Chapter 7
Carmel Valley
On a cool and foggy morning, I headed for Carmel Valley. Though other routes might be faster, I opted to take the Oceanside highway, Route 1. If I had to drive for nearly three hours each way, I might at least have the option of enjoying the scenery. I always loved that drive along the ocean, especially as I came near the Big Sur area. The wind-sculpted cedars against the blue sky, the sound of the ocean waves as they hit the rocky shore, the fog settling out on the horizon as the day went on, and the beautiful sudden cascades of brilliant orange and yellow nasturtiums cascading down the rocks to the shore below the cliffs was a magnificent sight I would always cherish. Along the side of the road were spreads of Mexican poppies with their bright orange faces held up to the sun. And here and there a purple lupine stood tall and ethereal like a beautiful fairy in the forest of orange. If one had to work, who could ask for more?
I had called Hermes and Becca Alexiou and made an appointment to visit them at their home in Carmel Valley. I gave myself some extra time to pull over and take a photo or two along the way, to gaze out at the ocean as I loved to do. And as I drove, I spun a fantasy about what I would find --a loving couple who missed their little girl Nutmeg -- who wanted her back. In my mind’s eye I saw a loving reunion and a happy time ahead for all of them.
As I arrived in the hills of Carmel Valley some two and a half hours later, I easily found the address from the directions they had given me. What I saw ahead was a delight – a charming Spanish style stucco home with a tower and a large walled courtyard filled with the melodies of a multitude of singing birds. There was a large Toucan in the far corner and a bevy of rose-breasted lovebirds by the gate as I walked in, all chirping nicely. A nightingale and a lark nearby sang to the heavens with delightful songs. And a couple of white parrots were busy grooming each other by the arched doorway which seemed to beckon.
As I approached, a tall, lithe, blonde woman glided through the doorway, holding her arms out: “You must be Helen from Children’s Garden,” she said. “Come in – have some herbal cold tea with us.”
Her voice was like the songbirds’ melodies, soft, yet resonant. She welcomed me with a hug and led me quickly through the arched doorway to a lovely patio where a tall iced pitcher of tea glistened in the sunlight. I thought if I had been a child how I would have hated to leave this beautiful place, this pretty mother. It would have been heartbreaking, I thought.
“So, you have come to talk about Nutmeg,” Becca said softly. “We miss her.”
“Yes, I am sure you must,” I said. “I’d like you to tell me about her – when you came to know her, how she behaved here, was she difficult? Were there other children here then? How long was she with you? How did she leave?” Realizing that I was spouting questions faster than anyone could think about answering them, I apologized. “I’m sorry, we just have so much to learn about Nutmeg in order to help her,” I said.
Becca smiled. She was beautiful when she smiled. “Oh, I understand. There is so much to tell. Though she was here only a year and a half -- well, let me start at the beginning.”
Becca sighed and began her story of Nutmeg at the home in Carmel Valley.
“We had wanted to adopt a child. We had called Social Services because a friend of ours was a social worker there and knew about this child. She thought that we were a good match for her, my husband being so dark, and me so light.” She laughed. “He’s not Black, but he’s Greek and very dark skinned,” she explained. So we called and our friend had already talked to her worker. They set up a time to meet in the offices at Social Services, and she was the cutest little thing, you know… all brown and bubbly and smiley with the most profound eyes _ and yet shy. We took to her immediately and wanted to take her home, but they said no, we had to visit with her several times; they had to do a home study, etc. .I’m sure you know the ropes.” Becca sighed.
“Yes, I think I do … but go on,” I replied. I could see the pain on Becca’s gentle face. It was obviously difficult for her to remember those days and to talk about Nutmeg.
“Well, after a couple months, the home study was over and we were approved. The social worker brought her to visit us at home here a few times, and each visit was deemed a ‘success”, so the placement was finally made. Katy, as we initially knew her, came to stay, hopefully forever. She was a handful at times, but nothing we couldn’t handle then. She had temper tantrums mostly at bedtime: she talked a lot about bad dreams and her mother cutting off the tip of her finger on the left hand. We had been warned about these dreams, so we were prepared to give her the sympathy and understanding she needed, and slowly, the dreams faded away. She loved to cook with me -- and it was during a cooking session where she decided after a year that she wanted to be called ‘Nutmeg.’ I can’t remember what we were baking, but I was showing her how to shave the whole nutmeg when she said ‘Look it’s like me, black on the outside and white on the inside!’ We laughed a lot about that as she took on the name Nutmeg. It seemed important to her and it didn’t matter to us what she wanted to be called.”
Becca looked away and seemed very sad. Taking a long breath, she said “I’m sorry. It’s painful to recall. Well, when her Social Worker came to visit, we shared the Nutmeg story and Nutmeg shared with her that she had adopted a new name. The Social Worker smiled, but seemed to me a bit unnerved by Nutmeg’s insistence that she be called Nutmeg from then on, even by the Social Worker. She made some comments about changing identity and wondering how healthy this was. And before we knew it, we were called into the offices of Social Services and questioned about the name change. It all seemed very innocent to us, but they apparently were concerned about it – terribly concerned.”
“The placement was coming up for review by the Courts very soon, and this seemed an important new development which could delay the adoption. We couldn’t understand how a simple nickname could mean something so terrible, but they insisted we should be aware that the Court might not be pleased.”
Becca smiled gently, a small tear running down her face. “I guess I will never forget that Court date. It was a horrible day for us and for Nutmeg. The judge, after hearing the reports from Social Services, ordered us to pack up Nutmeg’s things and return her to the Social Service detention facility. They gave us 48 hours in which to do this. They felt Nutmeg should be adopted, all right, but not by us.”
Becca broke into full tears and sobbed quietly. I took her hand, trying to provide some comfort to his gentle woman who had been so misused and abused by our system. “I am so sorry,” I said.
“It’s all right,” Becca replied. “Well, it isn’t all right, but we learned something about ourselves and America that day that we’ll never forget. It became clear to us that racial equality isn’t real in this country yet. And when the Social Worker told us that they had an “all Black couple” they thought would be a better placement for Nutmeg, well, we were really angry. We even contacted our lawyer, but he felt there was little that would sway the judge to reconsider, so we dropped it. I still wonder if we should have fought harder for that little one.”
I explained to Becca what had happened to Nutmeg; how she had been placed for adoption with a Black couple and had totally refused this adoption, been returned to Social Services, and was now with us at Children’s Garden, a very hurt and fragile little girl. I explained to her our services for fost-adopt parents and left her with a question:“Do you and your husband think you might be interested in trying again with Nutmeg?”
She didn’t answer me that day, nor did I expect or want her to. I was planting a seed I hoped would grow.