Gillian froze. “We’re not done yet?”
The Baggage Handler nodded his head at the open suitcase. “We’ve dealt with how you see the rest of the world, and now we need to do something about how you see yourself.”
Nerves slowed Gillian’s faltering speech as she reached into the suitcase for the silver mirror. “O . . . kay.”
It was gone. A mirror was there, but it wasn’t silver. This one had a chunky, heavy, black frame.
“What happened to the silver mirror?”
“The mirror was never silver, Gillian. Now you’re seeing the world for what it is. You’re seeing the mirror for what it is. It was always like that.”
Gillian wrapped shaky fingers around the thick handle, careful to keep the reflective side away from her as she turned it over. It was now wavy and distorted, like a carnival mirror. Old habits kicked in as she avoided catching her own gaze. But this fantastical mirror that was once silver—but was never silver—drew her in. She snuck a peek. Her hair was everywhere, and black bags underlined her eyes. Then it dawned on her. This was what she looked like in this mirror, but it was distorted.
Gillian held the mirror at arm’s length. “I look no different.”
“But now you know it’s the mirror that’s distorted.” The Baggage Handler’s eyes sparkled with compassion. “Why is it so hard for you to see yourself as you are? You don’t think that’s the real you?”
“How many people see themselves like this?”
“You’re gear-shifting the subject, Gillian—a move you’ve perfected over the years. But the answer is, you’d be surprised. One of the big giveaways is when someone draws attention to themselves for the sole reason of eliciting praise from others for reassurance.”
The air filled with heavy implication, and Gillian understood what he was talking about. Or, more specifically, about whom. “Becky.”
“That’s the thing. You’ve spent your whole life measuring yourself against your sister, and you’ve never realized that, as much as you want to be Becky, most of the time she doesn’t even want to be Becky.”
Gillian turned the mirror over in her hands. She looked again at her reflection, the scales falling from her eyes and her mind, inch by inch, realizing the mirror she used to see herself in was damaged. “Why do we do this to ourselves?”
“I don’t think there’s an easy answer. Maybe it’s a primal drive of competition to survive. Maybe it’s the slick marketing of the twenty-first century delivered by advertising sharks with two-hundred-dollar haircuts and Gucci loafers. But so many of you avoid seeing the real you.”
Gillian sat back on the sofa, the question she had buried for years now scratching its way to the surface. “Who is the real me?”
The Baggage Handler pointed to the full-length, mahogany-framed mirror on the wall. “She’s in there.”
Gillian stiffened as a primal terror reached up from deep within and grabbed her by the throat. “I don’t want to see the real me.”
The Baggage Handler fixed a gaze on her with clouded blue eyes, a look approaching wistfulness. “Why not?”
The shadow of an answer flitted across her mind. It comforted and defined her, but it had also shackled her and become the answer she lived by. Her voice came in a whisper. “Because I’m not worth looking at.”
A tear trickled its way down each of the Baggage Handler’s cheeks. “You are worth looking at. You were made for a purpose; you have your mix of skills, talents, and personality traits for a reason. Comparison ignores what makes you, you. You shouldn’t be someone else. You’re Gillian.” His voice rose with passion as he got to his feet. “Don’t you see? That’s your problem! You see others better than they are because of how you feel about yourself! It justifies this view.” The Baggage Handler’s voice dropped to an impassioned whisper. “But it’s also not true.”
Gillian’s reflex was to brush him off, but the Baggage Handler wouldn’t be denied as he reached out to her, trembling fingers spread wide.
“This has always been a problem for you—and it always will be—until you make a choice to change.”
Defiance from decades of experience crept into Gillian’s voice as she tried everything to push this conversation away. “But everyone is better than me.”
The Baggage Handler stared off into the distance. “Who says what they present to the world is real? They’re spending their lives wondering if they measure up to what everyone else is doing. Take Becky for example—”
Gillian huffed. “My sister is perfect. I do wish I was like her.”
“Why?” The Baggage Handler threw out frustrated hands as he snapped his response.
Gillian jumped. Her inner monologue streamed out of her. “Well, she’s gorgeous. She’s rich because she’s married to a guy who earns a heap of money . . .” The more she spoke, the easier the words tumbled out. “Her daughter is getting married. She has a lot of rich friends—”
The Baggage Handler cocked his head. “All stuff she wants you to see. Have you ever asked how she’s doing behind the mask?”
Over the phone, she and Becky had had several false starts toward genuine sharing, but the conversations always veered to the shallows. Her sister was gifted in glossing over anything real and moving on to topics in which she was fluent. Which were safe. “I’ve tried, but she moves the discussion on to what she’s bought or what she’s done.”
The Baggage Handler stroked his chin. “And why do you think that is?”
The answer dawned on Gillian like the first crack of light at sunrise. She drifted back to the button her sister wore at the airport, the one about being the mother of the bride. Becky acted like she wasn’t interested in attention, but she spent her life in a desperate attempt to be noticed.
The Baggage Handler knelt in front of Gillian. “May I give you an insight into your sister that might help?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “She’s terrified anyone will see the real her.”
“But Becky is some kind of superwoman—”
“That’s what she wants you to think, but I’ve seen so many people who wear the cape not because it will help them fly, but so they can be identified as a hero.”
The pieces of Becky’s life fell into place like completing a jigsaw puzzle. Her constant talk of busyness. The car that had to be newer than everyone else’s. A husband spoken of only in terms of his achievements.
“Plus,” he said, “the cape is ideal to help them hide what they’re carrying around.”
That first crack of light now expanded into a wide beam. In an instant her sister made sense, and for the first time in a very long time, Gillian no longer looked up to her sister with awe.
“Anyway, enough about Becky,” the young man said. “Back to you. What would Rick do if he was married to Becky?”
Gillian laughed. She and Rick had joked about that for years, and his answer was always the same. “He would disappear into his shed and never come out.”
The Baggage Handler’s piercing eyes sparkled.
“Do you love Rick?”
Tears welled in Gillian’s eyes. “With all my heart.”
The Baggage Handler fixed a gaze on her with clouded blue eyes, a look approaching wistfulness. “So why do you want to be like someone who would chase away the man you love with all your heart?”
This insight illuminated the whole picture of her life, her sister, and her family. Light shone into the corners of Gillian’s life she had kept dark for years. The iron grip of her self-esteem inched apart.
“Your family wants you to see the real you. Rick wants you to see the real you. And I want you to see the real you.” He stood and held out his hand.
Gillian stared past him at the full-length mirror on the wall. It was a few feet away, but it would require her to travel miles over emotional quicksand covered with thorns and bracken.
“What do you say, Gillian?”
Her self-loathing fought one last battle to convince her that a look in the mirror was the last thing she wanted to do, but she drew a deep breath and took the Baggage Handler’s outstretched hand. It was warm.
He smiled at first, and then his face broke into a massive grin.
Gillian’s jelly legs wobbled as she slowly took the few steps toward the mirror. She stood in front of it, her eyes glued to the carpet.
The Baggage Handler stood to one side, a small squeal escaping his lips. He drummed his fingertips against each other, faster and faster, like a child on Christmas morning at the top of the stairs.
With a deep breath, Gillian forced her eyes from the carpet up to the reflection of her feet. Her shoes were different, less scuffed. Her eyes made their way up until she caught her own gaze and was staring herself full in the face.
“Oh.”