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

by Dave Pelzer

  Alice’s explanation of Harold meant the world to me. Ever since I had blurted out to him about sharing a room with a girl, I felt Harold thought of me as a weird kid. He never seemed to talk to me. Whenever he did utter a few words in my direction, he’d try to get me to read rather than watch television. Every night after dinner, like clockwork, Harold would always pull out an old Western paperback and smoke his Camel cigarettes before going to bed precisely at 9:00 P.M.

  I respected Harold so much, although he never knew. As a carpenter, he had a passion for his craft. I hoped I could stay with the Turnboughs long enough for Harold to teach me a few things. Ever since I was a small child I had fantasized about building a log cabin at the Russian River, so at times I’d imagine Harold and me working on a project together, in hopes of bringing us closer. Maybe, I thought, by then I could prove myself to him.

  The next day, after much prodding from Alice, I hopped on a bus and went to meet my new psychiatrist, Dr. Robertson, who turned out to be the complete opposite of “The Great Doctor” I had before. He greeted me with a handshake and told me to call him by his first name, Donald. His entire office was bathed in bright warm sunlight, but the thing that meant the most to me was that Dr. Robertson treated me like a person.

  On my weekly visits to Dr. Robertson, I never felt forced to talk about anything, but soon found myself initiating the conversation about my past. I questioned Dr. Robertson about everything, including whether I was doomed to follow in my mother’s footsteps. Dr. Robertson always tried to steer me in another direction, but I fought to maintain my lifelong course of finding my answers. I learned to trust him as he gently led me through the maze of the sensitive parts of my past.

  Because of my persistence, Dr. Robertson suggested some books for me to study on basic psychology. Soon afterward, Harold and I seemed to bicker about who was hogging the lamp by the end of the couch, as I tried to read books on self-esteem by Norman Vincent Peale or others on the stranger side, such as Your Erroneous Zones. I found myself intrigued with the basic theories of survival traits, as written by Dr. Abraham Maslow. At times I’d become frustrated with the big words, but I hung tough and soon discovered it had taken a lot just for me to make it as far as I had. Although on the inside, parts of me still felt awkward and hollow, I realized I was stronger than most of the kids at school who seemed to live in a “normal” world.

  At Alice’s home I found myself opening up to her about everything, all the time. Sometimes she and I would gab far into the early morning hours. I never worried about how I talked or what I said. Whenever I became nervous and began to stutter, Alice would teach me how to slow down my train of thought, and have me picture myself saying the words before I spoke them. Within a few weeks my speech problem disappeared.

  Every Saturday afternoon, after Alice danced her usual jig to American Bandstand, she and I would venture past the railroad tracks on our way to the same mall where Mrs. Catanze had taken me shopping for my clothes. We always saw a movie, and that was the only way Alice could get me to sit still for any length of time. As I sat quietly beside her, I’d wring my hands as I scrutinized every scene. My mind raced to stay one step ahead of the sometimes mindless plot. I became fascinated by complicated screenplays and how the director pieced everything together. After every show, Alice and I went back and forth with our own critiques.

  Other times, for no special reason, she would buy me toys “just because.” At first I felt awkward and unworthy, partly because I was not used to receiving presents, and also because I knew how hard Harold worked and how he saved every penny. In time I learned to accept presents. For me that was a very hard lesson to swallow.

  The most important gift the Turnboughs gave me was my one last chance at being a kid, while preparing me for my life as an adult. In an effort to show Alice and Harold how much they meant to me, one afternoon at the kitchen table—the famed “Table of Talk”—I plucked a soiled piece of torn paper from my pant pocket and ripped it into tiny fragments. “Now, what’s that all about?” Harold scowled, as tears rolled down Alice’s cheeks.

  “I don’t need it anymore,” I boasted. “And I know your phone number, too. Wanna hear?” Alice nodded her head yes. “It’s 555-2647,” I proudly stated, as I looked straight into Harold’s blue eyes.

  “Well, maybe now’s the time to get that unlisted phone number,” he grumbled, before winking at me.

  Whenever Alice and I talked for any great length of time, the subject of my future always came up. Even the simple question “What do you want to do when you grow up, David?” caused me to become scared from the bottom of my soul. I always seemed to picture Chris, the foster kid from the Catanzes’ home, and how frightened he was to turn 18. I had never thought that far ahead. In order to survive against Mother’s torture, I only had to plan hour by hour, or day by day at the most. Being alone in the wide open world was the most frightening thing I could ever possibly imagine. I’d become so scared and tense that I’d begin to stutter again. Alice always seemed to calm me down, but at night, when I finally had a room of my own to sleep in, I’d shiver with fear at the thought of how I was going to buy food or where I would live. I would think so hard that I’d fall asleep with an enormous headache. For me, at age 15, the countdown began.

