“Deb! You must go in there! You must! It’s horrible!”
My writing colleague, Yvette, had just emerged from the ladies’ room at Osteria del Teatro, a restaurant in Cortona where we were dining during our writers’ retreat in Italy.
I hesitated, but always up for a challenge, I obliged.
I pushed open the door marked Signore and entered a dim lavatory completely cluttered with dolls. Moving through the second door, I discovered even more dolls. One was sitting on a rope swing, ready to stare at any hapless occupant sitting on the toilet.
There must have been at least 50 dolls. Three, I recognized as ones my daughters owned during their childhood.
Yvette must have meant the dolls were the horrifying part.
I returned to the table and said, my face expressionless, “I don’t see the problem.”
“What?” Yvette exclaimed. “They’re creepy! You don’t think so?”
I sent my daughter Caitlin in next, without any explanation of the sight she was about to encounter.
“I don’t see the problem,” said Caitlin. “In fact, I found it very comforting.”
At this point, Yvette was almost beside herself. “How can you not be afraid?”
Caitlin responded, her voice smooth. “It was like being in my grandmother’s back room.”
At that point, I had to explain.
My mother collected dolls. But one was especially important to her. Jennifer.
“Jennifer the Doll,” as we referred to her, was a plastic doll from the 1960s. Maybe a Betsy Wetsy. My mom always kept her on the pillow of her bed.
That alone wasn’t a problem.
But Jennifer was—well—in less than optimal shape. Her hair was badly matted, and you could see the holes in her scalp where the hair had fallen out. Her eyes were as cloudy as an 80-year-old woman’s with cataracts.
Oh, and her head would often fall off.
But my mother loved her, and so we, her five children, respected that.
Jennifer presented no problem until my mother passed away in 2011.
Then we became afraid.
What should we do with her? None of us wanted her, but we were all terrified of what might happen if we threw her away. My mother had certain powers, and none of us was inclined to test them.
As the executrix of Mom’s estate, the responsibility fell to me.
So I did what I do best.
Nothing.
For eight years.
Then, in 2019, my daughter Meghan slipped Jennifer into my suitcase as I was leaving on a trip for Denver and Boulder.
I eventually managed to pass Jennifer off to my sister Betsy. How she got there, and what happened next, is another story. You can read the whole ridiculous adventure including photographic and video evidence of our family’s questionable behavior in I Think I May Be in Trouble — The Story of Jennifer the Doll
I ended that post with these words: “I have a feeling this story is not over yet…”
And here I was, seven years later, sitting in an Italian restaurant explaining Jennifer’s history to a roomful of writers.
It’s a good thing we had our own dining room because things got rather loud at that point.
Skipping ahead to the end of dinner, we asked Yvette to find out why the owner would decorate her restroom with such an appalling number of dolls.
Turns out, she originally had a beautiful sculpture from Colombia in the ladies’ room. Then someone stole it.
She was so angry that she decided to decorate with the creepy dolls.
“No one will steal from me again!” she said.
I suppose she has a point.
When I returned home, I shared the story of the Italian bathroom with my sister Jeanne, Jennifer’s current caretaker.
Following a makeover at the doll hospital, Jennifer had gone to live with Jeanne’s granddaughter, Basil, who played with her for a while. But Basil has gotten older, and Jennifer is no longer getting much attention.
Jeanne mentioned that she didn’t know what to do with her.
Sound familiar?
Now, I’m not suggesting that my mother’s spirit arranged for me to discover a bathroom full of dolls in an Italian restaurant.
But consider this.
There’s a woman in Italy who apparently has room for at least 50 dolls. And there’s a family that has spent 15 years trying to find a suitable home for one.
Perhaps Jennifer has finally found her people.
I haven’t discussed this possibility with Jeanne. Nor have I contacted the restaurant owner.
But I am giving it serious consideration.
I wonder what it costs to ship a doll to Italy.
