The Lost Boy Page 3

  Minutes later the door from the office creaks. Father steps out from the room, shaking the policeman’s hand. The officer approaches me. He bends down. “David, it was just a small misunderstanding. Your father here tells me that you became upset when your mother wouldn’t let you ride your bike. You didn’t need to run away for something like that. So, you go home with your father now, and you and your mother work this thing out. Your father here says she’s worried sick over you.” He then changes the tone of his voice as he points a finger at me. “And don’t you ever put your parents through that again. I hope you’ve learned your lesson. It can be pretty scary out there, right?” the officer asks, while gesturing to the outside of the building.

  I stand in front of the officer in total disbelief. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Ride my bike? I don’t even have one! I’ve never even ridden on one before! I want to spin around to see if he is talking to some other kid. From behind, Father looks down at me. His eyes are blank. I realize this is just one of Mother’s cover stories. It figures.

  “And David,” the officer states, “treat your parents with dignity and respect. You don’t know how lucky you are.”

  My mind becomes foggy. All I can hear inside my head is, “ how lucky you are . . . how lucky you are . . . ,” over and over and over again. I shudder when Father slams the door from the driver’s side of the station wagon. He exhales deeply before leaning over to me. “Jesus H. Christ, David!” he begins as he turns the ignition and pumps the gas pedal. “What in the hell were you thinking? Do you have any idea what you did? Do you know what you put your mother through?”

  My head snaps toward Father. Put her through? What about me? Doesn’t anyone care about me? But . . . I tell myself, maybe she broke down. Maybe she’s really concerned about me. Is it possible she knows she went too far? For a moment I can imagine Mother sobbing in Father’s arms, wondering where I am, whether I’m alive. Then I can see my mommy running up to me with tears in her eyes as she wraps me in love, showering me with kisses, tears rolling down her face. I can almost hear my mommy say the three most important words I long to hear. And I’ll be ready to say the four most important words: I love you, too!

  “David!” Father grabs my arm. I jump up, striking my head against the top of the car. “Do you have any idea what your mother’s been doing? I can’t get a moment of peace in that house. For Christ’s sake, it’s been nothing but hell since you left. Jesus, can’t you just stay out of trouble? Can’t you just try and make her happy? Just stay out of her way and do whatever she wants. Can you do that? Can you do that for me? Well?” Father yells, raising his voice so loud I can feel my skin crawl.

  Slowly I nod my head yes. I don’t dare make a sound as I cry deep inside. I know I’m wrong. And, as always, it’s all my fault. I turn to Father while shaking my head up and down. He reaches over to pat my head.

  “All right,” he says in a softer tone, “all right. That’s my Tiger. Now let’s go home.”

  As Father drives the car up the same street I walked down hours ago, I sit at the far side of the car, resting the weight of my body on the door. I feel like a trapped animal who wants to claw its way through the glass. The closer we get to The House, the more I can feel myself quiver inside. I need to go to the bathroom. Home, I say to myself. I stare down at my hands. My fingers tremble from fear. I know in a few moments I’ll be back where it all started. In all, nothing’s changed, and I know nothing will. I wish I were someone, anyone but who I am. I wish I had a life, a family, a home.

  Father drives into the garage. He turns to me before opening his door. “Well, here we are,” he states with a false smile. “We’re home.”

  I look right through him, hoping, praying he can feel my fear, my pain from inside of me. Home? I say to myself.

  I have no home.

  CHAPTER

  2

  An Angel Named Ms. Gold

  On March 5, 1973, I received the long-awaited answer to my prayers. I was rescued. My teachers and other staff members at Thomas Edison Elementary School intervened and notified the police.

  Everything happened with lightning speed. I cried with all my heart as I said my final good-byes to my teachers. I somehow knew I would never see them again. By the tears in their eyes I realized they understood the truth about me—the real truth. Why I was so different from the other children; why I smelled and dressed in rags; why I climbed into garbage cans to hunt for a morsel of food.

