She was beautiful—brown, velvety eyes, snub nose, red cupid lips in an ivory oval face cased in  a cascade of shimmering black curls. Adorned in a white, frilly collar under which stretched a red, satin dress, cinched at the waist and flaring out into a crinoline-shaped bottom, she stared at me. She held her porcelain arms down at her side but to me, her right hand beckoned, imploring to take her.

Pointing to the display on the upper shelf, I turned to the salesperson, a woman in her forties, hair pulled back tightly in a ponytail.

 “Could I have that doll please?”

“Of course,” she beamed at me, “It’s our best-selling item, American Beauty! Is it for your daughter?” Before I could utter a word, she continued, chirping like a morning lark. “She’ll love it!” 

I had a sinking feeling in my belly, why do people always think that dolls are only for young girls? However, I didn’t want to dampen her enthusiasm, so I muttered, “Well…no, not really.”

The woman raised her eyebrows. But seeing the resolute line of my closed lips, she didn’t venture further. She then turned around, crouched down and retrieved a large rectangular carton box. With both hands, she placed it gently on the counter. I peered at American Beauty who seemed to smile at me, approving of my decision to purchase her.

Once outside the store, I walked quickly down Austin Street, carrying my treasure in a simple paper bag. Steve, my filmmaker husband, was at home with our three-year-old son, Tal. Since my arrival, pregnant, from Israel in 1966, we lived in a small studio apartment in a high-rise building in Forest Hills, Queens, New York. 

When I entered the door, Tal ran toward me, holding onto his favorite toy.

“Eema, look at Mr. Potato-Head!”As I bent down, he shoved into my face a large potato with two beady eyes.

I tousled his silky hair. “Great job, Tali!’

Steve came out of the kitchen. “There you are,” he pecked me on my cheek. “Come, lunch is ready.” 

“I’ll come in a moment.” I rushed to our bedroom and deposited the shopping bag near our bed.

“So what did you get your mom?” Steve asked while munching on a carrot.

I hesitated for a moment. “A doll.”

“What? For your mother?”

“It’s a special doll, American Beauty!”

Steve’s blue eyes danced in merriment. “Yes, but isn’t your mom a bit too old for it?”

“Not at all! Remember,” my voice rose to a crescendo, “she grew up in an orphanage without any toys! She always craved dolls.”

Images from my mother’s stories about the orphanage in Germany where she stayed from the age of two until seventeen, flashed in front of me. The horrible rice gruel for dinner and how she stuck her finger in her throat after the meal to throw it up. The time she was caned for a silly prank, or the incident in which she walked up to the roof of the three-storied orphanage and considered jumping.

“No,” I blurted,” I’m sure she’ll love it.”

The following week, holding on to Tal, the cherished gift securely packed in my suitcase, I boarded an El-Al plane to Tel-Aviv. When I reached my parents’ home in Ashkelon, my mother enveloped me in her embrace. She then she turned to her grandson who stood quietly by my side. She bent down, hugged him and planted a kiss on each of his cheeks.

“Tali, you’ve grown so much. What a big boy you are.”

I looked around me, searching for my father. “Where is Abba?”

“He’ll come home soon,” my mom said in a breezy tone. He has to take the bus from Ben-Shemen.”

My father worked as a gardener at the agricultural school twenty miles away. I was glad he wasn’t there since I got to spend some time alone with my mom. When my father was around, she was at his beck and call and had little time for anybody else.

After we sat in the garden, drank tea and consumed my mom’s delicious oatmeal cookies, I rushed to the bedroom and took out my present. My heart fluttered with excitement while I cradled the box like a new-born baby. I stepped down gingerly onto the lawn and called out. 

“Eema, I have a present for you.”

“Really?” My mom’s eyes widened, like an eager child anticipating a magical event. “What is it?”

“Here,” I gently placed the box in her arms. “Open it.”

Once she saw the doll her face lit up into a radiant smile. “She’s beautiful! Thanks so much!”  “Stroking lightly Beauty’s curls, she turned to Tal. “Look at her dress and eyes, so natural! Isn’t dolly wonderful?”

Tal, so mature for his age, hugged Savta, affirming her childlike joy.

We went back into the house where Eema proudly sat Beauty on their sofa in the living room. Abba came home later that evening. After welcoming me, he strode into the living room and shouted “What is this doll doing here?”

Eema, who was washing dishes, wiped her hands on her apron and hurried to my father. I followed her.  In a meek voice she said:

“It’s a gift from Esther.”

“What? “ My father roared. “What kind of present is this?” 

My mother shrank as if he had slapped her.

 He then faced me, eyes glaring. His steely voice enunciated every word. “Do you think Eema is a baby? How dare you give her a gift like this? You should be ashamed of yourself!”

I felt my stomach turn to stone. Walking away, I didn’t say a word, I couldn’t.  Besides, he’d never understand. The next morning, when I entered the living room, American Beauty was gone. A few days later, when I opened the bedroom closet, I saw her, standing in the corner, her eyes downcast, a forlorn look on her face.

 

Esti Skloot was born in England, raised in Israel, and now resides in the Bay Area, where she hikes, rides her recumbent bike, studies the flute, reads, and spends time with her family. She has a Masters in creative writing from the University of San Francisco and published a book titled, Uprooted, a Memoir of a Marriage.