THE STATUE OF A LADY'S HEAD

"...she was beautiful, and I knew my mother would think so too."

August 8, 1976, my mother's 40th birthday. I was nine. We were on vacation in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire. Dad gave me and my sisters $10 each to buy Mom presents at a boardwalk gift shop. My middle sister picked out a seashell necklace. My oldest sister picked a snowglobe with a beachy scene inside. I couldn't find anything special enough—until a small statue of a lady’s head caught my eye. The statue (which was made of hard rubber and was technically a bust, but I didn't know that term yet) had dark eyes and mocha skin and short black hair and pretty lips. 

She was about the size of a candlepin bowling ball but not heavy at all. She was like no one I'd ever seen before, and she was beautiful, and I knew my mother would think so too. When my dad saw how happy I was looking at her, he gladly forked over the extra two bucks to cover her $12 pricetag. "You got the perfect gift, Kenny," he said. 

I'll never forget how excited I was when Mom began to unwrap my present, or how she lit up when she took it out of the box. I was right, she loved it! She loved it so much that when we got home from vacation, she put my lady on display on the shelf above the kitchen sink, the most prominent spot in the house. And it stayed there through my middle school years, and high school years, and college years. It was such a fixture in our lives that after a while I didn't notice it anymore. 

Twenty years after I gave my mom that bust, I brought my future wife home to meet my family. The second my parents and sisters saw Jackie, they recognized her. Same eyes and skin and hair and lips. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe I've always been partial to that "look." But I like to think some part of. me was attracted to Jackie because she reminded me of how happy my mother was when I gave her that gift. Mom died in 2005, Dad in 2007. Looking back, I believe I liked the idea of marrying someone they already knew and loved.

—Ken Gagne