The Lost Boy: A Foster Child's Search for the Love of a Family

by Dave Pelzer

  “I’m tired of her treating me like . . . like I’m nothing. I’m tired of her, my brothers, that creep Larry . . .” I pointed my finger at the window. “She didn’t even talk to me. She never talks to me. Never!” I spun around to Lilian. “Am I that bad? I try to be nice. I try to be good. I didn’t tell her to come over, did I?” I began to rant and rave, throwing my hands into the air as I paced the living room. “Did I tell her to beat me . . . to . . . to not feed me for days or . . . or have me live and sleep in the garage like . . . like . . . an animal?

  “At night she wouldn’t even give me a blanket. Sometimes I got so cold . . . I tried to stay warm. I really did,” I cried as I nodded my head.

  I wiped my runny nose with my finger and closed my eyes. For a brief moment, I saw myself standing in front of the kitchen sink—back at The House. Beside me I could see a smelly, pink paper napkin. I took a deep breath before I opened my eyes. “I . . . I . . . remember one Saturday afternoon . . . she had me pick up some dog poop . . . and . . . I was in the kitchen; she was in the living room lying down on the couch watching her shows. That’s all she does, all day, every day, is watch her shows. Anyway . . . all I had to do was throw the poop in the garbage disposal, and she’d never know. I knew if she found out, it’d be too late. I mean, by the time she heard me turn on the disposal, it would be too late . . . but I ate it ’cause she told me to. As I did, I cried inside, not because of . . . but . . . because I had let her do that to me. For all those years I had let her treat me like she did. For years I was so ashamed.”

  I began to whimper. “I never told. I never told. . . . Maybe Larry’s right. Maybe I am a wimp.”

  “Oh, David! Oh my God!” Lilian cried. “We didn’t know . . .”

  “Look at this. . . .” I yanked up my shirt. “This . . . this is where she stabbed me. She didn’t mean to. It was an accident. But you know why?”

  The blood drained from Lilian’s face. She closed her eyes before she covered her mouth with her hand. “No, David, I don’t know. Why did she?”

  “She said she’d kill me if I didn’t ‘do the damn dishes in 20 minutes.’ Ain’t that a kick? The funny thing is that ever since the accident, I just wanted to tell her I knew she didn’t mean to kill me, that I knew it was an accident. I actually prayed that the accident would bring us together—that somehow she knew she’d gone too far, that she couldn’t hide the secret anymore. I wanted her to know that I forgave her.

  “But no! I’m the bad guy. She won’t even talk to me. Like . . . like I’m the one who’s the bad guy!” I could feel my arms tighten up and my hands form into fists. I stared through Mrs. Catanze as I slowly turned my head from side to side. “Damn it! She won’t even talk to me! Why? Why? Why?!”

  Lilian knelt down in front of me. She was sobbing, too. “David, I don’t know. We need to have you talk to someone, someone who can help you. This is something you need to get out of your system. You need someone who’s more qualified . . . who knows what to do. Ms. Gold and I will arrange for you to talk to someone who will help you find some answers. All right?”

  I felt myself drifting away. I focused on Lilian’s mouth moving, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. She took my hand and led me into my room. As I lay in bed, she stroked my hair, whispering, “It’s all right. I’m right here. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Hours later I woke up refreshed and followed Mrs. Catanze as she bounced down the staircase to examine my bike. Moments later I shook my head in disgust. “Stan did this,” I said. “Mister Fix-It. It’s his way of getting back at me.”

  “Well, David,” Lilian said in a firm tone, “the question is: Are you going to sit here and sulk about it, or are you going to do something about it?” She stopped for a moment as if to ponder an idea. “You know, if you wanted to . . . you could probably earn some extra money and fix up your bike. That is, if you wanted to.”

  A few minutes later I walked back up the stairs and plopped myself on the couch. I now became consumed with fixing my bike. When Big Larry came home from work, I ran to his room to seek his advice. Throughout the evening, Larry and I schemed on the quickest way to achieve my goal. After 10 o’clock, we came up with the perfect plan, a plan so flawless that Larry guaranteed I would have my bike up and running in 30 days or less. Larry, who claimed to be “a master strategist”—I had no idea what his statement meant—went on to boast that when Mom and Dad saw me coming, they would willingly throw money at me.

