BETTE DAVIS FROG
“...my mother brought home this doll from Goodwill, proudly held her up and said, ‘Look at her! I just couldn’t resist….’’”
In 1983, when I was 19, my mother brought home this doll from Goodwill, proudly held her up and said, “Look at her! I just couldn’t resist her Bette Davis eyes.” The doll, fashioned from cotton cloth, did in fact have Bette Davis eyes: drawn on, big and blue, hooded and seductive. Two small commas for eyebrows, three tufts of pale-yellow yarn for hair, a nose made by a gathering of material and a few stitches, a dark pink dot for a mouth. She wore a simple summer dress that fastened at the neckline, then hung open like a hospital gown.
I looked, tried hard to see what my mother saw, turned the doll over and—surprise!—the doll’s legs were the shape of a frog’s. On the spot, I named her Bette Davis Frog. On her fanny, written in black marker, was “Tricia 1980.” It seemed to be a home-ec project gone terribly wrong.
My mother truly loved Bette Davis Frog and thought her beautiful. She kept her on the couch in the living room, for which I teased her mercilessly, making sure to always refer to her as Bette Davis Frog. My mom would smile and scold, “Don’t call her that. I think she’s perfect.” I’d pick her up, turn her over and agree. “She is. She is a perfect image of a love child between a bullfrog and Bette Davis.” “You’re terrible,” my mom would say, taking Bette from my hands and trying hard not to laugh. I knew she saw it too but would never say so.
I loved when my mother laughed. When I was younger, after my dad left, she had a nervous breakdown and my siblings and I were taken from her for two years and placed first in foster homes and then with my paternal grandmother. My mom fought hard to get us back, regained her life and somehow always maintained a positive outlook and sense of play. She liked to make pet rocks, gluing on googly eyes and a bit of her own hair, lopped off to share. After we kids were grown and had moved out, she might send a handwritten letter—on any ordinary day, for no reason at all—filled with a list of reasons why she loved us.
The last note she gave me was written on an envelope: "To my Sweet Little Chicken who has Jenny's hands and a heart that breaks so easy." (Jenny was the paternal grandmother, an abusive woman, though my mother never knew that. She already felt such guilt at losing us, I could never bring myself to tell her.) I was 25 when she wrote me that note. I don’t remember what was breaking my heart that day, but I'll never forget how it broke when she died.
She died suddenly, in 1989, at the age of 52. Afterwards, I couldn’t bid farewell to this doll of hers, so I took her home and sat her on a bookshelf. Every time I walked by, she made me shake my head and smile.
In 2020, we decided to downsize, and I tried to let go of Bette Davis Frog. A week later, I was digging through 11 large plastic bags to find her. I have now had this misbegotten moppet for 33 years. She has lived with me almost five times longer than she lived with my mother, which, if you think about it, is perfect karma for all the teasing I did. Bette Davis Frog will always have a place in my home, reminding me of my mom who always saw the best in people and who had a heart for all things ragged.
—Beth Ann Jedziniak
Beth Ann Jedziniak’s essays and speeches have been published at WriteAngles, in Freshwater Literary Journal and in the anthologies Secrets of the Sisterhood and Keeping It Under Wraps: Bodies.