The Lost Boy

  THE LOST BOY

  Also by Dave Pelzer

  A Child Called “It”

  The Lost Boy

  A Foster Child’s Search for

  the Love of a Family

  Dave Pelzer

  Health Communications, Inc.

  Deerfield Beach, Florida

  http://www.hci-online.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Pelzer, David J.

  The lost boy: a foster child’s search for the love of a family / Dave Pelzer. — [Rev. ed.]

  p. cm.

  eISBN-13: 978-0-7573-9606-9 eISBN-10: 0-7573-9606-2

  1. Pelzer, David J. 2. Abused children—California— Daly City—Biography. 3. Children of alcoholics— California—Daly City—Biography. 4. Abusive mothers —California—Daly City—Family relationships. 5. Family violence— California—Daly City. 6. Foster home care—California—Case studies. I. Title.

  HV881.P45 1997

  361.7’6’092—dc21

  [B]

  97-17614

  CIP

  © 1997 Dave Pelzer

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher.

  Publisher: Health Communications, Inc.

  3201 S.W. 15th Street

  Deerfield Beach, Florida 33442-8190

  R-11-06

  Cover design by Lawna Patterson Oldfield

  To the teachers and staff who rescued me

  Steven Ziegler

  Athena Konstan

  Joyce Woodworth

  Janice Woods

  Betty Howell

  Peter Hansen

  the school nurse of

  Thomas Edison Elementary School

  and the Daly City police officer

  To the angel of social services

  Ms. Pamela Gold

  To my foster parents

  Aunt Mary

  Rudy and Lilian Catanze

  Michael and Joanne Nulls

  Jody and Vera Jones

  John and Linda Walsh

  To those with a firm but gentle guiding hand

  Gordon Hutchenson

  Carl Miguel

  Estelle O’Ryan

  Dennis Tapley

  To friends and mentors

  David Howard

  Paul Brazell

  William D. Brazell

  Sandy Marsh

  Michael A. Marsh

  In memory of Pamela Eby

  who gave her life to saving the

  children of Florida

  To MY PARENTS, who always knew

  Harold and Alice Turnbough

  And finally, to MY SON, Stephen,

  whose unconditional love for who I am

  and what I do keeps me going.

  I love you with all my heart and soul.

  Bless you all, for,

  “It takes a community to save a child.”

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Notes

  1. The Runaway

  2. An Angel Named Ms. Gold

  3. The Trial

  4. New Beginnings

  5. Adrift

  6. The Defiant One

  7. Mother’s Love

  8. Estranged

  9. Coming Around

  10. Break Away

  Epilogue

  Perspectives on Foster Care

  Resources for Help

  About the Author

  Keynotes, Workshops and School Assemblies

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not have been possible without the tenacious devotion of Marsha Donohoe—editor extraordinaire —of Donohoe Publishing Projects. It was Marsha who not only edited the entire text from the original, dismayed printed version, but who also typeset, copyedited and proofread the tome to simplify the publication process. And, more important, she maintained the rigid, chronological perspective of the continuing journey through the eyes of a bewildered child. For Marsha, it was a matter of “. . . If I Could.”

  Thank you to Christine Belleris, Matthew Diener and Allison Janse of the editorial department for their professionalism throughout the production of this book. And a special thank you to Matthew for handling all of our needs and last-minute requests with a smile, and expertly following through on everything.

  To Irene Xanthos and Lori Golden of the sales department of Health Communications, Inc., for their undying genuine sincerity. And to Doreen Hess for all her kindness.

  A gargantuan thank you to Laurel Howanitz and Susy Allen of Hot Guests, for their unyielding dedication and promotion. Thanks for believing.

  To Cindy Edloff, for her efforts and time.

  A special thank you to the owners and staff of Coffee Bazaar in Guerneville, California, for keeping the raspberry mochas coming, for allowing Marsha and me to plug in and camp out, and for providing us with “The Big Table”—enabling us to spread out, take over and promote chaos within the quiet confines of this serene setting.

  Author’s Notes

  Some of the names in this book have been changed in order to protect the dignity and privacy of others.

  As in the first part of the trilogy, A Child Called “It,” this second part depicts language that was developed from a child’s viewpoint. The tone and vocabulary reflect the age and wisdom of the child at that particular time.

  The perspective of A Child Called “It” was based on the child’s life from ages 4 to 12; the perspective of this book is based on life from ages 12 to 18.

  CHAPTER

  1

  The Runaway

  Winter 1970, Daly City, California—I’m alone. I’m hungry and I’m shivering in the dark. I sit on top of my hands at the bottom of the stairs in the garage. My head is tilted backward. My hands became numb hours ago. My neck and shoulder muscles begin to throb. But that’s nothing new—I’ve learned to turn off the pain.

  I’m Mother’s prisoner.

  I am nine years old, and I’ve been living like this for years. Every day it’s the same thing. I wake up from sleeping on an old army cot in the garage, perform the morning chores, and if I’m lucky, eat leftover breakfast cereal from my brothers. I run to school, steal food, return to “The House” and am forced to throw up in the toilet bowl to prove that I didn’t commit the crime of stealing any food.