  “Wow!” I gasped. “This is just too cool!”

  Before quitting for the day, Big Larry and I dubbed our plan “Operation: Bug the Parent.”

  The following morning I stayed glued to Lilian’s side, begging her for extra work. An hour later she threw her arms in the air. “All right! I give up! Here, take these rags and clean the bathroom. You do know how to clean a bathroom, don’t you?”

  I smiled and said to myself, Like you wouldn’t believe! As I gazed up at her, I cocked my neck to one side. “How much?”

  Lilian blinked her eyes. “What?”

  “How much to clean the bathroom?” I stated in my most serious voice.

  Mrs. Catanze nodded her head. “Oh, I understand. Okay, little big man, I’ll tell you what: I’ll pay you a quarter . . .”

  Before Lilian could complete her sentence, I replied, “No! Not enough.”

  “Aren’t you the greedy one. Okay, how much?”

  I could feel myself retreat inside. Big Larry hadn’t taught me what to do in this case. “I dunno,” I said, as I felt all my confidence shrinking away.

  “I’ll tell you what,” she said, hovering over me. “I’ll give you 30 cents. Take it or leave it.”

  I knew from what Big Larry had instructed me to do that whenever someone said “take it or leave it,” it meant I should take the deal and run. I nodded my head triumphantly. “It’s a deal. Let’s shake on it.”

  Looking at Lilian, I could tell she wasn’t ready for all my high-powered art of deal making. I felt I had tricked her into not only paying me, but giving me more money than she had originally offered.

  It took me nearly two hours to clean the bathroom— as Mrs. Catanze put it, “by the employer’s standards.” I felt that she had somehow taken advantage of me. As I scrubbed the tile floor for the third time, I knew that evening I would need to talk to Big Larry and complain about our foolproof plan.

  My mixed feelings suddenly disappeared when Lilian dropped a nickel and a quarter into my eager palm. Forgetting to thank her, I raced into my room, found a jar I had saved and dropped the change into the jar. I stared into the jar every day. In less than a month I had earned over four dollars—more than enough, I figured, to fix my bike. Finally, after the right amount of pestering again, Tony, Lilian’s son, drove me in the back of his beat-up orange Chevy pickup truck to the bicycle shop. Tony knew, without my bugging him, all the parts I needed. I didn’t seem to notice how when the bill arrived, Tony came up with more cash than I had.

  That day, without permission, I borrowed some tools I had found and began to piece my bike together. After dozens of attempts at forcing the inner tubes into both tires I wiped off my bloody knuckles, jumped on my bike and, for the first time in my life, let out a howl of victory as I breezed down the street without a care in the world.

  I remember August 21, 1973, as my day on my bike. That day was the first time I felt that I was a normal kid, caught up in the splendor of a never-ending day. For years I had heard the sounds of kids zooming down the street, screaming with joy as they flew by on their bikes. That day I must have ridden up and down the street a thousand times. Mrs. Catanze had to drag me inside. “David Pelzer, it’s been dark for over an hour now! Get your little butt in here, now!” she barked, as I sailed past her in defiance.

  Even though my legs ached from the strain of pumping my bike up the street, I didn’t want my special day to end. As Lilian stood with her hands on her hips, I jumped off my bike and puffed all the way as I walked my bike u
p to her home. I could tell by the look on her face that she was about to yell at me. But I beat her to the punch by giving her my best smile.

  “All right,” she said as she threw her arm around me. “Get in here. Don’t worry; tomorrow’s another day. After you’re done with your chores, you can take your bike to the park.”

  I clenched my fist in victory. “Yes!” I cried.

  Early the next morning, as I stepped out of bed, I discovered that I could barely bend my legs. I looked into the mirror and smiled.

  “Yes!”

  CHAPTER

  5

  Adrift

  After my initial taste of freedom, I spent as much time as I could riding my Murray bicycle. As soon as I rolled out of bed, I’d scramble to the open window (I never slept with the blinds down) and check the weather. Then I’d gulp down breakfast, blitz through my chores, race down the stairs and slam the front door shut, after yelling to Mrs. Catanze that I was leaving.