  Before I left, my homeroom teacher, Mr. Ziegler, bent down to say good-bye. He shook my hand and told me to be a good boy. He then whispered to me that he would tell my homeroom class the truth about me. Mr. Ziegler’s statement meant the world to me. I so badly wanted to be liked, to be accepted by my class, my school—by everyone.

  The police officer had to nudge me through the door of the school office. “Come on, David, we gotta go.” I wiped my nose before I stepped through the door. A million thoughts raced through my mind, all of them bad. I was terrified of what the consequences would be when Mother found out. No one had ever crossed The Mother like this before. When she found out, I knew there would be hell to pay.

  As the police officer led me to his car, I could hear the sounds of all the schoolchildren playing in the yard during their lunch break. As we drove off, I twisted around in my seat to catch a glimpse of the schoolyard one last time. I left Thomas Edison Elementary School without having a single friend. But my only regret was that I did not have a chance to say good-bye to my English teacher, Mrs. Woodworth, who was ill that day. During the time I was Mother’s prisoner, Mrs. Woodworth, without knowing, helped me escape my loneliness through the use of books. I had spent hundreds of hours in the dark, reading books of high adventure. This somehow eased my pain.

  After filling out some forms at the police station, the officer called Mother to inform her that I was not coming home that afternoon, and that she could call the county’s juvenile authorities if she had any questions. I sat like a statue, feeling both horror and excitement as the officer spoke on the phone. I could only imagine what was going through Mother’s head. As the policeman spoke with a dry voice on the phone, I could see beads of sweat cover his forehead. After he hung up the phone, I wondered for a moment if anyone else had ever had the same experience after talking to Mother. It seemed to be very important to the officer that we leave the station right away. I didn’t help matters by pestering him over and over again as I jumped up and down and asked, “What’d she say? What’d she say?” The officer refused to answer. He seemed to breathe easier once we drove past the city limits. He then bent down and said, “David, you’re free. Your mother is never going to hurt you again.”

  I didn’t fully understand the weight of his statement. I had hoped that he was taking me to some kind of jail, with all the other bad children—as Mother had programmed into me for so many years. I had decided long ago that I’d rather live in jail than live one more minute with her. I turned away from the sun. A single tear rolled down my face.

  As long as I could remember, I had always wiped my tears and retreated inside my shell. This time I refused to wipe the tear away. I could feel the tear reach my lips, tasted the salt and let the tear dry on my skin as the rays from the sun baked through the windshield. I wanted to remember that tear not as a tear of fear, anger or sorrow, but as one of joy and freedom. I knew that from that moment on, everything in my life was new.

  The officer drove me to the county hospital. Immediately, I was taken into an examination room. The nurse seemed shocked by my appearance. As gently as possible, she bathed my entire body from head to toe with a sponge before the doctor examined me. I couldn’t look at her. I felt so ashamed as I sat on top of the cold metal examination table, wearing only my soiled underwear briefs filled with holes. As she washed my face, I turned away and kept my eyelids closed as tightly as I could. When the nurse finished, I gazed at the yellow-colored room filled with Snoopy cartoon characters. I looked down at different parts of my body.
My legs and arms were a combination of yellow and brown. Dark circles of purple bruises faded on top of fresh rings of blue bruises—where I was either grabbed, punched or slammed down on the kitchen floor. When the doctor came into the room he seemed very concerned about my hands and arms. My fingers were dry, raw and red from all the years of using the combinations of cleaning chemicals used to complete my household chores. The doctor pinched the tips of my fingers, asking me if I could feel the pressure. I shook my head no. I hadn’t been able to feel the tips of my fingers for some time now. He shook his head, claiming it was nothing to worry about, so I didn’t think anything more of it.

