It’s impossible to become a doll unless you are invited to do so. Your longing must be so strong that it vibrates on a frequency only other dolls can hear. And, if you are lucky enough to receive such an invitation, it is crucial you do NOT tell the non-dolls – for, if you can’t keep a secret, you’ll sabotage your chances of a successful transition. You might think I’m making this up. Humans turning into dolls and whatnot. It sounds like nonsense, I know. But I speak from experience.
When I was a little girl, I lived with my parents in a loft on Chrystie Street, back when the Lower East Side was dangerous. Seedy characters lurked on every corner. Skeletons of burned-out buildings haunted our block. And if a stray blade of grass poked up through the rubble, it was like a rare ray of hope in a toxic jungle. My bedroom had one window facing a sooty air shaft and a covey of cooing pigeons. And when I wasn’t at school, that’s where I could be found, playing with my dolls.
As a shy, bow-legged kid, I was used to getting picked on. But when loudmouth Joey Kresge joined our third-grade class, things got even worse. Not only did he start a vicious rumor that my “crooked legs” were caused by a “contagious disease,” but he warned everyone, “Steer clear of Clementine, or you’ll die!” After that, even Felice Jordan, my hopscotch buddy, refused to associate with me. And my parents were too wrapped up in their own problems to notice my misery. So, naturally, my dolls became my best friends.
I arranged and rearranged Raggedy Ann’s floppy limbs every day. I washed baby Pinkie in the bathtub and placed her carefully in her mini stroller each night. But my favorite doll was Anastasia, who’d belonged to my mother when she was a girl and my grandmother and great grandmother before her. Anastasia had lifelike green eyes made of glass. And the softest mass of chestnut brown hair, adorned with a garland of crumbling crepe flowers. The lace of her pinafore was yellow with age. And the scent of cedar wood and lavender lingered in its tatters.
“Anastasia’s so ancient, she’s practically falling apart,” Mom said, during a bout of spring cleaning. “Perhaps we should just get rid of her.”
“No, please!” I protested. My doll deserved better; the oldest are the wisest. And I was certain she could teach me a thing or two.
“Your father doesn’t want unnecessary clutter around.” Grabbing Anastasia unceremoniously by the feet, Mom dangled her upside down.
“Mom!” I shouted. “Don’t! I’ll keep her safe on top of my bookcase, so she won’t fall apart anymore. I promise.”
“Well, alright. We won’t tell your father.”
Anastasia must’ve been grateful. For, after that, she was always watching over me from her perch on my shelf. Sometimes, when my parents had screaming matches, I brought her down and positioned her with the other two around my record player. Her dainty palm fit perfectly between my thumb and forefinger. And I held it close, hoping to absorb some of her dignity as I sang along to my favorite album, Free to Be You and Me, convinced that the lyrics were meant just for us. When I closed my eyes, I could make my bedroom vanish. I could picture myself frolicking with my dolls in a field of wildflowers, in a universe where my legs were flawless and straight and violent outbursts didn’t exist. But these visions never lasted long before reality crashed back in. Before I heard Dad punching walls. And Mom shrieking as if he was punching her.
“Why don’t they ever stop yelling!?” I exclaimed one day. “I hate being here. I hate school. I hate everything. I wish that I could just disappear and be somewhere else far, far away with the three of you!”
And I swear, Anastasia’s hand twitched, her delicate fingertips, light as pinpricks, feathering across my thumb. When I looked over at the others, Raggedy Ann’s button eyes were gleaming. And the puckered “O” of Pinkie’s mouth had widened.
That’s when I first realized that dolls are not what they seem.
#
Soon, I was confiding in them every day. Sometimes out loud, with words. Other times, with thoughts; I was convinced my dolls could read my mind, even though they’d gone back to pretending they were just toys, staring placidly ahead as if I didn’t exist. Maybe they were testing me, biding their time until they felt confident I could handle what they had to offer.
And finally, one night, it happened; I was invited. When my yearnings to run away were blazing through my dreams, Anastasia whispered in my ear while I slept. It was the first time I’d heard her speak, and her voice, quivering like a violin, reeled me out of my slumber. When I opened my eyes, she was lying beside me, her porcelain face, a tiny pale moon on my pillow.
“If you’re ready,” she murmured. “We welcome you to join us.”
