December Twenty-Third

The Promise of the Doll

Ruth C. Ikerman

          When I met my friend on the crowded street, she held out her hand to me and said, "I hope you can help me. I’m desperate." Wearily she explained, "I’m about to cry and it’s all over a doll. I simply have to find a doll for my granddaughter."

          As tears filled her eyes, I remembered the terrible shock we all had felt over the death of her daughter who had been such a vivacious young mother until stricken several months before. The young husband was doing a fine job with the little girl, but it was on the grandmother that much of the burden of planning for good things remained . And this explained her Christmas errand.

          I blame myself entirely," she told me, "for not starting earlier, but I never thought it would be a problem to find one of these special dolls. There is not one of this variety left in town!"

          I asked her, "Well, why can’t you settle for another kind of doll?

          She shook her head. "One of the last things my daughter said to me before the pain got so bad was how sorry she was that she had refused to buy this doll for her little girl. She told me that she had thought the child was too young for such a doll, and had refused to buy it for her birthday, supposing there were lots of occasions ahead when she could get it for her."

          Then she told the rest of the story. The little girl had come to her mother’s bedside and asked whether the doll might arrive at Christmastime. The young mother grasped the tiny hand in hers and said, "I promise you this for Christmas." Then she had asked her own mother to do this one thing. "Just make sure that my little girl gets that doll this Christmas."

          Now my friend was about to fail in her mission. "It’s all my fault," she kept repeating. "I waited until too late. It will take a miracle now."

          Secretly, I agreed, but I tried to keep up a polite facade of courage. "Maybe the child has forgotten, and will be happy with something else."

          Grimly my friend replied, "She may forget, but I won’t." We parted to go our separate ways.

          With my mind only half on my shopping, I found the ribbon a neighbor wanted to finish a baby blanket she was making. A few minutes later I stopped at her door to leave the package and was invited inside.

          Her two little girls sat on he floor, playing with their dolls. As I sat down, I noticed that one of the dolls was the same kind my friend was seeking. Hopefully I asked, "Can you remember where you bought that doll?"

          My neighbor gave me her warmhearted smile. "That’s not a doll," she said, "She’s a member of the family. As near as I can see she probably was born and not made. She came to us by plane from a favorite aunt in the East."

          So I told her that I had a friend who was searching frantically for such a doll for the little girl whose mother had passed away during the year. Apparently unaware of us, the two children played happily. The mother and I spoke in adult words about facing a loss at the holiday time, and how much we wished we could help my friend.

          Later, when I got up to leave, the two little girls followed me to the door.

          "Dolly is ready to leave, too," They told me. Sure enough, she was dressed in a red velveteen coat and hat with a white fur muff.

          "Where is Dolly going?" I asked.

          They laughed happily. "With you, of course! You know where the lady lives, don’t you—the one who needs the doll so badly?"

          I started to tell them that of course I couldn’t take this doll. Then I looked at their faces, happy in the moment of giving. Something in my heart warned me that if I said the wrong thing, I could ruin their joy of giving for the rest of their lives. Silently I took the doll, fumbling with my car keys so that they could not see the mist over my eyes.

          

Recommended Song: Far Far Away on Judea's Plain