DECEMBER 1947
I sit for a moment in the Studebaker staring at the address Stuart Townsend gave me, not seeing the words as much as hearing a name.
Brigitta. Brigitta. Brigitta.
I lean forward and rest my hands and forehead against the cool steering wheel, the paper crinkling in my hand, while I wait for the reverberations to still. My words to the doctor had fallen on deaf ears, but they’d set in motion an old bell in my head that had never really stopped ringing.
The past cannot be undone. I know this. I know I only have now. Today.
And today I am holding a piece of paper with an address I didn’t think would be given to me.
I pull back from the steering wheel to study it. Rosie named her daughter Amaryllis. It can’t have been a coincidence. She hadn’t even known what an amaryllis was before I sent one to her. She’d told me as much in her thank-you note. She’d also written that it was the most beautiful flower she’d ever seen. I suddenly feel connected to Rosie by a thin but luminous thread: theamaryllis. The bond is new and loose but real. As real as the link we already share as mother and aunt to the same child.
Perhaps with this address I can find Rosie, and together we can look for Amaryllis.
I know the town of Petaluma, know it is less than twenty miles away, and I am glad it’s still early in the day. The revelations of the morning have wearied my heart but not weakened my resolve. I start the car, and when I get to the bottom of the little rise, the attendant smiles and waves like we are old friends as he opens the gate wide.
Forty minutes later, I am in Petaluma and looking for Washington Street, which I follow to the 100 block. The hotel, constructed of creamy golden brick, is five stories high and situated on a busy corner. I park, check my appearance in the rearview mirror, and go inside.
The lobby is nicely appointed, with tall ceilings, stylish rugs, and smartly upholstered furniture. Holly garlands and Christmas wreaths decorate the walls, and a large lighted fir tree sits in one corner of the lobby. The hotel desk clerk, a young woman in a red wool blazer, smiles and wishes me a good afternoon.
I’d thought about what I would say as I drove. The little fib is going to be easy. Rosie is almost like family. Amaryllis makes it nearly so.
“Good afternoon,” I greet the hotel clerk in return. “I’m looking for a relative who worked here and with whom I lost contact during the war. I was stuck in Europe, you see, and unable to stay in touch with her. Now that I’m home, I would very much like to find her.”
I am counting on the deprivations of the war to win me some sympathy, and I can tell that they do.
“I’d be happy to help if I can,” the woman says kindly. “What is the name?”
“Her name is Rosanne Maras. It would have been the fall of1940 when she started her job here. I don’t suppose she is still employed at the hotel?”
“I’m afraid there is no one by that name currently working at the hotel, but I can ask the manager. He’s been here longer than me. If you want to take a seat, I’ll inquire for you.”
I thank her and sit down in the lobby. Five minutes later an older, gray-haired man comes out from an office located behind the reception desk. I start to rise, and he motions me with a smile to keep my seat. He chooses an armchair across from me.
“I’m Douglas Brohm,” he says, his smile widening, “manager of the Pacifica.”
“Helen Calvert.”
“So you’re asking about a former employee, Rosanne Maras? She’s a relation of yours?”
“Yes. I’ve been overseas. The war made it difficult to stay in touch.”
“It was quite a while ago when she worked at the Pacifica. Might I ask if you are aware of how she came to be here?” Mr. Brohm says this cautiously, as though a relative of Rosanne Maras will surely know that.
“Yes. She came to you from the Sonoma State Home for the Infirm.”
He nods, satisfied, it seems, that I know the finer details of Rosie’s history. “Yes, we were happy to participate in that release program for a number of years.”
“So, did she stay here for a while after being fully released from the state?”
“For a time. She resigned in 1943. I checked her personnel file before coming out to see you.”
“And do you know if she quit to take another job elsewhere, perhaps?” I hear the longing in my voice. I see in Mr. Brohm’s expression that he hears it, too.
“She did not say where she was going. She was quite cordialwhen she quit, though. Thanked me and the staff for giving her the chance to make something of herself.”
“Did she stay in contact with any of the other staff that were here at the time?”