I sat bolt upright and reached for the light switch. Raggedy Ann and little Pinkie were there, too, seated demurely at the foot of my bed. My heart thumped wildly in my chest. My toes tingled. I’d known my dolls had powers, but not to this extent! How had they navigated their bodies onto my mattress all by themselves?!
“Did…. you… just …?” I stammered.
“Invite you to join us? Yes, Clementine.” Her Cupid’s-bow lips hadn’t moved. But the voice was real.
“Thank you,” I whispered, as a shiver shimmied through me.
“No need to thank us, Clementine. We will be delighted to have you as a member of our society.” Delighted!? No one had ever been delighted with me before. But what did her summons to “join” them mean? Weren’t we already connected? I wouldn’t be in human form anymore, Anastasia explained. I’d be a doll, too. The weight of her words engulfed me. What!? Was I just going to shrink like Alice in Wonderland? Would my parents discover me, pocket sized and vacant-eyed, sitting on my shelf? No, Anastasia said, my parents would never see me in my new incarnation. I would not remain at Chrystie Street, either; for, when children turn into dolls, they always start fresh in a brand-new place. And I’d get to choose where I wanted to end up. Wasn’t that marvelous?
“When children turn into dolls?” I repeated. Were there others? Had it happened before?
“Well, Clementine. You might as well know, the majority of dolls were unhappy children once. Just like you. Transformations have been going on for centuries. And should you accept our offer, your ceremony will take place on your birthday at the exact time, down to the minute, that you were born. Raggedy Ann, Pinkie and I will meet you in your closet…behind your hanging corduroy trousers at the appointed hour. But you mustn’t tell the non-dolls. They won’t understand.” She said they’d chaperone my passage and stay with me once I “crossed over,” so I didn’t have to worry about being alone.
I’d always known that I could depend on Anastasia; she was loyal; she’d listened to my pleas; and she meant business. But my birthday – May 12th – was only three weeks away! I had no clue what time I was born. And I wasn’t about to raise suspicion by asking Mom and Dad. If I decided to go through with this, I’d have to do some speedy sleuthing to figure it out.
When I’d fantasized about escaping with my dolls, I hadn’t considered that I’d need to become one of them in order to break free.
#
Mom was an excellent cook. Whenever I was sick, she made grilled cheese sandwiches with real cheddar oozing between golden slices of thick warm bread. We ate pot roast, homemade späetzle, and black forest cake on holidays. Fried chicken, crispy corn fritters and peach cobbler in the summertime. But dolls can’t eat.
Even in Raggedy Ann’s human era, she’d never enjoyed a good dinner. Maybe that’s why giving up meals hadn’t fazed her. Like Anastasia, she remained immobile when she talked. But there was no mistaking that the voice that rose from the bottom of my quilt belonged to her; it practically burst through the seams of her patchwork body, so eager was she to tell me what kind of child she used to be and why being a doll was so much better. She’d lived with her family in a giant cardboard box on the Bowery, she said. But when she’d developed frostbite and a hunger so severe that she started fainting on the curb, she was offered an escape by a cereal box figurine she’d found in the trash. Her chosen destination: the Toy Department at Macy’s. Ecstatic to have a roof over her head and buoyed by the knowledge that she’d never starve again, she’d lived there in jolly contentment until we came along and bought her.
Now that I was used to disembodied voices, I didn’t get rattled when Pinkie piped up from the foot of my bed. She’d been a sickly kid, she said, having undergone three operations by the time she was five. And after being trapped in a slew of dreary hospitals, when her chance came along, she’d requested vast ocean vistas and fresh salt air. Had I known her seaside desires, when I’d found her on the beach during a Coney Island field trip, I wouldn’t have swooped her up as though she was someone’s lost plaything. But it was too late now.
And lastly, Anastasia told me how drastically her fortunes had shifted when she entered dolldom. As a young girl, she’d worked in a cotton mill during the Industrial Revolution. But when opportunity presented itself, she’d found refuge in the curio cabinet of a Victorian nursery. Gentility suited her better, she said.
By the time they’d all finished speaking, glimmers of sunlight were peeking around my window shade. I heard stirring in the kitchen and the rumble of a garbage truck outside. My mind was racing. But my body was bone tired. And I could barely keep my eyes from drooping shut as the aroma of sizzling bacon wafted past my nose. Mom was already up, making breakfast. And it smelled so good! I couldn’t wait to taste it.
