The Lost Boy

by Dave Pelzer

  “Those crocodile tears might work on Lil, but they won’t do a bit of good with me,” he stated.

  I cleared my throat before whimpering, “My dad called?”

  Lilian indicated yes by nodding her head before tugging on Rudy’s sleeve. “Let’s put it to bed for now, hmm?”

  Rudy turned his frustration on Lilian. “Wake up Lil. For God’s sake, we’re not talking about snatching another candy bar. He burned a school. . . .”

  “No!” Lilian said, cutting him off. “The principal believes there was another boy involved!”

  Rudy seemed tired. I could see the dark circles under his eyes. “Come on, Lil, does it matter? He’s a foster child. He’s been picked up for shoplifting, and his mother’s filed bogus police reports against him. Who do you think they’re going to believe? That’s the bottom line.”

  Lilian broke out in tears. “Rudy. I know. I know he’s not a bad child. He’s just . . .”

  I wanted to hug her and take away all the pain I had caused her.

  “Well,” Rudy replied in a calmer voice, “Lil, I know he’s not half bad . . . but he’s got one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. He’s dug himself a deep grave this time and . . . well . . . ,” he said, rubbing his forehead.

  “David,” Rudy said in a reassuring voice as he held my shoulders, “I know I bark at you quite a bit, and you may think I’m an ogre. But I do care about you; otherwise I would have shipped you out of here a long time ago. You’re in some mighty hot water, and there’s not a thing I can do. That’s why I’m so upset. But no matter what happens, I want you to know that we care for you.” He stopped for a moment to rub his eye. He stared down at me and massaged the tops of my shoulders. “I’m sorry, son, but it’s out of my hands. Tomorrow I have to take you to Hillcrest.” Tears began to trickle down Rudy’s face.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Mother’s Love

  As Rudy Catanze drove me to San Mateo County Juvenile Hall, I nearly blacked out from hyperventilation. The upper part of my chest felt as if a giant rubber band were tied around it. Even as Rudy gave me his last-minute advice, I couldn’t concentrate because I was so terrified of what would happen to me next. The night before, Larry Jr. had been very descriptive about what the bigger, older boys did to the young, soft, puny kids— the “fresh meat.” I felt so degraded as I stripped in front of the counselor during my in-processing, spread my butt cheeks before I showered, then put on the stale-smelling “county clothes.”

  I shuddered when the thick oak door to my cell slammed shut behind me. It took me less than a minute to examine my new environment. The walls were composed of dirty white cinder blocks. The cell had a faded, waxed cement floor. I stuffed my wet towel, change of underwear and socks in the tiny shelf. I sat on the foot of the wall-mounted bed and felt an urgent need to go to the bathroom—when I noticed there was no toilet in the cell. After I covered my head with the black wool blanket, the invisible bands around my chest began to loosen. Moments later I drifted off to sleep.

  The first time the door to my cell opened for afternoon recreation time, I walked down the hall as if I were walking on eggshells. The other kids seemed more like giant, walking tree stumps than they did teenagers. In my first few days I developed a plan for survival. I would fade into the background so as not to draw attention and, for once, keep my alligator-sized mouth clamped shut. During my initial week at Hillcrest, six frenzied fights broke out in front of me, three of them over whose turn it was to play pool. I bumped into a few walls as I spent a lot of time with my head bent down for fear of making eye contact, and I stayed the farthest away from the pool table.

  I breathed a little easier when I was transferred from the new-detainee section, the A-Wing, to the upstairs C-Wing section that housed the smaller, more hyperactive kids. I learned that the new wing’s set of directives were less strict. I didn’t feel the need to scurry to my cell, the way I had whenever the staff from the A-Wing turned their backs as the kids were sent to their rooms. The counselors in C-Wing seemed more open, more outgoing when dealing with the kids. I felt safe.

  One afternoon I was unexpectedly called from the recreation room. Moments later I discovered I had a visitor. As the counselor instructed me on the visiting procedures, my stomach tightened from excitement. Up until that moment, I did not know I could be seen by anyone, so I wondered who had come all the way to Hillcrest to visit me.

