A Kidnapped Mind

by Pamela Richardson

  Thus we were stuck with an incomplete Grade Eight and an undisciplined, directionless boy. I went searching and found an American in Whistler with a Master’s degree in Education (teaching special-needs children), who was tutoring that summer in Whistler while awaiting the birth of her first child. I talked with Janet by phone and, when she told me her specialization, I talked with her on a deeper level about Dash, telling her that he might be more difficult than the average tutoring assignment. She came to the house and met Dash, who seemed to like her immediately. They agreed to meet at the house twice a week, and Dash promised to do his math every day, for an hour each day. The two of them worked at the dining-room table together for two or three hours each time, and on Dash’s first math test he got 92 percent, a far cry from the failure he had recorded at school. But after the first two weeks, it became increasingly difficult to get Dash to do his homework. He was resistant to his lessons with Janet, and eventually getting Dash to sit in front of his work became impossible. Trying to get him to do it piqued his anger and ate into our fragile connection, so among the three of us we decided to dump it for the time being.

  I worked on other things with Dash under the guise of normal daily life. He was an insomniac, so we established a routine of lights-out at eleven o’clock, but I have no idea if Dash slept. There wasn’t one day in those weeks that Dash didn’t seem terribly fatigued, heavy. He didn’t pick up a single book during those three weeks, but I had bought an armload of skateboarding magazines up from Vancouver, which got him reading — or at least looking at the pictures and engaging in one of his passions. Dash had told me a year before that he wanted to be a professional skateboarder, the first career aspiration I had heard from him in years. By then I leapt on any sign of passion, ambition, or engagement. I didn’t care what it was. I believe in creative expression, and each signal that he was still artistic gave me hope that he was going to be okay. By then, if he had told me he wanted to be a tattoo artist, I would have rushed out and bought him his inks, needles, and studio space.

  Dash had been interested in art even as a child, and I had nurtured it in him — taking him to Arts Umbrella, with all its creative-arts programs for children, and music and movement classes when he was four and five, a video-making class when he was twelve. I had always packed a bunch of coloured pencils and a sketchpad for him to use during road trips when he was young, and later he drew in proper art books I got him. Dash seemed to find it calming to sit and draw, and he did it for hours at a stretch. As we drove around Vancouver on our way to Westbeach for clothes or to his favourite record shop on East Hastings Street he always pointed out the graffiti in the city. One day I said, “Hey, Dash. I have a friend with an art studio. John Ferrie — remember Joan, my friend who helps me on the house? The interior designer? Well, her son. Why don’t we visit him and see what he’s working on?” We did and Dash’s interest blossomed. I told him about two artists who had started out as graffiti artists — Jean-Michel Basquait and Keith Haring. We went and got some books on them and he flipped through them avidly.

  “You mean these guys started out painting on the street? Really?”

  “Yep, and look where they got to. When they were alive, galleries begged for their pictures. They were talented — like you, Dash. They started out with walls not canvas, too.”

  “Wow, Mom. I never would have thought that could happen.”

  “Now, how about this, Dash? Instead of doing your graffiti on buildings and public spaces, why don’t I get some canvasses for you to paint on? Then you can work on it at home, too. It’d be like you having your very own studio.”

  When Dash was done painting his canvasses, he’d cover them with white paint and start all over again. And he’d call me out of the blue, when I hadn’t heard from him for months.

  “Mom, I’m out of paint. Can we go to the paint shop?”

  And I’d rush out the door.

  One afternoon after hamming it up in the paint shop, we pulled up outside Peter’s house on West Fifth Avenue, shortly before they moved. Dash turned to me and said excitedly, “Can I show you some of my canvasses, Mom? I’ve been working really hard on them.”

  “Dash, I’d love that!” I was astonished to be invited in. I hadn’t been inside his house since he was five years old. “You run inside and ask your dad if I can come in and see your canvasses. I’ll wait here for you.”