#
It seemed that hardly a moment had passed before Dad was yelling from my doorway, “Miss Lazy Bones! Get your butt outta bed. It’s a school day for cryin’ out loud!” When I cracked my bleary eyes open, the luster of the night was gone. Anastasia was back on the bookcase. Pinkie was in her stroller. And Raggedy Ann was sprawled on the bean bag chair as usual. Had it all been a dream? “C’mon, let’s go,” Dad said. “I know you hate school. But I’m not puttin’ up with your shenanigans today, young lady. Your mother wants you to wear this!” A striped turtleneck and a pair of denim culottes came sailing through the air and landed in a crumpled heap next to my head. Only then, when I turned my cheek to my pillow, did I notice the miniature powder-blue petals scattered there. Anastasia’s floral wreath must’ve come undone in the night.
#
I stumbled through my morning in a daze, replaying the night’s events in my mind. Should I accept Anastasia’s proposal? When I tripped in the schoolyard and Joey Kresge taunted, “Ewww! Clementine is so gross, she makes me wanna puke!” a fire burned inside me. When my classmates swarmed into a tittering mob, I reminded myself that I had a pass to an elite club they didn’t even know existed. And later that evening, when my parents started quarreling, Dad stormed out, and Mom barricaded herself in the bathroom and forgot to cook dinner, I decided that I was definitely ready for dolldom. I began my preparations at once.
Mom was taking one of her epic showers, so I seized the moment to ransack the file cabinet for my birth certificate. I wasn’t sure I’d find it there, but I’d overheard Dad say file cabinets were for “safekeeping documents.” And sure enough, there was a folder, labeled “Clementine,” in the very back. Trembling with anticipation, I rifled through old report cards and baby pictures, until I discovered the “document” I was looking for. Racing back to my room, I could barely contain my glee. “10:39pm, May 12th, 1970!” I announced triumphantly to my dolls. “That’s when I was born.” They didn’t give me so much as a peep of acknowledgement. But I knew they heard me.
Next, since I’d been informed that my wardrobe would shrink alongside my body, I put together an outfit for the big night. After selecting my favorite polka-dotted sundress, an orange wool poncho, knee-high socks, and sparkly red Jelly shoes, I stuffed everything into the corner of my closet behind my hanging corduroy trousers.
The final task –picking a destination –was the most daunting. There were spectacular, far-flung locations I’d learned about in school — Mount Rushmore. The Grand Canyon. Pompeii. The moon! — that had seemed enticing at first. But what if I chose one and didn’t like it? Would I be stuck there forever? In the end, I settled on Central Park. It was familiar. And that gave me comfort. Just a subway ride uptown – but a galaxy away. And unlike our neighborhood, where gushing fire hydrants spewed rivers of litter into the gutter, it had a bright green meadow running through it. Just like in the Free to Be You and Me song!
#
Now, with all the arrangements in place, the only thing left to do was wait. Nothing could go wrong. Or so I thought. Until my parents decided to throw me a birthday party. Well, Mom did.
“Clementine doesn’t want a damn party!” I overheard Dad exclaim. “The kid couldn’t care less.”
“She needs more friends,” Mom replied. “It’s unhealthy the way she is. This’ll be good for her. My psychiatrist says…”
“You and your damn psychiatrist! Why should I care what that woman thinks? It’s all ‘cause of her feminist BS that you’ve been acting like such a hotshot, reading Ms. Magazine, traipsin’ off to your hoity-toity job, slacking on your household duties. We were doing perfectly fine on my salary alone. I told you, you don’t need to work!”
“But I want to work!” Mom said. “I deserve a career, too. And if I start bringing in more money, we can finally move out of this crappy neighborhood!”
#
Mom had mailed handwritten invitations to the parents of every single one of my classmates. Not that I expected any of them to come. I was genuinely shocked when Felice Jordan showed up. But when she teetered through our entryway, holding a silver-wrapped present so gigantic that it nearly threw her gangly body off balance, she seemed different. Meeker without Joey Kresge egging her on. “My mother says your mother’s a women’s-libber just like her,” she said with a gap-toothed grin, as if somehow that made us pals again. Strange, how quickly people change their tune. I didn’t even know what “women’s-libber” meant, but I was beginning to understand that it had something to do with all my parents’ fights.