  As I burst through the small door, visions of Ms. Gold and Lilian filled my head. A second later my body became limp. Behind the tiny desk, Father sat with his chair against the wall. Besides Mother, Father was the last person I wanted to see while I stayed at juvenile hall.

  My hands trembled as I reached for a chair.

  “So, David,” Father said in an emotionless tone. “How are you?”

  “Fine, sir,” I replied, as I tried to avoid Father’s gaze.

  “Well . . . you’ve grown some. How long has it been?”

  “About a year, sir.”

  My eyes inched up Father’s body. I tried to remember the last time I truly looked at him. Was it when I lived at The House? I asked myself. Leaning on the small table in front of me, Father seemed so thin. His face and neck were dark red and leathered. His once finely combed hair was now an oily gray. He coughed every few seconds. His hand disappeared into his jacket pocket and fumbled for a pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out and tapped it on the table before lighting it. After a few drags, his hands quit shaking.

  I felt too ashamed to look into his eyes. “Uhm . . . Dad, before you say anything . . . I just want you to know . . .”

  “Shut up!” Father’s voice suddenly cracked like thunder. “Don’t even begin to tell me your lies!” He inhaled deeply before smashing his cigarette and lighting another. “For Christ’s sake, if they ever find out about this at the station . . . do you know what this could do to me? It’s not like I don’t have enough problems to deal with there!”

  I bowed my head, wanting to disappear.

  “Well?” Father’s voice rumbled. “And if that weren’t enough, you’ve given that crazy mother of yours all the ammunition she’s ever needed!” He stopped to take another drag. “Jesus H. Christ! You had it made! Then, out of nowhere, I get call after call from that social worker lady . . .”

  “Ms. Gold?” I muttered.

  “I finally make time to give her a call, and she tells me you’ve run away and have been stealing and landing yourself into all kinds of . . .”

  “But Dad, I really didn’t . . .”

  “You had better shut that mouth of yours before I shut it for you!” Father roared. He stopped for a moment and blew out a cloud of smoke. “You couldn’t let it go, could you? It wasn’t enough for you to involve the police and have them take you away from school, then drag your mother and brothers into court. Jesus! You’re really a work of art, aren’t you? You had everything. A new life, a new start. All you had to do was keep your nose clean. And you couldn’t do that, could you?

  “Do you have any idea what your mother wants to do with you? Do you?” Father demanded, raising his voice. “She wants me to sign some papers. She’s been after me to sign them for . . . how long . . . do you know?” he asked, more to himself than to me. “Do you have any idea how fuckin’ long she’s been after me to sign those papers?”

  I shook my head no, tears rolling down my face.

  “Years! Ever since she threw you out that one day. Hell, maybe she was right all along. Maybe you do need . . . You think it’s easy on me? How do you think it makes me feel to have a son of mine at a place like that . . . or a place like this?” Father’s eyes seemed so cold as they pierced through me. “Arson. They’re charging you with arson! Do you know how many firemen die because of arsonists? Hell, maybe she’s right. Maybe you are incorrigible.”

  I watched the orange ring of the cigarette creep its way toward Father’s fingers.

  “Well,” he said, after several minutes of silence, “I’ve got to
get the car back. I’ll, ah, see . . .” Father stopped mid-sentence as he pushed himself away from the table.

  My eyes scanned his body. His eyes looked so tired and empty. “Thanks . . . for coming to see me,” I said, trying to sound cheerful.

  “For Christ’s sake, boy, keep your nose clean!” Father snapped back. He began to push the door open when he stopped and looked deep into my eyes. “I’ve given up a lot for you. I’ve tried; God knows I’ve tried. I’m sorry for a lot of things in my life. I can forgive you for a lot of things—for all the trouble you’ve caused, for what you did to the family—but I can never, never forgive you for this.” The door shut behind him, and he was gone.

  “I love you, Dad,” I said, looking across the empty table.

