Becky

By Molly

Mary always says she had a completely different childhood than I did. She claims hers was much more difficult, mom was meaner to her, she had to wear old wool to Christmas plays etc., etc. I am not sure I believe all of it. Especially that hers was more difficult. She never had to grow up with an older sister who didn't share.

Mary had a doll named Becky. This doll was the prettiest doll I have ever seen. Her hair was red and lush, begging to be brushed. Her lips were curved into a bright inviting smile. She was graced with small freckles on her cheeks. Becky wore a green summer dress every day. She really was amazing.

We all kept our toys all together in the living room, but Becky was kept in Mary's room. Mary never let us play with Becky. I remember being told specifically not to touch her. Becky was Mary's doll only. Sure I could share all my Barbies with Mary but I could never play with Becky. Even if all 4 of us sisters were playing together and Mary blessed us with Becky's presence, Mary never shared her. She always voiced Becky, brushed her hair and put her shoes on and off. It was unbearable. Becky was strong and kept smiling the whole time, but under the smile I knew there was a hurt, that she wanted to be shared.

Being that Mary is 5 years older than I she had a much more full social calendar. Whenever Mary left the house Theresa and I would sneak into her room and play with Becky. We would style her flowing hair with the small brush she preferred, we would touch the freckles on her face and tell her we would be friends for a long time. It was lovely. Those afternoons when Mary was no longer there to stand between me, Theresa, and Becky were perfection. Theresa and I had a pact never to tell Mary.

It all went well until one day Theresa wrote on Becky. Theresa had a pen and decided to draw on Becky. I never knew why she did it but it ruined everything. We had to confess to Mary. Mary was mad but I it didn't compare to the pain I felt for Becky. She had those pen marks on her forever.

Before my dad sold the house we grew up in as children we spent a few days cleaning it out. I found Becky in a box in one of the closet. She was a little worse for wear, her dress had faded, her hair was in snarls but even through all that, after 20 long years, she still had her same unfading smile.

Becky now lives in a storage box in Mary's basement. The pen marks have worn with time.