  I receive beatings or play another one of her “games,” perform afternoon chores, then sit at the bottom of the stairs until I’m summoned to complete the evening chores. Then, and only if I have completed all of my chores on time, and if I have not committed any “crimes,” I may be fed a morsel of food.

  My day ends only when Mother allows me to sleep on the army cot, where my body curls up in my meek effort to retain any body heat. The only pleasure in my life is when I sleep. That’s the only time I can escape my life. I love to dream.

  Weekends are worse. No school means no food and more time at “The House.” All I can do is try to imagine myself away—somewhere, anywhere— from “The House.” For years I have been the outcast of “The Family.” As long as I can remember I have always been in trouble and have “deserved” to be punished. At first I thought I was a bad boy. Then I thought Mother was sick because she only acted differently when my brothers were not around and my father was away at work. But somehow I always knew Mother and I had a private relationship. I also realized that for some reason I have been Mother’s sole target for her unexplained rage and twisted pleasure.

  I have no home. I am a member of no one’s family. I know deep inside that I do not now, nor will I ever, deserve any love, attention
or even recognition as a human being. I am a child called “It.”

  I’m all alone inside.

  Upstairs the battle begins. Since it’s after four in the afternoon, I know both of my parents are drunk. The yelling starts. First the name-calling, then the swearing. I count the seconds before the subject turns to me—it always does. The sound of Mother’s voice makes my insides turn. “What do you mean?” she shrieks at my father, Stephen. “You think I treat ‘The Boy’ bad? Do you?” Her voice then turns ice cold. I can imagine her pointing a finger at my father’s face. “You . . . listen . . . to . . . me. You . . . have no idea what ‘It’s’ like. If you think I treat ‘It’ that bad . . . then . . . ‘It’ can live somewhere else.”

  I can picture my father—who, after all these years, still tries somewhat to stand up for me— swirling the liquor in his glass, making the ice from his drink rattle. “Now calm down,” he begins. “All I’m trying to say is . . . well . . . no child deserves to live like that. My God, Roerva, you treat . . . dogs better than . . . than you do The Boy.”

  The argument builds to an ear-shattering climax. Mother slams her drink on the kitchen countertop. Father has crossed the line. No one ever tells Mother what to do. I know I will have to pay the price for her rage. I realize it’s only a matter of time before she orders me upstairs. I prepare myself. Ever so slowly I slide my hands out from under my butt, but not too far—for I know sometimes she’ll check on me. I know I am never to move a muscle without her permission.

  I feel so small inside. I only wish I could somehow . . .

  Without warning, Mother opens the door leading to the downstairs garage. “You!” she screams.

  “Get your ass up here! Now!”

  In a flash I bolt up the stairs. I wait a moment for her command before I timidly open the door.Without a sound I approach Mother and await one of her “games.”

  It’s the game of address, in which I have to stand exactly three feet in front of her, my hands glued to my side, my head tilted down at a 45-degree angle and my eyes locked onto her feet. Upon the first command I must look above her bust, but below her eyes. Upon the second command I must look into her eyes, but never, never may I speak, breathe or move a single muscle unless Mother gives me permission to do so. Mother and I have been playing this game since I was seven years old, so today it’s just another routine in my lifeless existence.

  Suddenly Mother reaches over and seizes my right ear. By accident, I flinch. With her free hand Mother punishes my movement with a solid slap to my face. Her hand becomes a blur, right up until the moment before it strikes my face. I cannot see very well without my glasses. Since it is not a school day, I am not allowed to wear them. The blow from her hand burns my skin. “Who told you to move?” Mother sneers. I keep my eyes open, fixing them on a spot on the carpet. Mother checks for my reaction before again yanking my ear as she leads me to the front door.

  “Turn around!” she yells. “Look at me!” But I cheat. From the corner of my eye I steal a glance at Father. He gulps down another swallow from his drink. His once rigid shoulders are now slumped over. His job as a fireman in San Francisco, his years of drinking and the strained relationship with Mother have taken their toll on him. Once my superhero and known for his courageous efforts in rescuing children from burning buildings, Father is now a beaten man. He takes another swallow before Mother begins. “Your father here thinks I treat you bad. Well, do I? Do I?”

  My lips tremble. For a second I’m unsure whether I am supposed to answer. Mother must know this and probably enjoys “the game” all the more. Either way, I’m doomed. I feel like an insect about to be squashed. My dry mouth opens. I can feel a film of paste separate from my lips. I begin to stutter.

  Before I can form a word, Mother again yanks on my right ear. My ear feels as if it were on fire.“Shut that mouth of yours! No one told you to talk!Did they? Well, did they?” Mother bellows.

  My eyes seek out Father. Seconds later he must have felt my need. “Roerva,” he says, “that’s no way to treat The Boy.”

  Again I tense my body and again Mother yanks on my ear, but this time she maintains the pressure, forcing me to stand on my toes. Mother’s face turns dark red. “So you think I treat him badly?I . . .” Pointing her index finger at her chest, Mother continues. “I don’t need this. Stephen, if you think I’m treating It badly . . . well, It can just get out of my house!”

