The Doll
In my collection of dolls, only one ever hated me.
I met Terry one Christmas morning beside the tree, where she stood waiting to greet me. Blonde and blue-eyed like me, she wore a royal blue jogging suit and stood nearly as tall as my six-year-old shoulder. I must have requested a life-sized doll, because Santa had a way of only bringing what I wanted in those years.
I can’t remember if I named her Terry or if that was the name on the box. I just knew it was her name. She was lovely but somehow unsettling. Never wanting to hurt anyone, I did my best to convince myself, my parents, and Terry that I was thrilled by her arrival, but the coldness in her smile . . .
After Christmas, she stood beside my dresser, across from my bed, meaning she was always in my sightline before I went to sleep. My nightlight softly illuminated her face. I would wish her a courteous goodnight, not yet sure what she thought of me, nor I of her. It worried me that we weren’t bonding like I did with my other dolls.
Raggedy Ann and Andy never caused me such concern. Strawberry Shortcake and her pungent friends never inspired double-takes. Rag dolls Carrie and Amanda had warm eyes and soft smiles. The Barbies, Skippers, and Kens rested peacefully in special boxes until they were brought out to enact various melodramas. My beloved half-plastic, half-cloth little Honey Doll slept…
