warmth and contentment as if she’d stepped out of a warm bath.

  Gillian looked down at herself. What she saw in the mirror was a true reflection of who she was.

  She wiped away the tears with the back of her hand and turned on her heel. She faced this young man, who was also wiping away the emotion. “Who are you?”

  He stood to attention and tipped his cap, curly, black hair springing free across his forehead. “I’m the Baggage Handler. Now, let me show you the way out.”

  28

  Michael’s eyes followed the Baggage Handler’s finger to his open suitcase. What else was in there apart from his running spikes and design portfolio?

  Sitting on top of the familiar chocolate brown of his design portfolio was one final certificate. A piece of paper not badged by Serviceton High School. A piece of paper that looked familiar. An artistic merit certificate with his name emblazed on it. Pride from another time coursed through him—until he saw the comment scrawled across the bottom in a heavy black hand.

  Not good enough.

  Michael had never seen that. Each of his certificates was placed in a folder that took pride of place on his bedroom bookshelf, next to his design portfolio. None of them were ever critiqued. They couldn’t have been. No one ever saw them. But something about the handwriting was familiar. Very familiar.

  “Where did this come from?”

  The Baggage Handler sat back on the sofa, sadness in his eyes. “That’s been in your baggage for a very long time.”

  Michael stared hard at the thick, heavy hand of the black ink at the bottom of the paper. His memory stirred.

  “Whose handwriting is that?”

  The Baggage Handler nodded. “I think you know, Michael.”

  A single memory stepped forward, captioned by that thick, chunky writing: the yard work to-do list for the weekend, every weekend since he was five.

  The Baggage Handler’s voice was soft and conspiratorial. “That one is the hardest.”

  Is that it? One piece of paper? Easy. I’ll hand it over and try to find a way to get back to the university.

  Michael reached into his suitcase, but his hand was met by an invisible guardian—a magnetic wall his fingers couldn’t break through. He pulled out his hand and looked at the Baggage Handler, who nodded in encouragement.

  Michael again reached out. First his thumb trembled, and then his fingers joined in the tremor. His hand was swamped by a heavy gravity, and the tension jolted up his arm as it pushed toward the paper. He withdrew it and sat back on his haunches.

  The Baggage Handler squatted next to him, a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Keep going.”

  Michael tried again, his fingers curling as he pushed back against the repulsion. His arm shook, and he summoned every ounce of energy he had. His fingers spasmed, and then, with a pop and a jolt, his hand pushed through and grasped the last remaining certificate. The emotions swelled within him, clamoring up inside him, choking his breath. Unbidden, two tears ran down his cheeks and dropped onto the paper, blurring the heavy handwritten comment. He took a deep breath in an unsuccessful fight to force down these emotions that had blindsided him.

  “Here.” The Baggage Handler held out Michael’s design portfolio in one hand and an open hand for the artistic merit certificate.

  Michael grasped his design portfolio as he held out the paper for the Baggage Handler to take. The second half of the equation didn’t happen. Michael’s fingers did not—would not—let go. He willed them to release their grip, but they wouldn’t cooperate. A panic crested within him. “What’s going on? I can’t let it go.”

  “That’s not unusual.”

  “Why? I’m just letting go of a piece of paper.”

  The Baggage Handler shook his head. “You’re letting go of far more than that. Many people find it hard.”

  “Why is it so hard?”

  “Because you have been defined by this.” The Baggage Handler fixed a gaze on him with clouded blue eyes, a look approaching wistfulness. “What did you say when I said you probably would have missed out on the scholarship anyway?”

  Michael racked his brain, but nothing was there.

  “Exactly. You said nothing. No protest, no standing up for yourself and your talents. No disagreement. It was as if deep down you agreed with what I was saying.”

  Maybe I did. “You might be right.”

  “Your baggage defines you, Michael. Your dad has told you you’re no good for years, and that has shaped you.”

  The Baggage Handler jiggled the design portfolio. “This is great. And while you may have missed this opportunity today, that won’t be the only chance you’ll have to impress people with your art. But if you leave today without letting go, well . . .”

  More tears trickled down Michael’s cheeks. He jammed his eyes shut and willed his fingers to open, but they had his certificate in an iron grip.

  “You are a talented artist,” the Baggage Handler said.

  The tears still flowed as Michael was bathed in affirmation.

  The Baggage Handler nodded toward the certificate. “So what do you say?”

  Michael again willed his fingers to let go. The thick, condemning black handwriting at the foot of the page blurred as sobs racked Michael’s body. The paper quivered in his hand, and years of rejection bubbled to the surface and found their way out. Finally.

  Minutes passed, although it could have been hours. He first felt a flicker in his index finger—the tiniest muscle spasm. I have to let go. Another flicker, this time larger. I have to let go. His fingers complied and snapped open. At that moment, more than a weight lifted off Michael’s shoulders. He was weightless, as if gravity no longer applied to him. He was no longer bound by the force that had kept him low for so long.

