My favorite doll as a little girl was called Mrs. Beasley.  She wasn’t a baby doll, she was a grown woman with short blonde hair, a polkadot dress and black rimmed glasses. She had a string in the middle of her back and when I pulled it, she spoke to me:

“Long ago I was a little girl, just like you.”

“Would you like to try on my glasses? You may if you wish.”

“You may call me Mrs. Beasley, would you like to play?”

“If you were a little smaller, I could rock you too sleep.”

I pulled her string all the time to hear her voice.  She sounded like a librarian or a loving grandmother.  She came everywhere with me and was my star pupil when I played teacher.  She always could be found in the front row of my “classroom”.  Mrs. Beasley, a stuffed Koala bear and Bert and Ernie dolls all sitting on small chairs made of milk crates or stacks of books. She was easier to manage than my baby dolls.  She didn’t cry or need a diaper change.  She was wise and self sufficient and a great conversationalist.  

In the Decembers of my early years, my parents would still take my brother and me to midnight mass on Christmas Eve.  We would dress up in fancy clothes and patent leather shoes and sit in the pews half asleep listening to the priest go on about baby Jesus.  “What does this have to do with Santa?” I would ask.  “I’m hungry,” my brother would say.  My mom would always buy a toy for my brother and another for me to leave at the church for another child, a child who maybe didn’t get many gifts on Christmas morning.  “Why would Santa not give lots of toys to everyone?”  I wondered, even as a young child.  “Why would some children not have presents? They must feel so sad.” It didn’t make sense to my little head and heart. I was always happy to walk a gift up to the alter and add it to the pile that was being collected.  I thought about the kids getting the gifts, how happy I hoped they were when they could open them and play with them.

One Christmas Eve, I decided I would bring Mrs. Beasley to the church and put her in the pile of toys on the altar. I walked into my parent’s bedroom and told them that instead of bringing a new toy, I would give my Mrs. Beasley to another little girl. My mother had such a strong reaction 

“Oh Elisa, you don’t need to do that! She is your doll, you should keep her! You love her so much why would you give her away?”

“Maybe someone else needs her,” I replied.

My mom tried to talk me out of it at first.  She reminded me that she had a new toy for me to bring to church, that I didn’t need to give away my beloved Mrs. Beasley, but I had decided it was the right thing to do.  

I told Mrs. Beasley my plan and that I was sorry but that another little girl needed a turn to love her and play with her.  I pulled her string: “I do think you are the nicest friend I ever had.”

My mom dressed me in a red velvet jumper with white tights and black Mary Jane shoes.  She asked me several more times if I was sure.  I was.  Mrs. Beasley said goodbye to my room and her classmates the Koala and Bert and Ernie, the only environment she had known.  She sat next to me in the car and we both looked out the window at the star filled sky.  We filed into the church and I held Mrs. Beasley close, under my coat to keep her warm.  As we settled into the pew, I held on to Mrs. Beasley a little tighter.  I had that feeling in my tummy, the tightness of fear and worry and regret.  What if Mrs. Beasley ended up in a terrible home? What if her new little girl didn’t love her as much as I did? What if she never pulled her string and listened to all of her different phrases?  What if someone throws her away?  I began to get scared and I started to cry softly as it got closer to the time for us to bring the gifts up to the altar.  My mom leaned in to me and whispered, “You do not need to give away your Mrs. Beasley.  She is yours and you love her.” 

But I did it.  I walked her up to the alter.  The priest smiled at me and I lay her down on top of a Barbie still in her box.  I looked at her long and hard, lifeless with her same smile and her same black glasses and her same polka dot dress with an ice cream stain on the bottom.  I told her she was my favorite and I loved her and goodbye forever and I walked back to my mom in the pew.  I stared at the pile of toys for the rest of the mass.  I wished they would take the toys away so I couldn’t run back up and grab her.  But they left the pile there throughout the rest of the mass and Mrs. Beasley became obscured by the toys placed on top of her.

I had a strange feeling when I walked out of the church.  I remember feeling a sadness I hadn’t felt before.  It was deep in my gut.  Walking out without her felt utterly wrong but I also remember feeling oddly proud of myself.  I had given away something I loved, and wasn’t that generous of me? Wasn’t that the kindest thing I could have done?  I wasn’t a selfish girl.  I was stronger than everyone. I was a good girl. 

But Mrs. Beasley, wouldn’t she be sad?  Wouldn’t she wonder where I was and miss me so much?  Would a new little girl know how to pull her string to make her speak?  Would she know how the ice cream stain on her dress came to be?  Maybe the new little girl wouldn’t play with her and love her like I did.  I cried when I got into my bed that night.  It was Christmas Eve and Santa would be coming and he would bring me a new doll, I thought.  My mom bragged to all of her friends for months after that.  She told the story over and over about how loving I was and how I had decided to give my Mrs. Beasley away all by myself, and can you imagine?  What an amazing thing I had done,  what an old soul, what a generous spirit, what a gift I have given to someone else.  She always ended the retelling with her favorite part which happened a month or so later when I was lying in my bed and was a little weepy.  My mom asked me what was wrong and what I was thinking about.  I replied “I’m just wondering who is loving my Mrs. Beasley tonight.”  My mom’s friends would swoon when she capped off the story with that ending.  “Isn’t that the sweetest?” they would say. 

I knew, though, that no one could love Mrs. Beasley as much as I did.  I missed her.  I would close my eyes and picture her, imagine the plastic smell of her head and the cloth smell of her dress. I regretted my decision but I could never get her back.  I could ask for a new Mrs. Beasley but it would never be the same.  It was over.  She was gone. 

I was a good girl, a generous girl, and I never spoke of her again.