Betty Bonnet was her name. She was the one with all the hats. One had a grey plume that stuck out the top. Mother said it was ostrich. Betty was only a little girl, maybe twelve or thirteen But she had the most beautiful clothes — coats with fur collars brown velvet dresses with white lace around the neck for parties. She had such pink cheeks. Her hair fell in long curls from under the hat. I wanted to be her. I wanted to take her out of her compartment and play with her. Take the dresses and choose for myself. Fold the paper tabs over her shoulders. She would go to school, she would be the prettiest. She would be me. I would make her lovely for everyone. Like Mother said I was to be when I had to sit still so she could brush my hair, parting each side for braids. She pulled tight; pulled and twisted each braid with her strong hands.
Mother said no. Not until you are older and know how to touch them. They are fragile. Paper. Betty was her favorite. All those years living between the yellowing pages of the magazine that smelled like the closet in Grandmother’s house. Each doll had a place, with all her dresses, her hats. One had a fur piece with just enough space for the head to fit through. It was Betty’s older sister. Mother had a fox stole too. Sometimes she wore it to parties. She is my mother. They are her dolls.
One day I was allowed to play with Betty, just Betty. Mother went to the heavy chest in the dining room. She took out the box tied with strings. She was a child too. She hid things. She hid things from me. She didn’t want me to know. Betty was her favorite, my favorite. She had the best clothes. When I touched her the paper felt like silk. I chose the blue dress with buttons down the front and legs attached. Her high shoes matched. She matched perfectly. I asked Mother if that’s the way she dressed when she was twelve. Be careful, she said.
She tightens the braid until it hurts. Now look for yourself in the mirror, look. She slips my head between the slit in the hat, she tells me to smile. In the mirror I am beautiful. In the mirror I am paper; I am flat, flattened. I am to be placed somewhere and she is cutting.
Cate Abbe won the Academy of American Poets Award at San Francisco State University in 1976. She is completing a masters degree in creative writing there and lives in Palo Alto. Her poetry has been published in several small west coast magazines. She also plays the guitar and writes music.
Joanne Leonard is a photographer living in Berkeley whose work is beginning to be shown and published broadly.