  Minutes passed. Dash came out again. Disappointment had crushed his happy face. “Dad says you can’t come in.”

  “Oh. Well, Dash, another time then. I’d really love to see them.”

  “Yeah.” He looked down and half turned to go. “Hey, Mom! I’ve got an idea!” He pointed to the corner of the house. “If you go over there, I can go into the corner room and show them to you through the window!” He ran inside and I walked around to where he had pointed; the window looked into a playroom in the basement. There were layers of grime and muck on the glass, and I kneeled down on the damp ground and wiped it away. I cupped my hands on either side of my face to cut out the glare so I could get a better look, and there was Dash, so proud, standing next to a big canvas covered in graffiti art. I smiled and waved and gave him a big thumbs-up. He was beaming.

  It was so important for me to support Dash’s interests, no matter what they were and no matter what he was doing.

  One of the strange things about having a PAS child for a son was that, although Dash was in some ways an ongoing “mental health emergency,” he was also a boy, and that boy had grown up. He now lived in the world with other teenagers, and puberty had thrown up a vast array of opportunities for experimentation, rebellion, angst, and drama. So although we could curl up together on the couch in Whistler and toast marshmallows with the boys and laugh till we cried when we were tossed into the freezing lake, as far as trusting communication went it was still very early days. I plugged away, prying open the fields of communication so that Dash would get the counsel he needed as a teenager as well as the support and unconditional love he was missing out on as a PAS child with a dysfunctional parent. When Dash told me he had been smoking marijuana for a year, I didn’t try to discipline him, and I didn’t freak out, and I didn’t attempt to change what he was doing. Many teenagers experiment with marijuana; I didn’t want Dash smoking it, but I wasn’t surprised that he did and, because I had no ability to discipline him, I tried just to talk it over with him.

  “I guess the big thing that concerns me about marijuana, Dash, is that it’s a drug and it affects the brain. For a young and developing brain, like yours, at fourteen years old, that’s a big deal to me. I know that it affects children’s grades and energy levels, even appetite. It can alter sleep patterns and might even make you feel down; blue, you know.” Dash nodded, eyes on the ground. “It’s also illegal, Dash. It’s against the law.”

  “But it shouldn’t be illegal. There’s nothing wrong with it,” he said quickly.

  “And a lot of people think that, I know, and maybe some day the law will change, but at the moment it is illegal, and I think that should maybe be taken into consideration.”

  Dash looked unconvinced, but he didn’t argue.

  “Where do you get it anyway — the marijuana?”

  Dash hesitated. “School.”

  “Really? From other students or kids that come to your school to sell it?”

  “Mom, I can’t tell you that. You don’t rat out your source. They might get in trouble.”

  “Dash, I know you’ve heard me say this before, but if you’re ever in a situation where you took something, or drank too much, and were in trouble or needed to get home, you can call me — anytime, anywhere — and I’ll always come and pick you up.”

  “I know, Mom.”

  “Don’t be afraid to ask for a lift or help in a bad situation. Promise me that?”

  “Sure, Mom,” he paused. “Can we talk about something else now?” Ah, teenagers.

  “Yeah, like what’s for dinner maybe?” I said, smiling.

&nbs
p; “Yeah, like what’s for after dinner, too!”

  Dash and I talked about sex the same way. I bought a couple of books on puberty and we read through them together. We looked at the pictures, had a laugh at some of them, and talked about respecting and caring for a girlfriend “whenever that happens, Dash, and there’s no rush!” I laughed.

  Still, Vancouver exerted its pull. Peter called home as we drove down from Whistler. “Is Dashiell back yet? Are they back from Whistler?” We had had three weeks in Whistler and, although they were tough, the intervention had started working. We had connected. I saw Dash improving. There had been no miracle — pacific Dash was not — but there had been real signs that, if we kept going, it would work. I had booked a week of horseback riding at a dude ranch in Bend, Oregon, for all of us after a couple of days back in Vancouver. But whatever Dash and his father had prearranged, or whatever unspoken agreement was in the air, when we stopped at a downtown stoplight ten minutes from home, Dash grabbed his skateboard and leapt out the passenger door.