We ate coconut cake, drank Grape Hi-C, and played Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey for two. And then I opened Felice’s gift. In a nest of tissue paper, there lay an enormous doll, almost as tall as I. She wore a mother-of-pearl button-up velveteen dress, laced booties on her feet, and purple bows in her flaxen hair. Her eyelashes were made of gossamer threads, and her lips were the color of plums. She came complete with a name tag sewn neatly into her collar: “Daphne.”
“How lovely!” Mom exclaimed. Even Dad acted impressed. But all I could think was, what kind of child did this doll used to be? And it made me uneasy to have an interloper enter the tight doll society that already existed in my home.
“She takes batteries,” Felice said eagerly. “And when you put them in, she’ll swivel her head and wave. Isn’t that groovy? Maybe one day they’ll make dolls that can talk!”
If only she knew, I thought to myself.
“We have batteries here,” Mom exclaimed, digging around in the junk drawer in the kitchen. “Let’s try it!”
“Wait,” I said. My original three were enough. I didn’t need a fourth doll in the mix!
“I think the batteries are above the refrigerator, actually.” Suddenly, Dad was fussing about, too. Why was he getting involved?
“Wait,” I said again. But no one was listening. “Wait!” Felice looked at me and smirked. Didn’t she know what “Wait” meant? Why wasn’t anyone taking me seriously? “STOP!” I shouted. And they all froze; they weren’t used to hearing me raise my voice.
“Yes, Clementine?” Mom finally said.
“Let me find a place where I can put her first.” It was the only thing I could think of to say. As I turned on my heels, I felt a catch in my throat. My breath became shallow. My hands grew clammy. I couldn’t get a grip on my feelings. I wanted to be alone with my original three. But I heard Felice’s footsteps shuffling along behind me.
“I love your room, Clementine!” she enthused. “You have so many records. Do you like to listen to music?” And before I could stop her, she’d whirled around, arms akimbo, and knocked into my shelf. Albums toppled off like dominoes, one after another. A wave of books followed. And lastly, all three dolls, who I’d placed on display for “company,” came hurtling down, landing in a tangled heap at my feet.
“Oh geez, I’m sorry, Clementine,” Felice said.
Luckily, Pinkie’s plastic frame was hardier than it looked. And Raggedy Ann had the kind of soft body that could withstand being jostled about. But one of Anastasia’s exquisite eyes had cracked, leaving shards of green glass all over the floor. I cradled her in my arms, buried my nose in her downy hair, and tried to stifle the ugly sob that was rising from the depths of my throat.
“Is your doll okay?” Felice bent down to pick up the other two and tossed them onto my bed.
“Be careful with Raggedy Ann and Pinkie!” I snapped. But when I saw her stunned expression, I immediately regretted it. How could I expect Felice to understand? I should just tell her the truth, I thought. But I had to keep my mouth shut, or I’d really ruin everything.
Next thing I knew, my parents were barging in with Daphne in tow, announcing that they’d located batteries, and at last, we could set her up. I watched in horror, as Dad rolled up my shag rug and shoved Pinkie’s mini stroller across the room to make space for the new doll. Soon Daphne’s motor was revved up, and she was holding everyone captive with her ridiculous rotating head. I was seething inside, but this time I knew to keep quiet.
And as if things couldn’t get any worse, at that moment the telephone rang. It was Felice’s mother on the line, claiming that she’d been “unexpectedly detained” and wouldn’t be able to pick up her daughter until “tomorrow.” Could Felice please stay the night? Of course, my parents said yes.
#
By 9pm, we were back in my room. The glow-in-the-dark alarm clock I’d nabbed from Mom and Dad’s dresser was underneath my pillow. I lay on my bed, waiting for Felice to doze off in Dad’s old army sleeping bag on the floor, and for the clatter coming from the kitchen to subside; my parents were still washing dishes. When the time was right, I had only to tiptoe over to my closet, change into my special outfit, slip on my red Jelly shoes, and I’d be set. But I could see Daphne’s tall silhouette looming in the shadows. She was such a show-off, winning everyone’s favor, including Mom and Dad’s! Entertaining them at my expense… just like Joey Kresge. What if poor Anastasia, Raggedy Ann, and Pinkie were feeling usurped by her presence?
What if they were mad at me for failing to prevent this chaos? Maybe I could lock Daphne in the bathroom before she interfered any further. Just plop her in the empty tub and cover her with towels, so she couldn’t see or hear a thing. That would teach her not to meddle.
