by Dave Pelzer
Your son, David
Ms. Gold read the note and nodded, giving me permission to give the note to Mother. I shuffled over to Mother, becoming a child called “It” once again—with my hands stuck to my side and my head cocked down toward the floor. I waited for Mother to say something, to yell at me, snap her fingers, anything. She didn’t even acknowledge my presence. I inched my head upward, moving my eyes up her body, and stuck my hand out, holding my note. Mother snatched the paper, read it, then tore it in half. I bowed my head before returning to Ms. Gold, who put her arm around my shoulder.
Minutes later Ms. Gold, Mother, my four brothers and I filed into the courtroom. I sat behind a dark table, gazing in awe at the man above me dressed in a black robe. “Don’t be afraid,” Ms. Gold whispered. “The judge may ask you a few questions. It’s important, very important that you tell him the truth,” she said, stressing the last part of her sentence.
Knowing that my final outcome would be decided in the next few minutes, I reached over and nervously tapped Ms. Gold’s hand. “I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused you . . .” I wanted to tell her the truth—the real truth—but I didn’t have the guts. The lack of sleep had drained all of my inner strength. Ms. Gold smiled at me reassuringly, revealing her pearly white teeth. A subtle yet familiar fragrance filled my head. I closed my eyes, taking in a deep breath . . .
Before I knew it, the clerk began to read off a number and stated my name. At the mention of my name my head snapped up at the judge, who adjusted his glasses and glanced down at me. “Yes, the . . . uhh . . . Pelzer case. Yes. I presume the representative from the county is present?” the judge asked.
Ms. Gold cleared her throat and winked at me. “Here we go. Wish me luck.”
The judge nodded at Ms. Gold. “Recommendations?”
“Thank you, Your Honor. As the court is well aware through the extensive briefs from the pediatrician’s examinations, interviews with the minor’s former teachers, other interviews and my reports, the county recommends that David Pelzer become a permanent ward of the court.”
I stared up at Ms. Gold. I could barely make out her voice. I knew it was she who was talking, but her voice cracked. I glanced down at her skirt. Her knees were shaking. I clamped my eyes shut. Oh my God, I said to myself. As I opened my eyes, Ms. Gold returned to her seat, covering her trembling hands.
“Mrs. Pelzer? Is there anything you wish to state?” the judge asked.
Every head swung to the right, stopping at Mother. At first I thought Mother did not hear the judge. She simply stared up at his bench with a blank expression. After a few seconds, I realized what Mother was trying to do. She was trying to stare the judge down.
“Uhh . . . Mrs. Pelzer? Do you wish to make a statement in regard to your son, David?”
“I have nothing to say,” Mother said in a flat tone.
The judge rubbed his forehead then shook his head. “Fine. Thank you, Mrs. Pelzer. Duly noted.”
The judge then turned to Ms. Gold. “This is a very disturbing, very unusual case. I have read thoroughly all of the statements, and I have been troubled with the . . .”
I lost track of time as the judge began to ramble. I felt myself shrinking inside. I knew in a matter of minutes the proceedings would be over and I would be back with Mother. I glanced over to the right to look at her. Mother’s face was stone cold. I closed my eyes, visualizing myself back at the bottom of the stairs and sitting on top of my hands, hungry—like a starving animal. I didn’t know whether I could go back to that life again. I only wanted to be free of the pain and the indignity.
“David?” Ms. Gold whispered as she poked me. “David, the judge wants you to stand up.”
I shook my thoughts clear. I had fallen asleep, again. “What? I don’t under . . .”
Ms. Gold grabbed my elbow. “Come on, David. The judge is waiting.”
I stared up at the judge, who nodded for me to stand. My throat felt as if an apple were stuck in it. As I pushed my chair behind me, Ms. Gold tapped my left hand. “It’s all right. Just tell the judge the truth.”
“Well, young man,” the judge began. “What it boils down to is this: If the court so desires and if you believe that your home setting is undesirable . . . you may become a permanent ward of the court, or you may return and reside with your mother at your home residence.”