  “See you,” he said casually. Like, thanks for the lift.

  I had been watching him, anticipating it, and I waited him out, willing him to jump back in. The light was still red. Cars surrounded us. He kept his hand on the door handle and I watched his face.

  “Dash, this is dangerous. What are you doing?”

  He didn’t look at me, but looked around, as if scoping out his trip home.

  “Ha. Ha. Just joking,” he finally said, and got in and closed the door again. When we stopped at another light, one block from our home, Dash leapt out again. This time it surprised me; we were so close to home. “I’ll skateboard the rest of the way,” he said.

  “Dash, remember the doctor said after your fall you shouldn’t put any weight on that foot,” I said. Please. Get in the car. Stay with us. We’re going to the ranch. We’ll be away again.

  “I don’t give a fuck about my foot,” he said, slamming the door and taking off the way we had just come, away from our house, toward his father’s. I drove straight home, gave the boys some car-unloading tasks, and from my den called the police, then Jamie. “He’s gone. I’m sure he’s gone to Peter’s.” I swept back into the kitchen to organize snacks for the boys and take chicken out of the freezer to thaw for dinner — and I waited. I had an enforceable no-contact order. Dash couldn’t stay at Peter’s and Peter knew that. But Dash didn’t come home and, as the hours passed, I called all the friends I still knew and left messages at Greg’s apartment and at Peter’s.

  “Peter, it’s Pamela. Dash left my house on his skateboard. I’ve called the police. I’m considering filing a missing-person report,” I told his machine. That might do it.

  Peter called quickly. “Don’t file a report,” he said. “Look, I’m out of town, but I’ll call his friends. See if I can track him down.”

  Day became night without word. I got up with the sun the next morning, had a coffee, and drove to Peter’s house. For the first time — ever — I asked Dave to come with me. My neighbour Molly stayed with the boys, because Mimi had gone home for the weekend. This time the stakes were higher than ever. I was knocking on Peter’s door and demanding Dash back, so I wanted Dave, but I didn’t want to inflame anything either. I asked him to stay in the car unless it looked as if I needed him. I walked up the path and knocked on the door.

  There was no answer. He’s harbouring that boy. I waited, then we drove to Greg’s apartment. There was no answer there either. I went home, made us all breakfast, and tried to stay calm. I drove to Peter’s house alone at eleven o’clock.

  “Who’s there?” came Peter’s reply when I knocked. “I’m on the phone.”

  “I’ll wait, Peter. I need to talk with you.” My stomach was already coiled when Peter opened the door. “Peter, I’m here to take Dash home.”

  “Well — he’s not here.”

  “Oh, God. Peter he is here,” I said. I was shocked when I began crying. It all started to pour out. “Why are you doing this? It’s gone on too long and it’s hurting our son. Can’t you see that? I have tried so hard to make everything work between us, but you can’t put the past behind you. It isn’t healthy for anyone. And Dash — Peter, Dash is in so much pain. He wants to be able to see both of us.” Peter looked at me as though I were hysterical, neurotic. He was detached and looked almost amused, as though he were watching an absorbing movie. Nothing I said moved him. “Dash needs to be allowed to have relationships with each of his parents. He needs both of us. He’s troubled, Peter. He’s really troubled. You heard Bob Lewis. Dash’s heading in the wrong direction.”

  “Do you have any idea how awful it was to have been separated from Dash in court?” he asked, coolly. “With Dash hugging me and crying like that?”

  My voice rose an octave; tears streamed down my face. “He was only going to visit his mother!” I cried. “He wasn’t going with strangers. He wasn’t being sent to jail. He was going to—!” Peter shushed me. “He hadn’t stayed with me for three and a half years!”

  “Pamela, you’re being hysterical.”