  Mrs. Catanze usually watched my departure through her kitchen window. Never missing an opportunity to show off, I’d wave to her behind my back. At times I’d pedal down the street so fast that I thought I was flying. Minutes later I’d prop my feet on the center bar and coast through the freshly cut grass of the play park. After parking my bike, I’d scramble through the immense tri-layered wooden fort. I’d climb all the ropes, and run and jump on the chained drawbridge. After exhausting myself, I’d lie down to catch my breath. I always stretched out on the highest level so I could feel the warmth of the sun’s rays as they inched their way across the park.

  Whenever I heard laughter, I’d peek over the ledge of the fort and stare with fascination as other children, mostly younger than I, played with their friends or parents. I wanted to join in, but I always chickened out before I approached them. Somehow I knew I did not fit in.

  I always stayed at the park until I could no longer suppress my growling stomach. Then I’d hop on my bike and casually pedal up the street to Lilian’s home. As a habit, whenever I’d burst through the front door, I’d suck in my breath and then scream, “I’m back!” Lilian always answered my call, but one day she did not reply. I skipped up the stairs and ran into the kitchen.

  I whirled around when I heard someone behind me. “She ain’t here, runt.” Larry Jr. was in one of his usual moods.

  I wanted so badly to tell him off, but I bit my lip and stared down at the floor, acting timid, and nodded my head without looking up, indicating he had won. As I tried to scoot past him so I could go to my room and wait for Lilian, he blocked my path. Without warning he seized my arm.

  “Where’s Momma’s little boy going?” he whined, as he tightened his grip.

  I shot a look of hate into his eyes as I tried to squirm out of his grasp. “Hey, man . . . let go!” I exclaimed.

  “Yeah, Larr . . . Larry, jus . . . just let . . . ah . . . let the kid . . . go,” Chris stuttered. I turned my head upward to Chris, one of my other foster brothers. I was surprised to see him because he usually stayed downstairs in his room.

  Larry Jr. maintained his grip on my arm, but I could tell by his snide expression that he was going to turn his attention toward Chris. He gave me a final squeeze before shoving me aside. “Da . . . da . . . what does the retard want? Shouldn’t the retard be hiding in his little room?” Larry said mockingly.

  Chris was the first person I had known who had cerebral palsy. I could see the pain in his eyes. I knew what it was like to be ridiculed, and I hated it. I also knew Larry’s sole pleasure was to hurt Chris’s feelings. Chris inched his way toward Larry until he stood toe to toe in front of Larry’s face. Larry fluttered his eyebrows as he cocked his right arm up and back. I could almost imagine Larry striking Chris and smashing his teeth. Without thinking I yelled, “No! Stop it! Just stop it!”

  Larry Jr. swung his arm toward Chris, but at the last moment he brushed his hand through his hair. “Psych!” Larry sneered. “Hah! It doesn’t take much to fool a couple of morons, does it?”

  I could feel my body temperature rise. “Go to hell!” I yelled.

  Larry’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, so Momma’s little boy has a mouth. I’m sooo scared. I tell you what, runt,” Larry snarled, as he pushed me against the kitchen countertop, “Why don’t you make me?”

  I knew by the size of him that he could snap me like a twig. I didn’t care. “Back off, man,” I blurted. “I’m tired of you. Just because you’re older and bigger . . . that doesn’t give you the right to treat us that way, does it? How would you like it if someone picked on you?”

  For a moment Larry seemed to be in a daze. Then he shook his head clear. “And who do you think you are—Dr. Spock?” I stopped for a second, thinking of what Larry had just said. Spock? Did he mean the Vulcan dude from Star Trek? I asked myself.

  “If I were you,” Larry continued, “I’d stick to my own business and ride my little bicycle. Otherwise,” he added with a wide grin, “I might use your little face to mop the floor.”

  I lost control. I wanted to climb up his legs and beat his face. I ran up to Larry. “I’m tired of taking crap from guys like you. You . . . you . . . butt head! You think you’re so big. You’re a creep . . . a bully. You ain’t . . . you ain’t shit. You’re so tough, aren’t you? Like it really takes a tough guy to pick on someone like Chris. You wanna take a punch? Okay, come on, do it! Show me what you got. Come on tough guy! Well . . . ?”

