story

Chapter 2

She strolled purposefully down the narrow walk, looking intently into the shops’ windows. The glass reflected the early morning sun as Irene paused at one of her favorite places to visit. She was looking for that very special birthday gift, the gift that Sarah would love more than any other gift she would receive on her special day. Irene’s long skirts brushed the ground stirring up the dust that coated her low-healed high-buttoned shoes. As she opened the door to the shop, Miss Jamison greeted Irene with a wide smile that was infectious.

“Mrs. Fisher, how nice to see. How are you?”

Irene returned the smile. “I am just fine. And you? Have you had many visitors today?”

“It’s still early. I’m sure it will pick up soon. What can I help you with today? Something for yourself?”

“No, not today. Today is for Sarah. It’s her birthday next week and I’m looking for something different. Do you have any ideas?”

“Actually, I do. I have many unique things. Have you considered a hat? How old will Sarah be? It seems like the last time I saw her, she was just getting interested in dresses.”

Irene laughed. She wished Sarah was interested in dresses and girl things. But Sarah was a bit of a tomboy. Irene tried to make her little girl more like the other little girls in her school. But Sarah was an independent thinker and knew what she liked and what she didn’t. Dresses were something that she only wore when she absolutely had to. “I think I would need to get her into a dress before I consider a hat,” she laughed.

Miss Jamison chucked. “Oh, she’ll grow out of it eventually. They always do. It just takes some little girls longer than others.”

Irene smiled and continued to move about Miss Jamison’s shop, touching this material or fingering that lace. “Beautiful!” she commented.

“Thank you.”

Irene followed the aisle to the back of the store where Miss Jamison had a curio shelf filled with odds and ends – some from far away, some from long ago. Irene’s light brown eyes drifted over the shelves. What would Sarah like? In the corner of a high shelf sat a porcelain doll. Irene was mesmerized by its beauty. The China was flawless and color, so natural. Her high rouged cheekbones gave her an aristocratic look. Glorious auburn luckies cascaded down her back and over her narrow shoulders. The thick curls reminded her of Sarah long brown, soft locks. The lips were bright red but inviting. It was the eyes that had caused Irene to gasp. Crystal blue with the longest dark eyelashes that she had ever seen on a doll. She could tell the dress was made from the finest material with lace accents along the edge. Billowing skirts were pinched at the waist identifying a narrow bodice that ended with a jeweled neckline. Perched on top of head was a wide brimmed fashionable hat with a matching ribbon. The outfit was finished with white gloves, laced boots, and a parasol. Irene stared. She extended her hand and was able to touch the hemline of the billowing skirt. The doll was just out of reach.

Miss Jamison walked up behind Irene, startling her. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

Irene could only nod.

“Would you like to see her?”

“Yes, I would. She looks very expensive.”

“She is made from porcelain and the clothes are all handmade. We just got her in the shop.”

Irene took the doll in both hands. She was even more beautiful up close.

“Look at the details in her face. Have you ever seen such fine work? And look at this… May I?” Miss Jamison carefully took the doll into her hands and moved the doll’s arms. The legs moved back and forth as though they were walking, while the head moved side to side. The eyes were looking around as the head moved and appeared to blink.

“Her eyes will open and close, too,” said Miss Jamison.

She held the doll out to Irene. Irene hesitated and then accepted the doll, holding it out in front of her, looking into its eyes. “I’ll take it,” she said before she could change her mind or consider the expense.

“I’m sure your daughter will love it!”

Irene only smiled and hoped so.

Miss Jamison accepted the doll from Irene’s hands and carefully took it to the front counter. She laid it down almost reverently and smiled. “I’ve never seen a doll like this in all my years running this shop. It was purchased from an obscure doll maker in the city. It is an art, you know, to be able to replicate the features with such fine workmanship. I’ve heard there are only a few who can match this doll maker’s skill.”

Irene watched as Miss Jamison pulled out several sheets of tissue paper and placed in on the countertop. She lifted the doll and placed it in the center of the soft sheets. First one corner and then the other were lifted and methodically folded around the full skirts and pinned in place. She took another sheet of the tissue paper and placed it over the auburn tresses and around the face. “This is just to prevent her hair from possibly getting tangled when I put her in your bag.” Miss Jamison carefully lifted the doll from its reclining position and slipped it, feet first, into the large paper bag, the tissue protecting the doll. She bent the legs at the hips, so the doll was sitting in the bottom of the bag with her skirts spread out about her. Miss Jamison added more tissue paper around the doll to prevent her from being jostled while Irene was walking home. “I’m sure your daughter will just love it! It will look beautiful on her bed.” She carefulled wrapped the parasol and slipped it into the bag

“I’m sure it will,” replied Irene, as she took the handles of the bag from Miss Jamison. The doll seemed heavier than it had when Miss Jamison gave it to her from the shelf. “Such a gorgeous doll,” she thought.