  That evening at dinner, while a sea of hands fought for any portion of every container of food, I nibbled away at my salad. I felt so sick and hollow inside. I knew I was the reason why my parents were so unhappy, why they had separated, why they both drank so much and why my father—a man who had fought to save so many people’s lives—now lived in a crummy apartment. I had knowingly, willingly, exposed the family secret. I suddenly realized that Father was right. Father had been right all along.

  After dinner, as I performed my work assignment, mopping the dining-room floor, one of the counselors peeked around the corner. “Pelzer. Visitor at the front desk.” Minutes later I sucked in a deep breath and closed my eyes before I again opened the door to the visitor’s room. I prayed deep inside that Mother had not come.

  It took several blinks of my eyes for me to comprehend that it was Lilian’s face, and not Mother’s, that I was gawking at.

  Lilian leaped up and hugged me from the other side of the desk. “So, how are you?” she asked.

  “Fine! I’m great now!” I exclaimed, “Wow, I can’t tell you how . . . it’s so good to see you! ”

  Lilian sandwiched my hands between hers. “Sit down now and listen. We have a lot to talk about, so pay attention. David, has your father come to see you yet?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what did you two talk about?”

  I leaned back in my seat, trying to visualize the entire scene so that I could repeat word for word my visit with Father.

  “Did your father mention anything about a paper . . . ? Anything at all?” Lilian gently prodded.

  “Uhm . . . no. No, ma’am, not that I remember,” I said, scratching my head.

  Lilian tightened her grip on my hands until it was so hard they hurt. “David, please,” she begged, “this is important.”

  In a flash I recalled Father’s frustration about a set of papers Mother wanted him to sign. I carefully attempted to reconstruct Father’s words. “He said something about Mother being right and that he was thinking of signing papers saying that I was . . . in-carriage-able? ”

  “But he didn’t sign them?!” Lilian burst.

  “I don’t . . . I don’t know. . . .” I stuttered.

  “Damn it!” she barked. I lowered my head, thinking I did something wrong—again. Lilian looked away from the gray table, then at me. “No! No! It’s not you, David. It’s just . . . have you heard from your mother? Has she come to see you?”

  “No, ma’am!” I stated, shaking my head.

  “Listen carefully, David. You do not have to receive a visit from anybody you do not want to see. Do you understand? This is important. When you’re told you have a visitor, ask who that person is.” Lilian stopped to collect herself. She seemed on the verge of tears. “Honey, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but . . . don’t accept a visit from your mother. She’s fighting the county to have you put away.”

  “You mean like to stay here? An institution, right? Oh, I know all about that. It’s okay!”

  Lilian’s face turned snow white. “Where did you hear that?”

  “A lady from mental health. She says she works with all the young kids who come here to The Hill. She kept asking me about consent. . . . Yes!” I shrieked. “That’s it! The lady said it would be a lot easier for me if I gave my consent for the institution.” I knew by Lilian’s expression that something was horribly wrong. “Doesn’t it mean that by me signing the paper, that I promise, I consent, to be on my best behavior while I’m here? Does it, Mrs. C.?”

  “David, it’s a trap! She’s trying to trick you!” Lilian said with panic in her voice. “Listen to me! I’m going to spell it out for you: Your mother is claiming that your past behavior at her house warranted her to discipline you because you were so incorrigible. She’s trying to have you put away in a mental institution!” Lilian exhaled.

  I leaned back in my steel chair and stared at her. “You . . . ah . . . mean . . . a crazy home . . . don’t you?” I stuttered as my breathing accelerated.

  Lilian plucked a tissue from her purse. “I could lose my license as a foster parent, but I don’t give . . . I don’t care anymore. You can never, ever, repeat this to anyone. I’ve spoken with Ms. Gold, and we think your mother has somehow cooked up this plan—this institution thing—to somehow validate everything she’s ever done to you. Do you understand?”

  I nodded yes.

  “David, your mother has contacted this lady from mental health and has told her all sorts of things. David, I’m going to ask you a question and I need the absolute truth, okay? Did you ever start a fire at your mother’s house, in the garage of her house? ” Lilian carefully asked.