  I strain my legs, trying to stand a little taller, and begin to tighten my upper body so that when Mother strikes I can be ready. Suddenly she lets go of my ear and opens the front door. “Get out!” she screeches. “Get out of my house! I don’t like you! I don’t want you! I never loved you! Get the hell out of my house!”

  I freeze. I’m not sure of this game. My brain begins to spin with all the options of what Mother’s real intentions may be. To survive, I have to think ahead. Father steps in front of me. “No!” he cries out. “That’s enough. Stop it, Roerva. Stop the whole thing. Just let The Boy be.”

  Mother now steps between Father and me. “No?” Mother begins in a sarcastic voice. “How many times have you told me that about The Boy? The Boy this, The Boy that. The Boy, The Boy, The Boy. How many times, Stephen?” She reaches out, touching Father’s arm as if pleading with him; as if their lives would be so much better if I no longer lived with them—if I no longer existed.

  Inside my head my brain screams, Oh my God! Now I know!

  Without thinking, Father cuts her off. “No,” he states in a low voice. “This,” he says, spreading his hands, “this is wrong.” I can tell by his trailing voice that Father has lost his steam. He appears to be on the verge of tears. He looks at me and shakes his head before looking at Mother. “Where will he live? Who’s going to take care of . . . ?”

  “Stephen, don’t you get it? Don’t you understand? I don’t give a damn what happens to him. I don’t give a damn about The Boy.”

  Suddenly, the front door flies open. Mother smiles as she holds the doorknob. “Okay. All right. I’ll leave it up to The Boy.” She bends down, just inches in front of my face. Mother’s breath reeks of booze. Her eyes are ice cold and full of pure hatred.I wish I could turn away. I wish I were back in the garage. In a slow, raspy voice, Mother says, “If you think I treat you so badly, you can leave.”

  I snap out of my protective mold and take a chance by looking at Father. He misses my glance as he sips another drink. My mind begins to tumble. I don’t understand the purpose of her new game.Suddenly I realize that this is no game. It takes a few seconds for me to understand that this is my chance—my chance to escape. I’ve wanted to run away for years, but some invisible fear kept me from doing it. But I tell myself that this is too easy. I so badly want to move my legs, but they remain rigid.

  “Well?” Mother screams into my ear. “It’s your choice.” Time seems to stand still. As I stare down at the carpet, I can hear Mother begin to hiss. “He won’t leave. The Boy will never leave. It hasn’t the guts to go.”

  I can feel the inside of my body begin to shake. For a moment I close my eyes, wishing myself away. In my mind I can see myself walking through the door. I smile inside. I so badly want to leave. The more I envision myself walking through the door, the more I begin to feel a warmth spread through my soul. Suddenly, I can feel my body moving. My eyes pop open. I look down at my worn-out sneakers. My feet are stepping through the front door. Oh my God, I say to myself, I can’t believe I’m doing this! Out of fear, I dare not stop.

  “There,” Mother triumphantly states. “ The Boy did it. It’s his decision. I didn’t force him. Remember that, Stephen. I want you to know I didn’t force him.”

  I step through the front door, knowing full well that Mother will reach out and yank me back in. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I quicken my pace. After stepping past the door, I turn right and walk down the red steps. From behind me I can hear the sounds of Mother and Father straining themselves as they lean outside. “Roerva,” Father s
ays in a low voice, “this is wrong.”

  “No!” she replies in a flat voice. “And remember, it was his decision. Besides, he’ll be back.”

  I’m so excited that I nearly trip on my own feet and stumble down the stairs. I grab on to the handrail to stabilize myself. I make it to the walkway, and I fight to control my breathing. I turn right and walk up the street until I’m sure no one can see me past The House, then I break into a run.I make it halfway up the street before stopping, only for a moment, to look back down at The House.

  With my hands on my knees I bend down panting. I try to strain my ears for the sounds of Mother’s station wagon. Somehow, Mother’s letting me go seems all too easy. I know she’ll be after me in a few moments. After catching my breath, I again quicken my pace. I reach the top of Crestline Avenue and stare down at the small green house.But there’s no station wagon racing out of the garage. No one running after me. No yelling, screaming or hitting. I’m not sitting at the bottom of the stairs in the garage, not being beaten in the back of the knees with a broomstick and not getting locked in the bathroom with another concoction of ammonia and Clorox.

  I spin around at the sound of a passing car. I wave.

  Even though I’m wearing ragged pants, a torn, thin, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of worn-out tennis shoes, I feel happy inside. I’m warm. I tell myself I’m never going back. After years of living in fear, surviving torturous beatings and eating out of garbage cans, I now know I will somehow survive.

  I have no friends, no place to hide, nothing to turn to. But I know exactly where I’m going—the river. Years ago, when I was a member of The Family, for every summer vacation we would drive up to the Russian River in Guerneville. The best times in my life were the days spent learning to swim at Johnson’s Beach, riding down the Super Slide, going on hayrides at sunset and playing with my brothers on the old tree stump by our cabin. Remembering the smell of the giant redwood trees and the beauty of the dark green river makes me smile.