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, disappointment 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.