My eyes grew wide. I couldn’t believe that this moment had finally come. In unison, every person in the small room turned toward me. A lady with grayish white hair held her fingers just above a strange-looking typewriter. Every time someone spoke, the lady tapped keys that looked like tongue depressors. I swallowed hard and clenched my hands. From the right I could feel Mother’s radar of hate turn on.
I tried to look at the judge. I swallowed hard once more before I started to deliver my rehearsed line about how I had lied and that I had indeed caused all the problems at home and that Mother had never abused me. From the corner of my right eye I could see Mother’s eyes locked on to me.
Time stood still. I closed my eyes and imagined myself being driven back to The House with The Mother, where she would beat me and I would be forced to live at the bottom of the stairs, dreading the second set of commercials, wishing I could someday escape and become a normal kid who was allowed to be free of fear, to play outside . . .
Without Ms. Gold knowing, I turned to her and inhaled again. Suddenly it hit me—Ms. Gold’s perfume. It was the same perfume she wore whenever she gave me a hug or held me as we lay at the end of the couch. I saw myself playing with her hair.
My mind switched to seeing myself outside, laughing with the other children, playing basketball, searching for each other in a game of tag and running at hypersonic speeds through Aunt Mary’s home; then at the end of the day being dragged in from outside after hunting for snakes or playing by the creek. I opened my eyes and peeked at my hands. They were no longer red. In fact, my skin had a light tan.
I could feel Mother’s radar drill through me. I felt myself leaning to the right, a surge of fear creeping up my back. I took in another whiff of Ms. Gold’s perfume.
I held my breath for a fleeting second, then before my courage disappeared I blurted out, “You, sir! I want to live with you! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to tell! I didn’t mean to cause any trouble!”
Mother’s radar of hate intensified. I tried to remain standing, but my knees began to buckle.
“So be it,” the judge quickly announced. “It is the recommendation of this court that the minor, David James Pelzer, shall become a ward of the court and remain so until his 18th birthday. This case is closed!” the judge quickly concluded, as he slammed his gavel on a piece of wood.
I felt paralyzed. I wasn’t sure what had just happened. Ms. Gold sprang up and hugged me so tightly that I thought she’d crush my ribs. All I could see was a forest of blond strands, and I gagged as I almost swallowed clumps of Ms. Gold’s hair. After a few moments, Ms. Gold regained her composure. I wiped my tears and my runny nose. I looked up at the bench. The judge smiled at me. I returned the gesture. Then, for a brief moment, I thought His Honor winked at me.
I felt Mother’s radar of hate flicker, then turn off.
Ms. Gold held my shoulders. “David, I’m so proud of you!” Before she could say anything else, I whimpered, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to lie to you the other day. I’m sorry I made you cry. Can you ever forgive me? I just wanted to . . .”
Ms. Gold parted my hair from my eyes. “Shh. It’s all right. I knew what you were doing. But now, your mother wants to . . .”
“No!” I cried. “She’ll take me away!”
“She only wants to say good-bye,” Ms. Gold assured me.
As Ms. Gold and I slowly made our way out of the courtroom, I could see ahead of us that Mother was crying, too. Ms. Gold nudged me forward. I hesitated until I felt sure that Ms. Gold would stay nearby. The closer I walked to Mother, the more I cried. Part of me didn’t want to leave her. Mother�
�s arms opened wide. I ran into them. Mother hugged me as if I were a baby. Her feelings were sincere.
Mother let go, took my hand and led me to her car. I felt no fear. At the station wagon Mother loaded me up with new clothes and lots of toys. I was astounded. My mouth hung open as Mother continued to fill my arms.
My voice cracked as I said good-bye to my brothers, who shook their heads in response. I felt like a traitor, and I thought they hated me for exposing the family secret.
“I’m going to miss you,” Mother cried.
Before I could think, I replied, “I’ll miss you, too.”
As happy as I was for the judge’s decision, I became filled with sadness. I felt torn between my freedom and being separated from Mother and the family. Everything was too good to be true—my freedom, the new clothes, the toys. But the thing I cherished most was the warmth of Mother’s hug.