  I could feel my fingers coil. I knew that what I was doing was wrong, but after all the years of being put down by others who felt they were so superior, I had had it. And seeing how Larry Jr. treated Chris made my blood boil. I had to do something.

  As I felt my breathing become heavier, I could tell I was getting to Larry. His face became tight as I badgered him relentlessly. For once, I was on the giving end. I liked the feeling. Larry’s face twisted from side to side until he elbowed me against the kitchen countertop. I felt my head strike something hard, but my anger kept the pain away.

  Before Larry stormed out of the kitchen, he raised his fist at Chris. “Hey, man, you better watch yourself, or one of these days you may find yourself getting tripped down the stairs and breaking that retard neck of yours. And know this: it’s going to take someone more than this excuse of a wimp to fight your battles!

  “And you!” Larry stopped as he looked at me. “You better watch that mouth of yours. If I wanted to . . . I could clean your clock . . . just like that!” he boasted, as he snapped his fingers. “Both of you, stay the hell outta my way. You got me? You pair of freaks!”

  I clamped my hands on the countertop until I heard Larry slam the door to his bedroom so hard that the windows upstairs rattled. After a few seconds, I finally released my grip. I closed my eyes as I tried to control my breathing. It seemed to take me forever to breathe normally again.

  I opened my eyes and searched for Chris. He had disappeared. As I ran out of the kitchen and into the living room, I heard the door to Chris’s room slam shut, too. I raced downstairs and quickly knocked on Chris’s door before I burst in. He sat on the foot of his bed, staring at the floor. Tears rolled down his face. I tilted my head to one side. “Did Larry hit you?”

  “Na . . . ah . . . no! I ca . . . can take ah . . . care of myself, you know! I don’t need a li . . . little runt to . . .” Chris stuttered.

  “Man, what are you talking about?” I asked. “Larry is the biggest creep on the planet. I’m tired of him picking on me and you all the time.”

  Chris’s head shot up. “You ah . . . just bet . . . better take care of yourself. Ah . . . you can get into a lot . . . of . . . of trouble. If Mom . . . ah ever heard you ah . . . swear . . . swearing . . . she’d . . .”

  I brushed Chris’s statement away with my hands as I watched him limp his way to his stereo. He grabbed a thick, red cartridge, then shoved it into a tape machine he called an eight-track player. I had never seen one before. After a couple of clicking sounds, a singing group called Three Dog Night began to wail “Joy to the
World.” As Chris’s worn-out speakers vibrated, I sat next to him on his bed. I realized that what I had done upstairs was wrong. “Hey man,” I told Chris, “I’m sorry. I was just ticked off.” Chris indicated that he forgave me. I smiled back. “Hey Chris, what does Larry mean when he says he’d ‘clean my clock’?”

  Chris laughed as drool escaped the side of his mouth. “Ee . . . ah . . . means he’ll kick your butt!”

  “But why does he pick on you? You never do anything to him. I don’t understand.”

  Chris’s eyes shone. “Ah man, you are ah . . . fun . . . funny. Look at me. He don’t need a reason. People like Larry pick ons me ’cause I’m . . . I’m ah diff . . . different. You’re . . . ah different, too. You’s small and gots a big mouth.”

  I leaned back on Chris’s bed as he went on to explain that his real parents had abandoned him as a small child and he had lived in foster care ever since. He told me that he had been in over a dozen foster homes until he moved in with Rudy and Lilian. The Catanzes were the closest thing to a real home for him. I listened carefully as Chris talked. In a way, his stuttering reminded me of myself just a few months ago. But Chris seemed scared. Behind his eyes he looked frightened. Chris informed me that this was his last year in foster care.

  “What does that mean?” I asked, as the tape cartridge changed tracks.

  Chris swallowed hard, trying his best to concentrate before he answered. “Uhm . . . it . . . ah means that when you turn uh . . . 18, you . . . move out and have to ah . . . to take care of yourself.”

  “And you’re 17?” I asked.

  Chris nodded.

  “Then who’s going to take care of you?”

  Chris glanced down at the floor. He rubbed his hands together for several seconds. At first I thought that maybe he had not heard me, but when he looked back up at me, I realized why he was so scared and why he had been crying.