by Joyce Spier
Rachel stood on a hassock by the window, looking down at the children playing ball and roller-skating on the sidewalks. “I wish I was there,” she said, pressing her nose against the pane.
Annie May put her wrinkled hand on the little girl’s shoulder. “You are too young to play in the street by yourself. Next year you’ll start school and meet lots of children and make friends.”
Annie May looked after Rachel while her mother worked in the family’s grocery store. Rachel’s mother helped out in the store because they couldn’t afford to hire anyone. The Depression was still hanging over the country and times were hard for most people. Though Rachel loved Annie, who told stories about her childhood and sang songs, she longed to play with someone her own age.
Months passed, and the children playing outside were bundled in coats. Christmas was coming. Rachel liked crayons, cutout dolls, and big picture books, and the pretty clothes her aunts and uncles gave her, but for the first time in her four years, she wanted a particular present, a small rubber doll that drank water from a bottle and wet its diaper. It looked like a real baby. Rachel wanted this with all her heart. The family didn’t have much money. Rachel’s mother still wore her old winter coat, and her father didn’t own a car as many of the men on the block did. But hints were dropped about a wonderful doll.
On Christmas morning, Rachel ran into the living room and looked for a rubber doll. Propped up against the false fireplace was a big doll almost two feet tall. She had soft curly blond hair and blue eyes that opened and shut. Her porcelain skin was the color of a pale peach. She wore a plaid skirt, white blouse, and shoes that actually laced up.
Rachel smiled and hid her disappointment very well for a little girl. She hugged and kissed her parents, picked up the doll and ran to her room, which was a small dining alcove off the kitchen. She plopped the doll on a pillow and lay on her bed and let the tears fall.
“Why are you crying? Don’t you like me? I love you.”
Rachel turned. The doll was talking. “Not possible.”
“Nothing is impossible.” The words came from the doll’s porcelain lips. “My name is Ellen and I am here to play with you.”
Rachel looked at the doll curiously and asked her, “What can you play?”
“Anything you want. Just name it.”
Rachel brought out her jacks and paper dolls. Ellen became Rachel’s first real friend. She slept in Rachel’s bed and kept her company during lunch. Rachel read to Ellen from her big picture books. They giggled over things that little girls giggle at. When adults were around, Ellen was placed on a big pillow near the window. Ellen’s magic was Rachel’s secret.
Rachel’s first day of school arrived and with it, all the things that go with school; friends, homework, outings. Her parents were doing better at the store. There was movie money for Saturday afternoons. Ellen spent more and more time alone on her pillow. Rachel didn’t mean to neglect her, but she was busy learning and doing new things. Soon, all she said to Ellen was, “Hi.” and “Good-bye.”
The summer Rachel came back from camp, Ellen stopped talking. Rachel thought she had imagined her play times with a talking doll.
The family moved to a larger apartment. Rachel packed her old toys and favorite books in an old trunk. She finished high school. She graduated from college, became a teacher, wife, mother, grandmother and sadly, a widow.
* * *
A tired old woman sat by the window of her bedroom in the new, but small apartment she had moved to. She saw the children playing in the park, just as she had so many years ago. Suddenly, she went to her closet and pulled out a small trunk that she had kept. In the trunk were old picture books, drawings, and a big doll. Rachel picked her doll up and started to cry.
Ellen’s hair had thinned and lost its curl. Her peach cheeks had cracked. Her clothing had faded. One eye didn’t work, but the other sparkled. The old woman hugged the doll and carried her to the mirror. They’d both changed over all those years.
We travel in a big circle of time and end up where we began, older, but not always wiser, thought Rachel. “I’m so sorry, Ellen.”
A familiar gravelly voice said, “Cut the crap Ray and get the cards. I play a mean game of gin.”
© 2026 Joyce Spier All rights reserved.
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