  “Why did Dash calm down the instant we left the courtroom, Peter? He took my hand as soon as we were out of your sight.”

  “I told him to hold your hand,” he said confidently, and I wanted to strike him. Hit him for every day of Dash’s childhood I had lost. I balled my hands at my sides. I will never reach this man, never, because he doesn’t want to hear. He can’t hear this.

  “Look,” he said bluntly, “I’ll call you if I hear anything. I really have to go. I’ll call around his friends again. I’m sure I’ll find him.” No doubt you will. Peter was already shutting the door.

  “Peter! Dash wants — Look! Please. Listen to me. Don’t close the door on me! I’ve booked a week at a dude ranch in Oregon. Dash wants to go. We’re leaving in a couple of days. He wants to come water-skiing at Lake of the Woods, too. Please, please let him come back. You have to let him get to know—”

  “Hush, the neighbours will hear you,” Peter said, gesturing with his hands.

  “What did you just say?” My body stopped shaking for the first time since I had arrived. My mind blanked of noise and my vision sharpened. I was suddenly dead calm.

  “Just … can you quiet down? The neighbours will hear you.”

  Peter didn’t care about the neighbours. He had never cared about the neighbours. It was Dash he didn’t want hearing my desperate pleas. Dash was upstairs and awake and listening. I backed up and walked slowly to my car, watching Peter as though he might suddenly pounce. I called 911 from my cell phone, quoted our case number, and said, “Dash is inside his father’s house.” I had a court order with police backup — they were there in five minutes. I stayed inside the car and let them do their job. They knocked.

  “Who is it?” Peter asked innocently.

  “Vancouver Police.”

  Peter came out and closed the door behind him.

  “We’re looking for Dash Hart and have reason to believe he is here with you.”

  “Oh, no, officer. I don’t know where he is, but I’m sticking by the phone. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

  The police asked him for a photograph of Dash, and Peter went back inside to get one. He’d left the door open and, although they couldn’t cross the threshold, the officers looked inside the entrance-way. Dash’s skateboard was on the stairs. A note to Dash sat next to it.

  “Mr. Hart, would you mind if we came inside to look around?”

  “Well, yes I would, actually. You don’t have a warrant to do so.”

  There was nothing more the police could do, so after Peter closed his door, they came to my car. “He’s lying to us,” one of them said.

  The other said, “And he knows exactly what to say. He knows we can’t go in without a warrant. We can write an affidavit about what just happened if you want, Mrs. Richardson.”

  “I think we’ve had enough court.”

  “Then I don’t think there’s anything else we can d
o. Why don’t you just go to Oregon like you’ve planned and let things settle down here? See what your lawyer can do to get the child back.”

  I turned the key in the ignition, shot a look at the downstairs windows, and drove away. I never, ever knew what my limits were. I never knew if this time or the next time or the time after that would be the last time I could bear being beaten up by these people. I felt as if my bones had been shattered and shaken up inside my skin. I was sapped. I had to get home to my family.

  The next day Peter called, his voice slurred and slow. “Dash has called,” he said. “He slept overnight with a friend, a new friend, I don’t know his name.”

  I played the game. “Okay. I’ll go and get him. Where is he? What’s the address?”

  “You don’t know the friend. I don’t want to tell you who, right now, anyway.”

  I sighed. “Then can you tell me—”

  “Look, Pamela. Dash doesn’t want to go to the ranch, so you should go ahead and make your plans. He’s pretty ticked off.”

  And when Dash called that night to nonchalantly, matter-of-factly, lay out his lines, I wasn’t devastated. I wasn’t even surprised. I was too exhausted. I had seen Dash for three weeks in three years. Square one was an awfully familiar place by now. “I don’t want to go to the ranch, Mom,” he said. “I’m mad at you. The court order is crazy. I don’t like it. I want to live with my dad. If you send police over, I’ll run away from them, and if you start doing more court stuff, then I won’t see you.”