The Baggage Handler

by David Rawlings

  “No.” The Baggage Handler folded his arms.

  Confusion exploded inside Michael’s head. “Hang on a minute. You just said I could leave it—”

  “That’s not what I said at all. I said you need to give it to me. There’s a huge difference between that and asking me to take it.”

  Michael churned that one over. “That’s just semantics.”

  The Baggage Handler leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his fingers laced. “Oh no, it’s far more than that. This is what people don’t understand. When you hand your baggage to me, it’s a conscious act of your will to hand it over, and then”—he framed the room with his hands—“this is the most important part: when you give it to me, you need to let go of it.”

  Michael nodded. “Fair enough.” He reached down into the suitcase and picked up the trophy. He looked at the plaque one final time and held it out to the Baggage Handler, who took it, a tear in his eye. Michael scooped up his father’s ribbons and certificates and dropped them into the Baggage Handler’s arms.

  The tiniest weight lifted from Michael’s shoulders—a release from the crushing pressure he’d adjusted to. Michael lifted his shoulders, free of gravity for the first time in forever.

  “I feel . . . different.”

  But a heaviness flitted across the Baggage Handler’s face. “We’re not done.” And he pointed again to the suitcase.

  26

  A fiery tempest raged in David’s soul. His rational self fought hard as it stood on one inalienable fact. This setup—whatever it was—was crazy. His emotional self—so often the underdog—tiptoed forward and observed that this strange young man from Baggage Services had a point. He had been working too hard. He hadn’t been around. While he was killing himself to provide everything his wife and child wanted to be happy, he hadn’t provided the one thing they needed—him.

  David closed his eyes as the battle raged on, and they snapped open as the victor announced itself. He had no choice. He had to do something, or else he would lose his family anyway once he lost his job.

  His rational self was adamant in triumph. Baggage was simple. You packed it before a trip, unpacked it after a trip, put it in the closet until the next trip. He would deal with it and then pack it away. That was the only way out of here: hand over this stuff—however it got into his suitcase was a question for later—and get back to head office. David looked down at his suitcase, the decision clear. He would get this over with and be on his way. He nodded to himself. Sorted.

  The Baggage Handler came back into the room, still whistling “Let It Go.”

  David prickled. “Hilarious.”

  The Baggage Handler cocked his head. “I thought it more relevant than funny. Anyway, what are you going to do?” Crystal-blue eyes beneath a thick curl bouncing across a forehead once again pierced deep into David’s soul.

  He checked his phone. Twenty minutes until his presentation. He could still make it.

  “I’ve made my decision.” David stood. “I tried tearing up everything and throwing it in the trash. I don’t know how you people did this, but when I reopened my suitcase, that stuff was back. Great trick, real Penn and Teller–type stuff there.”

  The Baggage Handler frowned. “That was no trick. That happened because it wasn’t a decision. It was avoidance. You can’t throw this stuff away, forget it, and hope your situation will get better. I’m just thankful there wasn’t a shovel left in here this time. The last guy tried to bury his baggage, and it popped right out of the ground. He almost fainted.”

  Nineteen minutes. “You’ve got a point. I have been working like a dog all year, so I can see how that might have contributed a little bit to our problems.”

  The Baggage Handler beamed. “I’m pleased you’ve started to realize that. I don’t expect you to put everything behind you this minute; it will take time, and you deserve that time to heal. Forgiveness isn’t easy, but you need to at least start. You’ll need to give your baggage to me, and then—”

  David dived into his suitcase and grabbed the items that in forty-five minutes had gone from nothing to the biggest stumbling block in his life. “Here, take it!”

  The Baggage Handler moved past David and perched on the edge of the sofa as he stroked his chin. “I sense you’re not sincere about this. Do you really want to deal with your baggage and move on?”

  David pinched the bridge of his nose as his pulse pounded in his ears. Eighteen minutes. “You asked me to give this to you, and now I’m doing it. Of course I’m sincere.”