  Afterward, the police officer kindly led me through the maze of corridors as we made our way from room to room for lots of examinations, tests, blood samples and X rays. I found myself moving in a daze. I felt as if I were watching someone else’s life through my own eyes. I became so scared that I first asked, then begged the policeman to check around every corner and enter every room before I did. I knew that somewhere out there Mother was poised, ready to snatch me away. At first the officer refused, and only after I became so petrified that I couldn’t breathe or move did the policeman humor me and follow my requests. I knew deep inside my heart that things were happening too fast—it was too easy for me to escape Mother.

  Hours later we ended up with the same nurse who bathed me. She bent down to say something. I waited. She stared into my eyes, then after a few moments, she turned away. I could hear her sniffle. The doctor walked up behind me, patted my shoulder and gave me a bag containing cream for my hands. He then instructed me to keep my arms as clean as possible and said that it was too late to cover them. I looked at the officer, then down at my arms. I didn’t understand. To me, my arms seemed the same as they always did—dark red with little skin. Both arms itched quite a bit, but that was normal for me. Before the policeman and I left, the doctor reached over and said to the officer, “Make sure David gets plenty of food. And make sure he gets lots of time in the sun.” Then the doctor bent a little closer to him and asked, “Where is she? You’re not sending him back to his . . . ?”

  The policeman locked eyes with the doctor. “Not to worry, Doc. I gave this kid my word. His mother is never going to hurt him again.”

  From that moment on, I knew I was safe. Standing near the officer, I wanted to hug his leg, but I knew I shouldn’t. My eyes gleamed with joy. The police officer became my hero.

  A few minutes after we left the hospital, he slowed his car as he drove through the hills on the narrow one-lane roads. I rolled down my window and stared in amazement at the sloping brown hills and tall redwood trees. Moments later the officer parked the car. “Well, David, here we are.” I gazed down below me at the prettiest home I had ever seen. The officer explained that I would live here for a while and that this would be my new foster home. I had never heard the words foster home before, but I knew I would love the home. To me it seemed like a giant log cabin with lots of open windows. I could see that behind the home was a huge backyard, where sounds of screeching and laughter echoed by the tiny creek.

  The elderly woman who ran the temporary foster home introduced herself as “Aunt Mary” and greeted me at the kitchen door. I thanked the police officer with the strongest handshake I could. I felt bad that he had worked overtime for me. He knelt down and said in a deep voice, “David, it’s kids like you that made me want to become a policeman.” Without thinking, I grabbed his neck. The moment I did, my arms felt as if they were on fire. I didn’t care. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Hey, kid, not a problem,” he replied. He then strolled up the curved walkway and saluted me from his car before driving off. I didn’t even know his name.

  After Aunt Mary fed me a delicious dinner of filet of sole, she introduced me to the seven other children who, like myself, for one reason or another no longer lived with their parents. I stared into every one of their faces. Some eyes were hollow, some full of worry, others full of confusion. I had no idea there were other unwanted children, too; for years I had felt I was all alone. At first I acted shy, but after a few questions from the other children, I opened up. “What are you in for?” they asked. “What happened to you?”

  I bent my head down before replying that my mother didn’t like me because I was always in trouble. I felt ashamed. I didn’t want to tell them the secret about Mother and me. But none of that mattered to any of them, for I was just another face in the crowd. I was instantly accepted. I felt a surge of energy erupt from inside. From that moment on I became a wild child. I blitzed through the home as if my pants were on fire. I joked, laughed and screamed with joy, releasing years of solitude and silence.

  I was uncontrollable. I ran from room to room, jumping on every mattress in the home. I bounced so high my head banged again and again against the ceiling. I didn’t stop until I saw stars. I didn’t care. The other children clapped their hands, egging me on. Their laughs were not cold, like the snide remarks reserved for me back at school, but were full of delight and approval.

  My frolicking ended suddenly when I ran through the living room, nearly knocking over a lamp. By reflex, Aunt Mary grabbed my arm. She was about to scold me until she looked down at me. I covered my face, and my knees began to shake. Aunt Mary was a strict, elderly woman who stood her ground, but she didn’t yell as she was known to do. For that evening my hyperactivity ended as quickly as air could escape a balloon. Aunt Mary released her grip and knelt down, asking, “What did she do to you?”

