The Long-Lost Desk of my Long-Lost Cousin
“Bye, Mom,” I waved, hopping out of the car. We were at the A2Ice3, otherwise known as the Ann Arbor Ice Cube. “Meet you in an hour!” I’d come to practice with my sisters, who take figure skating lessons with me. I walked inside, sat on a bench, and started lacing up my skates. But my mind kept wandering back to the jumble of stuff I’d seen outside, next to a dumpster. Why had good stuff apparently been dumped for garbage?
Blowing on my cold, red fingers, I walked out of the Cube into the frigid Michigan fall, glancing at the conglomeration of objects—wall hangings, sports equipment, furniture, and more—piled up next to and inside the blue dumpster. Among the assortment of junk, there was a children’s desk, almost unmarred, with the exception of some small drawings scratched, painted, and penciled on its white surface. Opening the colorful drawers that ran down the desk’s side, I noticed a name inside, painted in green. The name was “Allie,” my twenty-four-year-old cousin’s name. “That’s strange,” I murmured. Continuing to sift through the ostensible trash, I found a few framed quotes, a golf caddy with only a few missing clubs, and even a dusty footrest. Finally, my mom’s car appeared.
“You think this stuff was left for anyone to take?” I questioned, running to her open window.
Mariam, my 17-year-old sister, answered. “Why else would it be here?”
“But we can’t just take it,” I said dubiously. “I mean, it’s probably just trash, but you never know.”
“Let’s go ask someone, then,” my mom suggested.
We agreed and I went back inside to ask Mr. T. He’s a former hockey player who retired after an injury and drove the Zamboni, a machine that smoothens the ice. Mr. T assured us that the stuff was up for grabs. “Just some leftovers from a fund-raising sale,” he informed us, walking over to the pile. “Nothing nobody wants.” To my surprise, he clambered up the side of the five-foot-high dumpster and pulled out a few thingamajigs—some fake flowers with their sales tag still on, a cat-shaped planter, a few golf clubs, and an unopened pack of Hanukah candles. “You want any of this?” he offered, holding up his finds. Reaching for the planter, my nine-year-old sister, Aisha, noticed some gunk on its edge. “Ewwwww!" she exclaimed.
I made a wide turn around it, took the clubs, and slipped them into the caddy. Mr. T climbed back down and left, chuckling. “Thanks. Bye!” I called after him. After we managed to get the pictures, planter, caddy, and desk into the trunk, I commented about the name painted inside the desk’s top drawer.
“How was it spelled?” my mom inquired.
“'A-L-L-I-E.’ Why?”
“That’s a coincidence. Your cousin Allie spells her name like that, and that’s uncommon.”
“You think it could be Allie’s?” I ventured, doubtfully.
“I don’t think so…that’s a pretty wild guess, with her living so far away. How could her desk wind up here in Ann Arbor?” So I half-forgot about it, dismissing the possibility of such strange happenstance. Yet my mind kept whispering, in need of an answer. What if?
The next Saturday, we made the two-hour drive to my Aunt Barbara’s house. Aunt Barb, as we call her, is my mother’s much older half-sister. My mom’s dad, who was also Aunt Barb’s father, left Aunt Barb’s family when she was only two-years-old, never to return even to see her and her older brother, George, who sadly died of pneumonia when he was only ten. For reasons we’ll never know, my grandfather kept the existence of Aunt Barb and her brother a secret for the rest of his life, and my mom and her twin brother, Rex, knew nothing about them. He took the secret with him to his grave.
Then, two years ago, my Uncle Rex decided to pursue a hobby—researching our family tree. He soon was discovering all kinds of fascinating facts, including that my mom’s dad not only had ancestors from five different European countries, but even had Native American roots, with one of his great-great grandmothers having been a Chippewa Indian from the Ojibwa tribe (another secret he’d kept). But far more exciting and important than that, my Uncle Rex discovered his and my mom’s long-lost sister, Aunt Barb, then 88 years old. She turned 90 this summer, and she's an extremely kind and smart person who understands everything – but not everyone understands her. Sadly, she can barely speak now, due to a stroke that damaged the language section of her brain.
Aunt Barb was married when she was nineteen and had ten children, now all older adults (the youngest under fifty, the eldest nearly 70), who have all had children of their own. Aunt Barb’s youngest grandchild is sixteen years old, and many of her grandchildren have children already. Two of her grandchildren even have grandchildren, making Aunt Barb a great, great grandmother, with a grand total of over a hundred people! My sisters and I went from having three cousins to having over a hundred, both young and old.
Of course, after meeting them, we haven’t seen many of our cousins often, because of their huge number, making it impossible. That Saturday, five of our first-cousins were there at Aunt Barb’s house, including Karen (Allie’s mother), four of her seven sisters, and, indubitably, Daisy, Aunt Barb’s playful and protective, fawn-colored Chihuahua. A few minutes after we arrived, we told them about our experience at the ice rink, which they jokingly called “dumpster diving.” The desk we rescued from the trash was still in the trunk of my mom’s car, and I asked Karen if they’d like to see it. “Sure!” She replied. I ran out to the car and opened the trunk.
“Hey! Allie had a desk just like that when she was younger….even the handles were the same, with painted flowers….,” she commented with interest, fingering the smooth knobs.”
“Wow!” my older sister Fatima exclaimed, pulling out the top drawer. “We were thinking about that. What if it belonged to her? The name “Allie” is painted inside here!”
“I think it actually might be hers!” Karen said. “I’ll take a picture and send it to her.” Pulling out her phone, Karen added, “But how on earth could it have gone from New Baltimore to Ann Arbor?!”
I shrugged, smiling broadly. My wildest guess might have amazingly been proven true. A few minutes after we’d gone back inside, Allie replied to her mom’s text. “You’ll never believe what happened!” Karen grinned, plopping down into an armchair. “Around twelve years ago, when Allie was eleven or twelve, I put her old desk out by the curb for trash collection. Now it’s sitting in the trunk of your car!”
Nearly everyone’s jaw dropped in surprise and disbelief, and an astonished smile spread slowly over my mother’s face. “Do you think it’s really hers? After all these years?”
“It has to be,” Karen confirmed, glancing at her phone again. “I recognize the sea-green paint she used to write her name inside the drawer, because she had an art project she painted the same color. Now Allie wants to take the desk back, but she’s not going to have it. It’s for you and your sisters now!” Karen laughed.
“It’s almost like a miracle!” I replied. “How could we have found Allie’s desk, from your trash to the rink’s fund-raising sale, over ten years later, and after we’d met you all only two years ago, never even knowing you all existed? What are the chances of that?! Imagine if we’d never met, and we got the desk not knowing it had belonged to Allie! And imagine if Allie had never painted her name inside the drawer, or if you hadn't agreed to come out and have a look at it? Or if my mom hadn't still had it in her car?” How could all of that be mere coincidence? I was still wondering.
“So the desk you found in the trash was Allie’s childhood desk?!” Aunt Barb’s youngest daughter Lisa asked incredulously.
“Yep,” I confirmed, smiling from ear to ear.
“Oh. My. Gosh.”
A few moments later, we realized that it was almost dark outside and nearly eight p.m., so we had to leave for the long drive home. On the way back, my mom got a call from our cousin Carmen, who is exactly my mom’s age. Carmen had an idea.
“Really, Carmen? You really think we should write a book about finding the desk?" my mom said. "Well, we could try. Maybe we could call it The Long-Lost Desk of Our Long-Lost Cousin.”