Ellen's Charm

Maybe you see me there, climbing into the immense bed on Peak’s Island in the vacation house we rented for Susie and Ben’s wedding.

You’ve been on my mind again this week. You left this world ten years ago, before you could see your daughter graduate from PT school, before you could see her married. You left this world, but maybe, you haven’t missed a thing.

A childhood friend gave Susie a charm to tie into her wedding bouquet. Perhaps you saw the flowers delivered this morning. Did you notice the long flat box overflowing with chaotic bundles of cornflower blue, sunny yellow, pumpkin orange, and violet-purple flowers? Colors that you also loved and grew in your garden?

Susie loves the messy wildflower look too.

“What is it?” Susie questioned her friend’s serious eyes as she handed her the ribboned box.

“Now your mom can be part of your wedding too,” she said.

Did you see Susie open the box? Did you see the solid silver pendant with an oval photo of young and beautiful you? Delicate silver loops framed your smiling face. A thin blue ribbon threaded the clasp.

They hugged in a quick clutch of gratitude. “Will you help me tie it on?”

Maybe you watched them, heads bent together after deciding which side of the cascading bouquet should face forward. The bridesmaids agreed; it was the perfect way to include you on this special day.

But it’s much later now. The sunset wedding was perfect overlooking the bay. Love was palpable in the vows, in the readings; in the smiles, tears, and shining faces of friends and family gathered on this small island in Portland, Maine. We danced for hours after the ceremony; drumming our happiness into the deck with love in our feet.

Perhaps you were there as the reception moved toward its final minutes. Lightning split the night sky, and provided a finale of fireworks, forking in all directions. Maybe you saw the dark clouds tower up from the horizon and creep toward us across the bay. Thunder undoubtedly accompanied the lightning, but we only had ears for the band until the storm engulfed us in thick fat drops. Balls of ice bounced and rolled into every corner of the deck. The musicians stopped playing to roll down the isinglass curtains to protect their equipment, and we heard and felt the thunder like deep bass in our bones. A cool, strong wind blew through and broke the intense summer heat. It was here and gone in less than ten minutes, leaving welcome relief and a spectacular ending to the evening reception.

Guests dispersed, and Susie and Ben took the ferry across the bay to spend their first night as husband and wife in Portland, the town where they met. We walked back to the house quilted in love and the cool comfort of a quiet night sky.

. . . . .

Paul’s phone buzzed beside me. It’s Ben. He and Susie must have just reached their hotel room. “Hi, Ben! Happy wedding day.”

“Linda, oh my god,” Susie’s voice is strained with panic. “My mom’s charm...”

Then, nothing. The phone goes black, dead battery. I find my own phone to call her back and hear Joey’s low voice muffled in the next room as I click her contact. She had called her brother.

Ben answers my call. “The charm is gone,” he says in a flat voice. “Here, talk to Suze.”

“Oh, Linda,” Susie is on the verge of tears, “I wasn’t thinking. I just told them to throw them all away.”

“Wait. What happened?”

“I left it on the bouquet. My mom’s charm.” She sighs and the happiness of the day fades. “I told them to just throw the flowers away.”

“Maybe the flowers are still there.” I say. “I’ll drive down right now and check.”

The last ferry leaves at 11:55. I check my watch. 11:50.

“I can still get there,” I say. “But I have to go now.” I click the phone off, pull on shorts and a T-shirt and talk to Paul’s back.

“I’m going back down to Jones Landing to find Susie’s charm. I have to catch the wedding planner before she heads back to the mainland.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” Paul asks from a jumble of pillows and sheets.

“I’ve got this.” I grab my keys and head out. Joey is waiting at the front door.

“Ready for a little dumpster diving?”

“I’m game,” he answers, and we hurry to the car.

Maybe you see the two of us, your grown son and me, moving in quick silence to the car and driving the short distance back to town. Maybe you see what we see, the ferry pulling away from the dock as we make the turn toward the wedding venue. My heart sinks. The wedding venue is dark and empty.

Do you watch us park the car and climb the steps to the deck where, just an hour earlier, dozens of happy guests had danced and cheered? Do you see the tables cleared and tidy, the chairs stacked? A single table is loaded with centerpiece flowers, but there are no wedding bouquets in sight. We check the doors into the building. All locked. We peer through dark windows. The whole place is neat and clean.

Maybe you see us walk around the building to check the trash barrels. The smell of stale alcohol greets us as we open each barrel along the outside wall. We shine our cell phone lights inside. Only empty bottles for recycling. No flowers. No trash. “Where could it be? Did they pack it all into the van?”

I remember seeing the catering van parked alongside the building earlier in the day. They had brought all the food over on the ferry. A small army of wedding servers with everything they needed for the event.

We call Susie with heavy hearts as we drive back to the house.

“Did you find it?” I hear the hope in her voice.

“Maybe you can call the wedding planner,” I suggest. “There was no trash at Jones Landing. The flowers have to be in the van they used to transport the food.”

“We tried calling her,” Ben said. “We left a message. Maybe Jen can make another charm.”

Disappointment and fatigue hang in the air as we say good night. It is hard to hold the weight of a sad ending to such a beautiful day.

. . . . .

