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.