  “I’m sorry,” I stuttered in a low voice. I was still unsure of Aunt Mary’s intentions. I retreated into my protective position. “I was a bad boy, and I deserved what I got!”

  Later that evening Aunt Mary tucked me into bed. I began to cry, explaining to her that I was afraid Mother would come and take me away. She assured me I was safe and stayed with me until I felt secure. I stared up at the dark cedar ceiling. It reminded me of the old cabin in Guerneville. I fell asleep knowing that Mother was out there, somewhere, waiting to get me.

  Alone in my dreams I found myself standing at the end of a long, dark hallway. A shadowy figure emerged at the opposite end. The figure transformed into The Mother. She began to march toward me. For some reason, I stood still. I couldn’t move; I didn’t even try. The closer The Mother came, the more her red face, filled with hatred, came into focus. The Mother held a shiny knife above her, poised and ready to strike me down. I turned and ran down the endless hallway. With all my strength I pumped my legs as fast as I could, searching for a light. I ran forever. The hallway twisted and turned as I hunted for an escape. I could feel The Mother’s rancid breath on my neck and hear her cold voice chanting that there was no escape and that she would never let me go.

  I snapped out of my dream. My face and chest were covered with a cold, sticky sweat. Not knowing if I was still dreaming, I covered my face. After my breathing began to slow down, I frantically looked all around. I was still in the cedar room. I still had on a pair of pajamas that Aunt Mary had loaned me. I patted myself, feeling for any wounds. A dream, I told myself. A bad dream, that’s all. I tried to control my breathing but couldn’t shake the vision. The Mother’s words echoed in my mind: “I will never let you go. Never!”

  I jumped out of bed and scrambled around in the darkness to throw on my clothes. I returned to the head of the bed and held my knees close to my chest. I couldn’t go back to sleep. That’s where The Mother now lived—in my dreams. I felt it was a mistake that I was taken away, and I knew I would soon be returned to her. That night, and those to follow, while everyone slept, I held on to my knees as I rocked backed and forth, humming to myself. I would stare through the window and listen to the trees sway in the evening breeze. I told myself that I would never fall into the nightmare again.

  My first encounter with the county’s Child Protective Service agency came in the form of an angel named Ms. Gold. Her long, shiny blond hair and bright face matched her name. “Hi,” she smiled. “I’m your social worker.” A
nd so began the long and drawn-out sessions in which I had to explain things I did not totally understand. In the beginning of our first session, I huddled at the far end of the couch while Ms. Gold sat at the other end. Without my knowing, she slowly inched her way toward me until she was close enough to hold my hand. At first I was too scared to have her touch me. I did not deserve her kindness. But Ms. Gold held on to my hand, caressing my palm, assuring me that she was there to help me. That day she stayed with me for over five hours.

  The other visits were just as long. At times I was too scared to talk and long moments of silence followed. Other times, for no apparent reason and not understanding why, I’d burst into tears. Ms. Gold didn’t care. She simply held me tight and rocked me back and forth, whispering in my ear that everything was going to be all right. Sometimes we would lie at the end of the couch, and I would talk about things that were of no relation to my bad past. During those times I would play with the long strands of Ms. Gold’s shiny hair. I’d lie in her arms and breathe in the fragrance of her flowery perfume. I soon began to trust Ms. Gold.

  She became my best friend. After school, whenever I saw her car, I’d sprint down the walkway and burst into Aunt Mary’s home, knowing Ms. Gold had come to see me. We always ended our sessions with a long hug. She would then bend down and assure me that I did not deserve to be treated the way I was and that what my mother did to me was not my fault. I had heard Ms. Gold’s words before, but after years of brainwashing I wasn’t so sure. So much had happened so fast. One time I asked Ms. Gold why she needed all of this information on Mother and me. To my horror, she told me that the county was going to use it against my mother. “No!” I pleaded. “She must never know I told you! Never! ”