  Michael clutched the design portfolio to his chest.

  The Baggage Handler wiped tears away with the back of his hand. “Congratulations! You’ve done far more than most people ever do. You’re an artist, Michael.”

  Those words wrapped Michael in what felt like a warm blanket. It was more than comfortable, it was . . . right. He was an artist.

  Then, on cue, the doubts shuffled their way back to the surface and smothered him in a familiar cloak of discomfort. The faint echo of his father’s voice filled the corners of his mind, and his eyes dropped to the carpet.

  The Baggage Handler sidled up and put an arm around him. “Come with me.” He ushered Michael to the full-length mirror.

  Michael jelly-legged his way to this mirror, feeling somewhat foolish but still light-headed from the exchange with this strange guy and whatever had just happened.

  “What do you see, Michael?”

  Michael looked at the Baggage Handler’s reflection standing next to his. “Me. Why?”

  An e
dge of excitement crept into the Baggage Handler’s voice. “I didn’t ask who you see; I asked what you see.”

  Michael stared hard at the Baggage Handler’s reflection. He juggled the design portfolio and shifted it from one hand to the other. He opened it, tracing his fingers along the lines of artwork that had burned into his memory.

  Then the words came, first to his mind, and then, unusually, they burst from his mouth. “An artist.”

  The Baggage Handler’s voice now sounded like it was miles away. “What do you see, Michael?”

  Michael’s voice strengthened as his confidence in his newfound identity grew. “I see an artist.”

  His eyes flicked to the mirror, and the Baggage Handler’s reflection was gone. The surface of the mirror was now shimmering, liquid mercury.

  A figure emerged through the liquid and stood tall in the center of the mirror. It was a man in his late thirties, goateed and dressed in the familiar, manic crisscross of a T-shirt designed by Jackson Pollock. Small circular glasses hid eyes he’d seen a thousand times.

  His eyes.

  How could that be? This man was at least twenty years older than him.

  The Baggage Handler’s voice came from behind him. Above him. Everywhere. “What do you see?”

  Michael’s voice was strong, powerful. Believing. “I see an artist.”

  The figure in the mirror smiled, and then turned away. The background behind him filled in to reveal an expansive room, spotlights bouncing from white walls onto polished black concrete. Sketches held in tiny black frames dotted each wall, taking pride of place in the glare of the spotlights.

  Michael knew this room—the long timber lines of the floor, the sheer white of the wall, the banks of sweeping spotlights—even though he had been there just once. It was the Museum of Modern Art in New York City, the scene of his wildest dreams.

  The figure in the mirror moved toward the sketches, and people appeared to his left and right, champagne glasses in hand. They patted him on the back and crowded around him for selfies.

  Michael smiled at the scene and squinted hard at the tiny frames. He recognized the sketch of his first girlfriend and his self-portrait. And the sketch of his mother, his first attempt at art. His art teacher had said it unveiled a talent he should pursue.

  On the far wall of the museum, a banner unfurled from the ceiling: Michael Downer, the Early Years. His future self stood between his sketches, a broad smile on his face as photographers snapped his picture. He had something Michael yearned to have.

  Purpose.

  Confidence.

  Contentment.

  The scene in the mirror flickered, and then faded. Michael reached out an instinctive hand to prolong the vision, but soon the mirror’s surface was back to liquid mercury.

  The Baggage Handler’s voice appeared at his shoulder. “Your future. The one you’ll have if you accept who you are and chase a dream that’s yours.”

  Michael’s head swam as his mind tried to process everything. He was going to be an artist. It would be all right. He looked at the mirror. His own reflection was back, still clutching the design portfolio to his chest.

  The Baggage Handler stepped forward next to him. “That’s great to see.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t sigh. You’ve been sighing since you got here.”

  “That’s my future?”

  “It is if you accept who you are.”

  Michael nodded as a peace washed over him. He would become an artist. Maybe not yet since he had missed his scholarship interview, but it would come. “How do I get out of here?”

  The Baggage Handler pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “I’ll call you a cab.” He whistled while the phone rang, and he got to the chorus of the song that had been buzzing around Michael’s head since he first heard it. He couldn’t help but sing along. “R-E-S-P-E-C-T.” He laughed as he shook his head. He should have known that tune—he had heard it coming out of the kitchen enough times while his mother baked.

  Michael zipped up his suitcase and, still unsure, tested it to make sure he could pick it up. He could, with ease.

  “The cab is on its way; it’s booked in your name.” The Baggage Handler extended a hand. “It’s been great to meet you, Michael. I’m so glad we had the chance.”

  Michael gave him a broad smile. “Now, what about this opportunity that’s just around the corner?”

  The Baggage Handler returned Michael’s smile and winked. “You’ll see.”