“I’m so sorry about everything,” I sobbed. “I really am. I didn’t mean to tell.”
“It’s not your . . .” Mother began. Her eyes changed. “It’s all right.” Mother’s voice became firm. “Now listen to me. You have another chance. This is a new beginning for you. I want you to be a good boy.”
“I will,” I said, as I wiped away my tears.
“No!” she stated in a cold voice. “I mean it! You have got to be a good boy! A better boy!”
I looked into her swollen eyes. I felt that Mother wanted the best for me. I realized that before Mother went into the courtroom, she had already predicted the outcome.
“I’ll be good. I’ll try real hard,” I said, as I squared my shoulders like I did back in the basement years ago. “I’ll make you proud of me. I’ll try my best to make you proud.”
“That’s not important,” Mother stated. Before she sent me away, she gave me a final hug. “Have a happy life.”
I turned away sniffling. I didn’t look back. I thought about what Mother had last said. Have a happy life. I felt as if she were giving me away. I almost collapsed when I reached Ms. Gold, who helped me load her car with my prized possessions. We stood together as Mother drove off. I waved to everyone, but only Mother returned my gesture. Her window was rolled up, but I watched Mother’s lips as she repeated, “Have a happy life.”
“How about an ice cream?” Ms. Gold asked, breaking the tension.
I stood up straight and smiled. “Yes, ma’am!”
Pam gently took my hand, wrapping her long fingers around mine, and led me to the cafeteria. We strolled past the other cars and a few scattered trees. I caught a whiff of the trees’ scent. Then I stopped to gaze at the sun. I stood still for a moment, taking in my surroundings. A soft wind blew through my hair. I didn’t shiver. The grass was a bright yellow-green. I knew that my world was different now.
Ms. Gold stopped to look at the sun, too. “David, are you going to be all right?”
“Yes!” I smiled. “I just don’t want to forget this first day of the rest of my life!”
CHAPTER
4
New Beginnings
After the effects of the trial had worn off, my insides became numb.
I fully realized that Mother could not physically harm me. But I still felt an eerie sensation that told me Mother was somewhere out there, coiled like a rattlesnake, waiting to reach out and strike with a vengeance.
But another part of me felt that I would never see Mother or my brothers again. I became confused, sensing that I didn’t deserve to live with them, that I was unworthy and that Mother had thrown me away. I tried my best to tell myself that through the wonder of the county’s social services and the court system, I had a new lease on my life. I tried my best to isolate my past, to bury my dark experiences deep inside my heart. Like a light switch, I imagined myself flicking off my entire past.
I quickly became accustomed to the routine at Aunt Mary’s home, as well as to my new school. Even though I was spontaneous and free at Aunt Mary’s, I still became lifeless and shy around my classmates. It seemed difficult for me to make friends. I stood out, especially whenever children asked why I didn’t live with my parents. And whenever some of my classmates persisted, I stuttered and turned away. I couldn’t look into their eyes.
Other times I’d happily state, “I’m a foster child!” I was proud to be a member of my new family. I began to repeat this saying until one day one of the older foster children pulled me aside at school, warning me not to tell anyone “what” I was because “. . . a lot of folks don’t like our kind.”
“‘Our kind’? What are you talking about?” I asked. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Don’t worry, little brother. You’ll find out soon enough. Just be cool and keep your mouth shut.” I obeyed the command, realizing I now lived in another world of prejudice.
During recess, I watched the other kids laugh as they played tag and handball, while I kept to myself and wandered around the school in a daze. No matter how hard I tried, my mind kept flashing back to my other school in Daly City. I thought of Mr. Ziegler and his animated “happy face” suns, which he would draw on my papers, Mrs. Woodworth’s dreaded spelling tests or running to the library, where Ms. Howell played “Octopus’s Garden,” by the Beatles, on her record player.
In my new school I had completely lost interest. I no longer absorbed my subjects as I had just a few weeks ago. I sat behind the gray steel desk half-dazed, scribbling on my papers, counting down the minutes until the end of the school day. What was once my sanctuary soon became a prison that kept me from my playtime at my foster home. As my attention span drifted, my handwriting, once cursive and graceful, became chicken scratch.