“Thank you for all your help,” Irene said. “I appreciate your time.”

“You’re welcome. It was my pleasure.”

Irene walked out the door and headed uptown toward the park and home. The bag had enough weight that it hung straight down at her side. She could feel a bit of strain in her shoulder and switched hands. She glanced inside the bag to see if the doll was okay. She could just barely see the top of the doll head with the curled auburn luckies partially visible under the large brimmed hat through the tissue. The doll’s hand was slightly raised and resting on the tissue paper, pushing is away from her face.

Irene stopped and placed the bag on the park bench. She cautiously inserted her hands into the bag and carefully removed the tissue paper from the doll’s face. The doll’s eyes were open and watching. Irene did not realize she was holding her breathe until she gasped. The clear porcelain complexion looked radiant. The long fingers, with its red nail polish, were now resting on top of the tissue paper, holding it. Her lips were slightly parted and smiling. Irene did not remember the lips being slightly parted, let alone smiling. She reached into the bag to lift the doll from its protected covering, when she stopped. Removing her hands, she decided she better wait until she got home.

The story of the China Doll began in 1952 when she arrived at my home for my birthday. I wasn’t allowed to play with her because I was told she was fragile. Made out of porcelain, the doll had eyes that blinked when she was tipped, and head moved back and forth when you moved her legs. She was dressed in a spectacular lace dress. I never really liked that doll. She sat on my bed and watched.

THE CHINA DOLL

By Deborah M. Stankevich

Chapter 1

The doll sat on the back of the couch, its hair raggedy and twisted into knots. The beautiful porcelain face was smudged with the grime of years, but its pouty lips were firm and as red as blood. The eyes were blue cut glass. My God, they almost looked as though they were looking back at you. The dark eyelashes were all intact, thick and lush. The crystal blue eyes were nestled behind porcelain lids that were not fully opened but moved where the doll was sat up or laid down. One of its arms rested by its side while the other was slightly higher. Not much. Just enough for it to look unnatural. There was not even a chip on any of its slim china fingers. The tips were painted red and slightly posed to a semi-natural position. Its legs were forced out in front of its body with its toes slightly pointed out. There was not one chip on either of its feet either. Amazing! You would never know that the fine porcelain china doll was well over 100 years old and still made the old woman as uncomfortable as it had when she was a mere girl. Miss Ginger was the doll’s name. Miss Ginger of the Great Manor. Miss Ginger had sat on the old woman’s bed for many years while she was growing up – watching, watching her dress, watching her play, watching her dream. That was what upset the old woman the most – watching her dream. She wondered if the doll ever slept. Probably not.

She slowly rose from her rocker, her eyes never leaving the doll’s dead blue eyes. Moving gingerly, the old woman stepped toward the couch, reaching out to touch the hemline of Miss Ginger’s worn billowing dress. The lace was now yellow with age and stray threads hung like the misplaced grey hairs in her masses of salt and pepper locks. She ran her fingers absently through her hair pushing it off to the side and out of her rheumy eyes. She touched the fabric between her fingers. The doll did not move. The hem felt stiff and hard with age, as though it would break or crack if she folded or straightened it. Standing closer, she remembered how the doll “talked” to her. She tried to remember what Miss Ginger had “said” to her. She leaned closer looking for the rise and fall of the chest. The old woman gently placed the tip of her bent finger on Miss Ginger’s cheek. The porcelain felt smooth and cold to the touch. She placed her crippled hand under the doll’s head, supporting and lifting it as she had her son’s head when he was a baby. The twisted, rough hair strands fell lifelessly over her wrists. The old woman breathed deeply, trying to calm herself. Her other hand began to shake as she removed it from her apron pocket, the long hat pin held firmly between her fingers. The doll’s head lay in her hand. It did not move. She looked for a good spot on the doll’s face to insert the pin.

Chapter 2 – China Doll

A New Beginning