Finally, the kitchen noise stopped. I could see through the open crack of my door that all lights were off. Felice was no longer fidgeting. And a welcome stillness blanketed the room. But my nerves were ping-ponging like crazy. I counted to ten in my head, then slid the alarm clock from its hiding spot. Shielding its glow with my covers, I took an anxious peek: 10:09 pm. Half an hour to go! Slithering off my mattress, I slinked over to Daphne, hoisted her onto my back, and maneuvered through the blackness like a bat. I was on the verge of exiting my room when the floorboards creaked, and I heard Felice stir.
“What are you doing, Clementine?” Her voice shot through me.
“Um…I dunno.”
She propped herself up on her elbows. “Wait, are you holding Daphne?”
“Yeah.” I had to come up with an excuse fast. “She turned on and started swiveling her head and the noise was keeping me awake. I thought I’d put her in the hall for now.”
“Did you think I was asleep this whole time? I’ve been lying here awake, too. And I didn’t hear anything!” Felice was a sly one. “And just so you know, Daphne can’t turn on by herself. She’s not that fancy.”
“Oh, well, I thought I heard something.”
“Clementine, if you can’t sleep, maybe we can pretend that we’re at camp telling ghost stories around the bonfire.”
“Camp?”
“Sure. Haven’t you ever been to sleepaway camp?”
“No, my parents say it’s too expensive.”
“Oh, well, gosh, it’s so much fun! I’ll show you what it’s like. Come sit next to me on the sleeping bag.”
I felt a sharp twinge in the pit of my stomach. Why wouldn’t she stop jabbering?
“Are you girls still awake?” It was Dad at the door now. “Time to get some shut-eye!”
“Oh, let them stay up all night if they want.” Mom was behind him. “That’s what slumber parties are for.”
And instead of debating her, Dad listened, for once. But I didn’t care about staying up all night. Or slumber parties. Or anything. It was already 10:42. I’d missed my deadline!
#
By the time I drifted off to sleep, my pillow was damp with tears. My dolls had been so good to me. But I’d failed them. They probably rued the day they’d invited me to join their ranks. And what if I’d been deluding myself? What if they really were inanimate objects like everyone else thought? They were my only friends. And if they’d given up on me, or worse, if their friendship wasn’t even real… without them, I had no one.
Unless, of course, Felice counted … as someone. Felice was fickle, there was no doubt about it. But at least, she’d shown up for my party.
#
In the wee hours of the morning just before dawn, it happened again; Anastasia returned while I was deep in the throes of sleep. Even with her one chipped eye, she still looked ethereal by my side.
“Please don’t despair,” she whispered into my ear. “You are clearly a very determined girl. And all is not lost. You missed the window this time, it’s true. But there is always another birthday next year. If you feel the same then, we’ll be even more ready to welcome you.”
I peered into the darkness to see if Felice was eavesdropping. But when I heard a fizzle of a snore, I knew we were safe.
“Clementine, there is something else I must say,” Anastasia continued. “You mustn’t be rude to Daphne. She’s had a hard life before this one, too, and we dolls accept everyone who is invited into our fold. Equally.”
“I’m sorry.” I felt so ashamed, I could barely get the words out.
And then I heard the click-click of Daphne’s motor revving up and the metal gears of her spinning head. The next thing I knew, it wasn’t just her head, but her whole body that was lurching towards me from the opposite side of the room. I quaked for fear she wanted to avenge me for my cruelty, but when she arrived at my bedside, she just bent down and patted my hand. “It’s okay. I would’ve been frustrated, too,” she said in a shockingly gentle voice.
I should’ve known my dolls would never let me down. I should’ve known they wouldn’t leave me hanging. This time when I fell back to sleep, I fell asleep happy.
#
On your next trip to Central Park, if you hear what sounds like a sudden breeze whooshing past, stop and listen carefully. It may not be a change in the weather, but the murmur of dolls calling out to you. I am not necessarily suggesting that I am part of their secret crew. But I assure you, they are real. And they are everywhere. If you look closely, you may see the signs. Little footprints in the mud. Ripples in the Reservoir. A miniature pair of red Jelly shoes among the acorns. A treehouse made of twigs that looks exactly like a bird’s nest. You have only to open your eyes to notice. And if you want to join them, you must pay attention to their call. They’re paying attention to you whether you know it or not. Whether it’s in the park, at a store or museum, or in your very own home, they’re always watching. They’re always listening. Their intentions are good. And they want to help you.