  The Baggage Handler folded his arms and cocked his head, studying David. He nodded, once.

  “Handing over your baggage is just the start, but there’s one way I’ll know you’re sincere.”

  David exhaled in growing frustration, his heart now pounding hard. “You said—”

  The Baggage Handler stood and smoothed his overalls. “Yes, I said you needed to deal with your baggage. Let’s deal with it once and for all, shall we?” He ushered David to the full-length mirror on the far wall.

  What now? David stood in front of his reflection, the polo shirt and photo crumpled in his fists.

  The Baggage Handler leaned around David to talk to his reflection. “You might have heard the phrase ‘forgive and forget.’ Forgiveness is not just forgetting everything that happened. It’s much more than that, but in some ways so much less.”

  The feet of David’s reflection faded in the mirror, and a gray-and-white static replaced them. It spread across the mirror and swallowed him whole.

  Shocked, David half turned to the Baggage Handler. “What—”

  “Watch.”

  In the center of the mirror, a patch of angry, almost-black static softened to a light gray. The patch grew toward the top and bottom of the mirror into the outline of a person. Then the first color appeared at the bottom of this figure. Bright pink. Then flesh. Painted toenails poked through a woman’s open-toed sandals.

  David was transfixed as the gray morphed to shapely legs, covered by white linen pants.

  A tingle started at the base of David’s spine and crawled its way up to his neck. Those legs had won him over years ago. Above them was a teal-blue blouse David knew well, as recognizable as the day he bought it three years ago.

  David gaped. “How—”

  “Watch.”

  Sharon’s face filled in, her long brunette curls bouncing on her shoulders. David was eye to eye with his wife. They stared at each other in quiet wonder. For the first time in a long time.

  Sharon’s reflection stared, as if studying him. She frowned, and tears welled in her eyes. She moved to speak, and a whisper drifted from the mirror in a trail of vapor.

  “I’m so, so sorry.”

  David had heard those words before. A long time ago. They came with the same sincerity that had come with her first few apologies. The ones he’d stormed out on. Sharon’s sincerity had faded since then.

  The Baggage Handler’s voice appeared at his shoulder. “She wants your forgiveness. Do you forgive her?”

  The polo shirt in David’s hand trembled as he stared, eroding the stone he’d created inside himself for protection. Still, he was safe behind it. “She crushed me. All that work was so I could provide for them—”

  A single sob came from behind David. “I know . . . I know . . . But you need to let it go.”

  David’s emotional side stormed forward, laying claim to ground he’d conceded. It reminded him he had wanted to move on, but something always stopped him. Always. Memories of past events he knew little about and imagination that painted detail in angry color. He looked down at his feet. The suitcase. The polo shirt with the bright pink lipstick stain. His indignance fought back for control.

  “I can’t. Everything I did to provide for her—”

  Tears bubbled to the surface, further eroding the stone around his heart. He fought hard to push them down into the place he’d allocated for them. Deep down.

  The Baggage Handler’s voice now appear
ed to be floating above him. “Forgiveness is starting somewhere. Let’s try it with a few simple words. Words you’ve kept down. Deep down.”

  But the words wouldn’t rise. David’s chest ached, and his stomach grabbed him. Again.

  “What’s done is done, David. But what isn’t done is the pain you’re causing yourself.”

  A crack appeared in his defenses, and a sliver of light shone through. The thought of forgiving his wife eased into his mind and then lingered as it wasn’t banished. The pain in his chest eased. The knot in his stomach he’d grown accustomed to loosened.

  A hand clamped on his shoulder and squeezed. “Let it go.”

  David squeezed his eyes shut, warmed by a glow in his chest he hadn’t felt for years as life flowed through veins that had hardened under a thick treacle pulse of anger and bitterness.

  “This is about trust, David. You can move forward. You need to have many conversations with Sharon, but they won’t start if you won’t accept her.”

  David’s indignance wrestled for control one last time and lost. “I think I do forgive her.”

