“No. I’m here on a personal matter,” I say, maintaining my smile and courteous tone, “and I’d be grateful if I could speak to someone in charge.”
“All right.” The woman shrugs as she opens the door wide.
I step into a small foyer. Three wooden chairs are set along a wall and are the only pieces of furniture in the room. Above the chairs is a painting of apple-cheeked toddlers crowding happily around a basket of kittens. Ahead is a wide staircase leading to the upper floors. On my left is a hallway revealing closed doors on either side, and on my right, a sitting room with plentiful windows along its back wall. I hear an outburst of laughter somewhere in the home, and the sound makes me glad.
“Have a seat in the sunroom there and I’ll see if Mr. or Mrs. Sommers has a moment to spare,” the woman says.
“Thank you.” I walk into the well-lit space where all the windows are and take a chair.
Within five minutes, a woman, rail thin but looking very much in charge, comes into the room. Her hair is a soft gray at the temples, and she wears a golden chain around her neck sporting a key, a tubelike brass whistle, and a folded pair of reading glasses.
I rise to my feet.
“I am Mrs. Sommers,” the woman says. “My husband and Iare the directors here.” Her tone makes it clear she hopes this unscheduled visit will be quick. “Please have a seat.”
I retake my chair and the woman sits in one opposite me.
“How can I help you?” Mrs. Sommers asks briskly.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I begin. “My name is Helen Calvert, and I’ve come with a plea for help, actually. I’m inquiring about my niece, and I only know that she was placed here as an infant some years ago.”
The woman blinks, waiting for more.
“I was stuck in Europe during the war, so I was not able to stay in touch regarding everything happening back here at home. With regard to my niece’s coming here, I mean.”
Mrs. Sommers seems to soften the tiniest bit. “I see. Well, I suppose I might be able to help you in some respect, but if your niece came here as an infant during the war years, she’s likely been adopted, and the information pertaining to that is something I cannot share with you.”
“No, I’m sure you can’t. But perhaps you could just let me know that she is being well cared for and in a good home?”
“I can assure you that all of our adopted children are placed in good homes, Miss Calvert.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest that they weren’t, I’m just... The situation was difficult for my family, you see. And I feel very bad for what happened to the child’s mother. Peace of mind would be a balm to me.”
Mrs. Sommers regards me for a moment and then withdraws a little notepad and pencil from her skirt pocket. “When was this?” she asks in a tone that gives no indication of how much information she is going to provide.
“It would have been late summer of 1939.”
“And how did your niece come to be in our care?”
“She came to you from the Sonoma State Home for the Infirm,” I say. “That’s where she was born.”
The woman looks up from her notepad, eyes wide. “And you said this was the summer of 1939? Are you here inquiring about Amaryllis?”
I nearly fall forward in my chair. “Yes! Yes, I am.”
The woman continues to stare at me as if still trying to fit puzzle pieces together. “And you are the birth mother’s aunt?”
“No. Um, no. My brother was the father of the baby. That’s why it was so difficult. He was married to someone else. Amaryllis’s mother was a maid in his household, and someone who didn’t have any family to care for her when she became pregnant.”
“Good Lord,” Mrs. Sommers says, clearly taken aback.
“So you can see how difficult it was for my family and for Amaryllis’s mother,” I continue, surprised by the woman’s astonishment.
And still Mrs. Sommers stares.
“I know it’s not customary for you to divulge details about an adoption, but perhaps you could just tell me about Amaryllis’s new family without giving me their names. Even that much would mean a great deal to me. Or maybe you could contact them and let them know that Amaryllis has an aunt who would love to meet her.”
Mrs. Sommers sets the notepad and pencil down on a little table between us. “Amaryllis wasn’t adopted.”