  “No!” I exclaimed. I then curled my fingers into the palms of my hands. “Once . . .”

  Lilian gritted her teeth as I continued.

  “. . . once, when I was four or five, I set the napkins by the candles before dinner . . . and they caught on fire! I swear, cross my heart, I didn’t mean to, Mrs. Catanze! It was an accident!”

  “Okay, all right,” Lilian said, as she waved her hands. “I believe you. But David, she knows. Your mother knows everything. From Walgreens, to running away—even the problem you had with the psychiatrist. Ms. Gold thinks she may have slipped up and told your mother more than she needed to know, but Ms. Gold is required to keep your mother informed about you. Damn it all! I’ve never seen anyone fight so hard to have their own flesh and blood . . .”

  My body temperature shot up. “What do you mean, the problem with the doctor? I didn’t do anything!”

  “Now, I’m getting this secondhand from Ms. Gold. . . .”

  “How come I’m not allowed to see Ms. Gold anymore?” I interrupted.

  “Because you have a probation officer now: Gordon Hutchenson,” Lilian replied, as she shook her head, trying to remain on track. “Now please, listen. I’m not even supposed to know this, but from what I understand, the psychiatrist wrote a report claiming that you have violent behavior tendencies. He’s claiming something about you jumping from your seat, waving your arms and nearly attacking him?” she said, looking more confused than her question sounded.

  My head swiveled from side to side. “No, ma’am! He told me I should hate my mother, remember?” I cried as I flung my head backward, hitting the wall. “What’s happening? I don’t understand? I didn’t do it! I didn’t do anything!”

  “Listen! Listen to me!” Lilian cried. “Ms. Gold thinks your mother’s been waiting for you to screw up—and now she has you.”

  “How can she? I live with you!” I said pleadingly, as I fought to understand how my world could suddenly crumble.

  “David,” Lilian said with a huff, “Rudy and I are just your legal guardians, that’s all. A piece of paper states that we maintain your well-being. We foster you. Legally, your mother has quite a bit of latitude. This is her way of striking back. Your mother has probably been fighting to put you away ever since you were placed in foster care, and this school incident makes her case.”

  “So now what?” I whimpered.

  “Understand this. You’re in for the fight of your life. If your mother can convince the county that it’s in their best interest, she’ll have them put y
ou in a mental institution. If that ever happens . . .” Lilian’s face suddenly erupted in a fury of tears. “I want you to know this. I don’t care what anybody, anybody, tells you. Rudy and I are fighting for you, and we’ll do whatever it takes. If we have to hire a lawyer, we’ll do it. If we have to go to hell and back, we’re prepared to do that, too. We’re here to fight for you. That’s why we’re foster parents! ”

  Lilian stopped for a moment to collect her thoughts. She then began in a low, calm voice. “David, I don’t know why it is, but for some reason a great deal of individuals look down on foster care. And these people believe that you children are all bad, otherwise you wouldn’t be in foster care. And if they can keep you out of their society, well, the better for them. You understand, don’t you?”

  I shook my head no.

  Lilian raised a finger to her lips while rethinking her statement. “You know what the word prejudice means, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It’s the same thing. You see, if these same people acknowledge—admit—a need for foster care, that means they are admitting to a bigger problem of what got you kids into foster care in the first place. And that means admitting to things like alcoholism, child abuse, children who run away or get into drugs. . . . You get it? We’ve made a lot of changes in the last few years, but we still live in a closed society. A lot of folks were raised to keep things to themselves, hoping no one ever finds out about their family secret. Some of them are prejudiced, and that’s why whenever a foster child gets in trouble . . .”

  Her statement hit me like a ton of bricks. Now I understood. The bands around my chest seemed to come alive as I began to wheeze. “Uhm . . . before . . . when I first came to your house . . . and I got into trouble . . . ?”

  “Yes?” Lilian whispered.

  “I heard what you said back then . . . but I just didn’t listen.”