At Aunt Mary’s my awkward sense of humor and naïve excitability made me popular with the older foster children. Whenever some of them were granted permission to leave Mary’s home for the afternoon, I was allowed to tag along. Sometimes they stole candy bars from the local grocery stores. Wanting total acceptance and having already stolen food for years, I immediately followed their lead. If someone stole two candy bars, I stole four. It seemed so easy to me that after a few afternoon trips, I became a legend within the group. I was fully aware that what I was doing was wrong. I also knew that some of the bigger boys were using me, but I didn’t care. After years of isolation, I was finally accepted within a group.
My stealing was done within the foster home as well. Waiting until everyone was outside, I’d sneak into the kitchen and take slices of bread and stash them under my pillow. Then late at night I’d sit up on my bed and nibble on my prize, like a mouse nibbling on a piece of cheese. One Sunday afternoon I grew tired of bread and decided to steal Dolly Madison cupcakes from the freezer. In the early morning hours I awoke to find an army of ants leading to the head of my bed. As quickly and quietly as I could, I tiptoed to the bathroom and flushed my goodies, along with the ants, down the toilet. The next day, as Aunt Mary prepared our lunches for school, she discovered the missing desserts and blamed Teresa, one of the other foster children.
Even though Teresa was severely scolded and grounded to her room after school that day, I remained silent. I didn’t steal from Aunt Mary’s home for the thrill of it, but only to have a ready-made storage of food in case I ever became hungry.
It didn’t take long for Aunt Mary to discover that I was the one responsible for the missing food. From that moment on, Aunt Mary eyed me carefully around her home and did her best to restrict my afternoon adventures. At first I felt ashamed because I had betrayed her trust and kindness. But on the other hand, I simply didn’t care what “Old Maid” Aunt Mary thought of me. My only concern was total acceptance by the older foster children.
My welcome at Aunt Mary’s was probably worn out even before the first week of July, when I was placed in my first permanent foster home. Just as before, when the police officer had driven me to Aunt Mary’s for the first time, I couldn’t wait to see the new home. My new foster mother, Lilian Catanze, greeted Ms. Gold and me at the door. As I followed Mrs. Catanze and Ms. Gold up th
e wide, open stairs that led into the living room, I tightly clutched a brown grocery bag containing all my worldly possessions. The night before, I made sure to pack my bag and keep it close to my side.
I knew from experience that if I left anything behind, I would never see it again. I was shocked when I first witnessed the foster children who transformed into frenzied piranhas whenever a child left Aunt Mary’s home. Within seconds of the child’s departure, the others would swarm through the room, checking under the bed, in the closets and through the clothes hamper—everywhere —searching for clothes, toys or other valuables. The ultimate prize was to find a stash of money. I quickly discovered that it didn’t matter whether the thieves needed or even desired the items. Possession of an article, any article, meant trading power for other things—household chores, late-night desserts or an exchange for money. As usual, I adapted quickly, and joined in the hunt whenever a child left. I learned that rather than walking a child to the car and wishing him or her good luck, I would instead say my good-byes in Aunt Mary’s home . . . and then stay close to the departing child’s room so I could have a head start on the other kids. But as a sign of respect, we all knew to never enter a room until the child had left. I also learned that deals were usually made the night before, and as a courtesy the roommate would get first dibs. So I, too, would give away a few shirts and a couple of toys.
As I began to imagine the other foster children ransacking my old room, I heard Mrs. Catanze ask, “Well, David, what do you think?”
Still holding my bag, I shook my head up and down before saying, “It’s a very nice house, ma’am.”
Mrs. Catanze waved a finger in my face. “Now, we’ll have none of that. Everyone here calls me either ‘Lilian’ or ‘Mom.’ You may call me ‘Mom.’”
I again nodded, but this time at both women. I didn’t feel comfortable calling Mrs. Catanze, some lady I just met a few moments ago, Mom.