As in two groups that didn’t arrive together and both need assistance. I’m not so good with kids—perhaps the real reason I’m banished to the “eye painting area” during parties. So without any kind of collaboration with me, my mom heads for the mom and little girl while I walk over to the middle-aged woman. “Hi. Can I help you find anything?” “Yes. A few months ago I was in here—maybe it was more like six; I’m not even sure anymore—and there was this doll.” When she doesn’t continue I say, “I’ll have to look into that. We don’t like dolls coming into the store.” She gives a halfhearted laugh. Maybe more of a nervous chuckle. “I know I’ll have to be more specific.” She walks along the back wall, intently looking at each and every one. I trail after her. “If you can describe it, I can start a lineup of suspects.” “Dark curly hair, one dimple on her left cheek.” The woman is describing herself. A lot of people fall in love with dolls that look like them.