  29

  David blinked in the harsh glare of the bright sunshine as the wall of heat extracted beads of sweat from his forehead. He surveyed the street and walked toward the intersection, hoping to find a cab.

  A solitary car approached in the distance. It was a taxi, which, based on the abandoned streets, David thought must be lost. A stroke of luck. He plopped his suitcase on the sidewalk and hailed the cab.

  The driver slowed, and the passenger window lowered. “Michael Downer? I’ve been booked for a Michael Downer.”

  David threw a furtive glance down the street as familiar confidence surged through him. He could be a Michael for the next ten minutes. “Um, yeah, that’s me.” He started to open the door, but the driver had noticed the hesitation, and his eyes narrowed. “Really? You got some ID, pal?”

  David’s shoulders slumped. Beaten. The driver reached over and pulled the door shut, and then he drove away.

  He trudged down the street, this strange white building at his shoulder the whole way. His suitcase dragged on his arm. His phone reconnected with the world and his thumb searched for Julian’s number. How was he going to describe all this to his boss? Putting it down to stress would make the whole thing worse. But the airline would get the blame, and he would sue the pants off them if he lost his job. His stomach grumbled, desperate for antacid relief.

  His phone buzzed. A text message. From Sharon.

  When you get back, we need to talk.

  David dismissed her text with a flick of his thumb and savored the feeling of power that coursed through him. We’ll talk, all right, and I’ve got a few choice things to say. He smirked at the building that had kept him captive for hours. Deal with baggage. Whatever. I knew I was right. Before he could punch Julian’s number, his phone rang. Sharon. Self-satisfaction flowed through him as he toyed with shunting her to voice mail. But with a sense of superiority, he took the call.

  “What?”

  Breathy sobbing burst from the phone.

  It wasn’t Sharon.

  “Daddy, Daddy . . .”

  Caitlin.

  David shielded his eyes from the burning sun as he looked left and right for a taxi.

  “Caitie, what’s going on?” His heart thumped hard in his chest. He clutched at it as he sat on his suitcase, the sweat running in rivulets down his back.

  His daughter cried and cried, her words choked back by sobs.

  “Caitie, Daddy’s here. Daddy’s here. Just take a deep breath and tell me what’s going on.” Where’s Sharon?

  Caitlin sniffed back the tears, and each of her tiny breaths sucked the joy from his heart.

  “Daddy, Mommy’s just packed all the suitcases, and there’s a van in the driveway.”

  David’s heart seemed to sink into his stomach, now stewing in a broiling wash of acid. A hot wind whipped through the chain-link fence and extracted another wave of sweat.

  “She says we’re going to stay at Grandma’s for a while. Are we still going to see the princesses?”

  30

  Michael reached for his wallet, and a sinking realization hit him. He didn’t have quite enough money for both another twenty-two-dollar ride and another cab back to the airport. But he should go back to the university and give Coach Crosswell some kind of explanation. He owed him that.

  The usual feelings of inadequacy again stepped forward, but they were different. Without power. He could do this.

  The Baggage Handler put out a hand to stop him. “That’s okay. I’ve
already paid for it.”

  Michael pushed the hand aside and rushed forward to envelop the Baggage Handler in a hug. “Thank you so much.” As he squeezed, the last of his anxiety and worthlessness flowed from him. He slapped the Baggage Handler on the shoulder.

  “My pleasure.” The Baggage Handler tipped his cap. “That’s what I’m here for.” He led Michael back to the reception area and the door to the street.

  A horn tooted outside, announcing the taxi’s arrival.

  Michael headed out, the Baggage Handler in tow.

  The driver’s side window rolled down, revealing a young man in an open-necked shirt and tidy haircut. Not the driver who had brought him here. Thank goodness for that.

  “Michael Downer?”

  Michael nodded, jumped into the taxi, and told the driver where he needed to go. Michael looked out the back window as the cab pulled away. The Baggage Handler simply smiled and tipped his cap.

  What was this new opportunity? It had to be another chance to run for Coach. Maybe a spot had opened in his busy schedule. That had to be it.

  The heavy weight he’d become used to shouldering again fought its way back. If the opportunity wasn’t running for Coach, he’d have to face Dad’s ire and disappointment, and the usual dread loomed over him as another frantic thought flitted through his mind. He was going to be an artist, but how would he get there? His father would never support his college tuition in the arts; he’d made that crystal clear for as long as Michael could hold a pencil.

  Michael’s cell phone flickered into service and R2-D2 was back. A voice message.

  Coach?

  No.

  “Michael, Robyn Tonkin from the art school at Clarendon University. Your art teacher sent some samples of your work to me, and I’m impressed. I understand you’re here at CU to talk to the athletics program, but I would love to meet with you and talk about opportunities here at the art school, including a scholarship that might interest you. Would you mind giving me a call?”

  Emotion welled up in Michael as his great opportunity appeared in front of him. His heart seemed to swell in his chest, and he clutched his portfolio tighter.