But you were watching all of this. Did you tap on my shoulder or whisper in my ear when you woke me with a startle at 4 AM? Did you plant the thought in my mind? “Wait! The 11:55 ferry wasn’t a car ferry.” I replay my memory of the ferry pulling away. It had been a passenger ferry; not a car ferry. There would have been no catering van on that late night ferry. The van would have left hours earlier on the last car ferry of the day. The trash from the wedding is still on the island! Where could it be?

Then I remember. Or, maybe you remind me that I had passed the island transfer station by chance earlier that day. We had taken a golf cart on an exploratory spin, seen the fenced and gated dump, read the sign about hours of operation and household trash.

You are with me, as I slip out of bed and drive to the station nestled out of sight on a dirt road lined with scrub brush and pine trees in the middle of the island. It is enclosed on all sides by a tall chain link fence, but two gates are chained loosely together across the entrance.

The sign reads:

Transfer Station Hours: Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays 7 AM- 3 PM

No entering when gate is closed except to dump household trash.

I park the car and slip easily between the hinged gates. It is growing lighter in the east, and I startle a clutch of seagulls who squawk angrily at me as they flap their wings and lift up and out of two huge rusting containers just inside the gate.

What are you doing here at this hour? they seem to say. This is our place.

I approach the giant dumpsters. The smell of rotting garbage overpowers the salt air. I step onto the lower edge, and try to balance. I am afraid to touch the stinking, dirty metal. I can just peek over the top by standing on tiptoe.

Yes! The container is filled to the top with dark plastic bags. I can smell stale beer and rotting food. The seagulls have torn open several of the bags. They continue to scold me. Leave it alone, they squawk. This is ours. I reach over the edge and widen a small tear in the nearest bag: empty water bottles, beer bottles. No flowers.

I try for a second bag. I strain to reach deeper into the decay. I don’t have to open this one. The seagulls have torn it open to get at the food inside. Is that wedding cake? I remember watching the caterers collect the leftover white cake onto a platter. This was it!

I move around to the other side of the dumpster and stand on tiptoe. The seagulls have torn a hole into a third bag that I can just reach from my perch. An orange blossom peaks through the opening. I catch my breath. Another hole, tiny blue flowers. Could this be it?

You must see me reach for the bag and pull the tied end toward me. Is it your hand guiding me to loosen the knot to find the discarded wedding bouquets? The charm is right there, right on top. Goosebumps run down my spine as you smile up at me from the colorful mass of wilting flowers. I wrap my hand around the thick bouquet Susie had carried down the aisle just twelve hours earlier. I lift it out of the dumpster, and hold it over my head as I step down in triumph. I carry it away from the dumpster like a trophy. “We found it! We found it!” I shout to the seagulls. They flap their wings and squawk for me to leave. I can’t believe our good fortune.

“Thank you, Seagull,” I shout. “Thank you, Ellen!” The gull bobs her head up and down, motioning yes. She calls to me again. Now get out of here and let me have my breakfast!

I got back to the house about 5 AM, the sky was just beginning to brighten, but I crawled into bed, snuggled up to Paul’s warm back and whispered, “I found it. I found the charm.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” he mumbled in his sleep. “Susie will be happy.” I smiled and curled around him, knees tucked into knees, arm around ribs, hand sneaking under his lower arm. A perfect fit.

Adrenalin and amazement coursed through me. I replayed all the events that led me to the charm. It couldn’t have happened any other way.

I recalled the centerpiece flowers gathered at the venue. I got up and took the car to pick them up. We would have to return the vases to the florist, but the flowers were beautiful, and we should enjoy them for our last day on the island. I unloaded each one to the front steps of the house. Arranging and rearranging until it looked welcoming and festive.

Then, I noticed the recycling bins filled to overflowing on the front porch. I knew where to take them. I loaded the car and got there a few minutes after the posted opening, 7 AM.

The transfer station was now an entirely different world than it had been in the pre-dawn hours. The sun was higher and brighter in the sky. It had burned off the early morning fog, and the seagulls were gone. The gates were wide open, and I could drive right into the large containers set up for recycling over a wide expanse of gravel and asphalt.

The dumpsters looked empty as I drove by, not heaped with trash bags as they had been just a few hours earlier. After dumping the cans and bottles into the designated containers, I walked back there, stepped up and peeked inside. They were EMPTY. Completely empty!

A lanky white-haired man monitored the station. I walked his way. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“Well, yes. I was here earlier this morning and the dumpsters were full. What happened to what was inside?”

He pointed across the pavement to a shed with a ramp leading up to a large maroon metal container extruding from the front end of the building. The front half of the container was attached to a huge trash compactor. “In there,” he said. “All compacted.”

“But the station just opened. How did you do that so fast?”

“Oh, I was here at six this morning. I like to get an early start. Saturdays are always busy.”

“So, anything that was in those dumpsters.....” I paused.

He looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Closed and compacted. I do it first thing. Those dumpsters are always overflowing on Saturday mornings.”

The hair raised on my arms. Chills ran down my spine.

You knew all along, didn’t you?

Thank you, Ellen!

. . . . .

Here’s to 10 years of Marriage!

Happy Anniversary, Susie and Ben!