  The warmth spread through him. He felt light on his feet as he opened his eyes. Tears ran down the cheeks of Sharon’s reflection.

  A hint of flint appeared in the Baggage Handler’s voice. “Words are powerful. You think you do or really do?”

  He could forgive her. It would take a while for him to trust her again, but he was willing to try.

  Sharon’s reflection smiled. The same crooked smile that captivated him across the restaurant ten years ago. The same crooked smile that said, I do. The same crooked smile he hadn’t seen for six months.

  The Baggage Handler’s voice still carried a harsh edge. “To truly forgive is to move beyond the pain. And to trust.”

  David returned Sharon’s smile for the first time in a long time. But as she smiled, her lips fizzled and crackled as they glowed and shone. They turned bright pink. The shade she saved for special occasions.

  A splinter caught in David’s mind.

  Sharon’s reflection flicked a glance down at David’s hands and smiled.

  David followed her eyes to the polo shirt he still held. The bright pink on the collar . . .

  His anger whirred into action like a giant turbine awakened for power.

  Sharon held his gaze. That crooked smile . . .

  David’s breathing shortened as the pain of betrayal rushed at him. His anger accelerated as a bitter distrust rose in his throat with bile he’d been used to choking back or treating with antacids.

  I knew it wasn’t over!

  The smile fell from Sharon’s face as she put out her hands, as if to say, What more can I do?

  David closed his eyes as his temples throbbed with white-hot anger. The photo and polo shirt shook in his fists as a tremor worked its way up his arms.

  The Baggage Handler’s voice appeared at his shoulder, behind him again. “You need to trust, David. Not for her, but for you.”

  David’s chest heaved as his ribs seemed to close in around his heart. His stomach snapped back to its familiar knot. “It’s not fair!”

  The voice from behind him quavered. “I know. But your unforgiveness is killing you. It’s eating you alive, yet I know you can do it. You can forgive your wife.”

  David slammed his eyes shut as his whole body shuddered. No, he couldn’t do this.

  The Baggage Handler’s voice was now all around him. “Your pain was starting to go. Remember how you felt—”

  David breathed hard through his nose as the injustice, explosive fuel to a tinder-dry righteous anger, flooded back through him. “I know exactly how I felt. Ripped off. Used.”

  “But, David—”

  The fuel ignited and rage swallowed him whole. With a primal scream, six months of pain and hurt surged through him. He dropped the polo shirt and photo and pounded his fists on the mirror, which shattered into a spiderweb of destruction. He pounded the mirror again, and it exploded into a billowing cloud of shards and glass dust. David pummeled the mirror again and again, each hammerblow driven by a guttural scream. He slumped to his knees as the sobs racked his body, his fists still stuck to the mirror.

  The Baggage Handler’s voice was now a whisper. “Oh, David. It looks like you’ve made a choice.”

  David dragged himself to his feet, spun in a fury, and faced the Baggage Handler with fiery, narrowed eyes. “Yes, I have. Now, let me out of here!”

  The Baggage Handler bit a quivering lip. “Even if it means carrying this baggage around with you for the rest of your life?”

  David panted through clenched teeth, and his chest heaved in defiance. “Yep. I didn’t notice it was there before.”

  “I don’t think I can do much more for you this time.” The Baggage Handler brushed aside the shards of glass and picked up the polo shirt and photo. He placed them into the suitcase and zipped it up.

  David moved to lift his baggage, wary of the last time he’d tried to lift it. “So now I can leave?”

  The Baggage Handler stood back with a sweep of his arm. “You’ve made your choice, so you’ve fulfilled your contract. For now.” Tears filmed his blue eyes before they trickled their way down his cheeks. “My hope is that you will find your way back here.”

  David breathed his white-hot rage, savoring the power. It might come in handy for the board presentation. “There’s no way I’ll be coming back.”

  The Baggage Handler brushed away the tears. “I hope you will, David. You need to.”

