The Germany Doll

The Boston Herald

The dress was in a Filene's bag, upstairs, in my bedroom, on top of the ironing board. I bought it Saturday, brought it home, tried it on, didn't like it and was planning on returning it. It never occurred to me that someone would actually come into my room, steal the bag and leave the dress behind.

But this is exactly what happened.

'Did you take a dress out of a Filene's bag that was in my room?' I asked the 24-year-old.

'Why would I take a dress out of a bag? And what would I want the bag for?' he said, exasperated that I'd even asked. 'Of course I didn't do it.’

'I didn't do it, either,' the 17-year-old screamed from her room, before I could corner her. 'I'm the one who told you the dress was ugly, remember?’

'I saw it on your bureau Sunday morning,' the 22-year-old admitted. 'I was actually hoping it wasn't yours, Mom. Was there a blackout in the store when you chose it?’

I don't care about the bag, you understand. It's the receipt inside the bag that's the issue. I need the receipt in order to return the ugly dress and get my money back. I explained this to each of my children, and to my husband, prodding them to remember.

No one saw the bag. No one touched the bag. No one even remembers a bag.

'Are you sure there was a bag?' the youngest asked me. 'You know how you are. You're always forgetting things. I bet you're the one who took the dress out of the bag.'

The missing bag is yet another unsolved mystery. We have a host of them in our house - missing hair gel, missing sweatshirts, books, CD's, tapes, remote controls, People magazines. Who squirted toothpaste on the bedroom ceiling? Who plastered spitballs all over the family room wall? Whose footprints are on the garage roof? Who smashed into the siding on the house? 'I didn't do it.' 'It wasn't me.' 'Don't look at me, Mom. I'm afraid of heights.' 'Someone smashed into the siding? I bet Dad -- did it.’

The most infamous unsolved mystery involves The Germany Doll. Years ago, when these now-young adults were 4, 9 and 11, the youngest had a doll, bought in Germany, whom we referred to as The Germany Doll.

One day The Germany Doll, which had been happily female, (she had red lips, red fingernails and long, brown, curly hair) had, what some might call, a cosmetic sex change. Someone - we still don't know who - drew a penis on her.

'I didn't do it,' the youngest cried.

'Don't look at me,' the middle one declared.

'Don't look at me, either,' the oldest shouted. I assured him I wasn't accusing him. I told them all that the only thing I knew for certain was that I didn't draw the penis on The Germany Doll. 

The Germany Doll was made of stuffed cloth, not washable plastic, so the penned in penis was permanent. The doll sits on a bookcase in my room today, a favorite reminder of my children's childhood. 

'The Filene's bag is just like The Germany Doll,' I told them yesterday when, after a household search, the bag remained missing. 'Someone had to do it. Why won't anyone tell?'

'I didn't draw on The Germany Doll, and I didn't take your bag,' the 24-year-old insists.

'I think you're cracking up.' 'Look, Mom. I don't think I drew on The Germany Doll,' the 22-year-old muses. 'But maybe I did and it's a case of suppressed memory. Maybe when I'm 40 I'll wake up and remember. But I know I didn't take your bag.’ 

'Don't even ask me again,' the 17-year-old says, and walks away.