  David’s chest heaved as he lunged for the suitcase and lifted it. This time there was no resistance, just weight. “Whoever you are, whatever you are, it’s been fun. But I’ve got to get back on track to save my career.”

  The Baggage Handler stepped back and opened the door. “The offer is always there. You know where to find me. You found me this time.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” David peered around the doorframe, expecting to see the corridor disappearing into infinity as it had before. Instead, there was a large black door in front of him, open to the street.

  27

  Gillian’s heart fluttered as she looked deep into the eyes of the stranger in the mirror.

  She was . . . beautiful? Sparkling hazel eyes not surrounded with the dark circles she expected. Blond hair that was tidy and neat in defiance of an early-morning plane trip. She took in her full reflection. Her blouse was crisp and not creased, her dress pants were fresh and not crumpled, and her thighs weren’t the massive legs of mutton she’d been convinced they were.

  The Baggage Handler stood behind her, tears pricking his eyes. “This is how the rest of the world views you. It would be great if you could see what we all see.”

  Gillian’s breath deserted her as she raised a hand and wiggled fingers she’d always seen as age ravaged and chubby. Her reflection’s slender fingers did the same. “I had no idea.”

  “I think in a way you didn’t want to allow yourself to have an idea.”

  The stranger in the mirror stared back. A stranger who reminded her of her younger self, before time, three boys, and comfort chocolate exacted a heavy toll. The heaviness Gillian constantly needed to sigh away was gone. She felt . . . okay. Good about herself, even.

  Her reflection looked over Gillian’s left shoulder, and then her right. Gillian’s mouth fell open, and then her reflection caught her gaze and winked before looking down at the floor.

  Wisps of fog billowed around the feet of her reflection. Gillian looked down at her own feet. Nothing. Back in the mirror, white-marble-and-dark-gray clouds billowed to fill the reflection of the waiting room, a mesmerizing wave of drifting, rolling smoke.

  Gillian’s heart skipped a beat at the hint of movement behind her reflection. Ghosted figures swept from one side of the mirror to the other, flying through the gray.

  Gillian’s reflection looked to one side as one ghosted figure flew in and settled next to her. The outline of a person appeared at her side, a head taller than her, at a height both
comfortable and recognizable. The cloud pushed back as waves of color swept through the outline, a shimmering kaleidoscope that filled in the figure from the edges. A belt appeared around the figure’s waist, similar to a belt she’d picked up from her bedroom floor a thousand times before. She saw light-brown chinos and a blue polo shirt, embroidered with a company logo on the chest. She’d washed shirts just like that one a thousand times.

  Features materialized—kind blue eyes, brown, curly hair thinning at the top, and a goofy smile that could both infuriate her and melt her heart. The face of her husband.

  Rick looked down at her reflection, that goofy smile plastered all over his face. Her reflection returned his loving gaze.

  Gillian smiled at the mirror as her reflection reached for Rick’s hand.

  To the left of her reflection, the smoke parted as three smaller figures ghosted in, one taller, two the same size. Waves of kaleidoscopic color swept back and forth across their figures as details filled in. Bike helmets and skinned knees. Mismatched socks and holey basketball shoes. Her boys. They looked up at their mother’s reflection with admiration, love burning in their eyes. Tyson grabbed her reflection’s hand and squeezed it.

  That broke the dam wall of Gillian’s emotions, and the tears started.

  “What—”

  The Baggage Handler’s voice appeared behind her, above her, all around her.

  “Watch.”

  Rick took one step back and brought his hands together in a soft clap. Her boys joined in the applause for their mother. Their enthusiasm rose to a crescendo, the four men in her life cheering and whooping. Her reflection basked in the appreciation and stood tall.

  The tears cascaded down Gillian’s cheeks as her family acknowledged her for who she was in this scene of love . . . and of something elusive. Her reflection showed her something that made her feel . . .

  Gillian looked over her shoulder. Her family wasn’t there, but the Baggage Handler was. His tears fell without shame as he joined in the applause and nodded toward the mirror.