  Soon after the initial shock wore off, I decided to find ways to make money. I started out by shining shoes, and my first day out I earned $21.00 polishing dozens of shoes in just under six hours. I felt so proud as I juggled my shoe-shine kit and a box of doughnuts in one hand, and a bouquet of flowers for Alice and a couple of paperback books for Harold in the other. I soon added a job at a watch repair shop, where I worked about 20 hours a week for $10.25 take-home pay. The amount of money wasn’t important to me. At the end of the work week, I’d fall asleep feeling I had accomplished something—and that was what was important. While other kids played street ball or hung around the mall, I was becoming self-sufficient.

  It was very difficult for me to find anything I had in common with the other kids at school. Most of them fought to impress others by acting cool. I knew that on the outside I didn’t fit in, so I simply gave up trying. At times I played the role of class clown, but for the most part I didn’t care what my classmates thought of me. Whenever they bragged about their weekend ski trips, I’d think about how I could squeeze in an extra hour of work.

  One Friday, a few weeks before I graduated from Parkside Junior High, a group of rich kids were bragging about their upcoming graduation and plans of going to Disneyland or traveling to Hawaii first-class. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I ran from the bus stop that afternoon and nearly knocked down the screen door to Alice’s home. “What is it?” she shrieked.

  I gulped down a glass of water before answering. I was pushing 16 and did not know how to cook for myself. Alice assured me that she would teach me when the time came. I persisted. I wanted to learn how to cook now. I gave her one of my serious looks, the kind I had learned from Mrs. Catanze, who always placed her hands on her hips. It worked. Even though Alice had just cleaned her home for their bridge party, which would be held in just a couple of hours, she decided to teach me how to make pancakes.

  Alice’s decision was her undoing. In a matter of minutes I went through two boxes of Bisquick pancake mix, four dozen eggs and two gallons of milk. Every square inch of the gas stove was covered with the thick, white, gooey mix, and the ceiling was splattered with a few well-intended tossed pancakes. The floor looked as if a blizzard had blown through, and every time Alice or I shuffled across it, we nearly suffocated from the clouds of white powder. The strain on her face was quite visible, but she laughed with me—and I didn’t quit until I made the perfect pancake.

  Every day seemed to hold a new adventure. Sometimes after school, I’d play on the living-room floor with my Legos or my Erector set, while other times I was the little big man, returning to Alice’s home after school just long enough to change clothes before zipping off to work at one of my jobs. For the
first time, I had a real life.

  By July of 1976 my life took another turn. I grew tired of riding my bike to work every morning, while everyone else was still fast asleep. Then one afternoon, after a frustrating day on the job, I returned from work to find that not one, but two older foster boys had moved in. I took an instant dislike to one of the boys, Bruce, partly because I had to share a room with him and partly because I knew he got away with conning Alice blind. Even though both boys were 17, they didn’t seem too concerned about supporting themselves. I began to resent them both. Whenever I pedaled off to work, they spent the day at the mall with Alice. In an odd sense I felt threatened and violated by their presence. I knew my childlike times with Alice were over, but I just wanted to hang on a little bit longer before I had to grow up.

  After a few weeks, I discovered that my stash of money and some of the things I had bought through my earnings were missing. At first I thought I had misplaced my items, but one day, for no special reason, I had had enough. I marched up to Alice and demanded that either they leave or I would. I knew I sounded like a spoiled brat, but I could no longer tolerate trying to hide my things all the time, wondering at work how to make up for the stolen money. Everything I had worked so hard for slowly disappeared. I hoped Alice would give in, but I soon found myself packing. I felt like a complete fool leaving the Turnboughs. To me it was a matter of honor—if I said something, I had to be responsible for my word.

  I stayed at juvenile hall for a few weeks until my new probation officer, Mrs. O’Ryan, placed me with John and Linda Walsh, a young couple in their 20s who had three kids. John had long black hair and played piano in a rock-and-roll band, while Linda was a beauty consultant at the local Walgreens drugstore. They were both very nice, and I was extremely surprised by their carefree attitude. They pretty much allowed me to do as I pleased. When I wanted to buy a minibike, John said yes. One day when I timidly asked John if he could drive me to the local sport shop so I could buy a BB gun, he replied, “Let’s go.” I was stunned. I would have never even thought of asking Mr. or Mrs. Turnbough, but John didn’t even blink. His only condition was that he had to teach me gun safety, and I could only shoot against paper targets under his supervision. I soon forgot about looking for another job and developed the Walshes’ laid-back attitude.

  A few weeks into my freshman year in high school, John and Linda told me that they were moving. Without thinking, I huffed into the room I shared with their two-year-old boy and crammed everything I owned into a pillowcase. I was livid. It seemed that every time, every time, I adjusted to a new environment, something happened. I realized that John and Linda seemed to fight all the time, but I got used to that as well as having to babysit their bratty kids. With my belongings slung over my shoulder, I marched back into the living room. “All right,” I demanded, “let’s go! Take me to The Hill!”

  John and Linda both looked at each other and laughed. “No, man,” John said, as he waved his hand in front of his face. “I said we’re moving, and you’re coming with us; that is, if you don’t have a problem with that?”

  I became so upset at myself. So I stood in front of them and stewed for several minutes, until I smiled and said, “I don’t know what you two are laughing at, but I’m already packed! What about you?”

  Linda jabbed John in the gut. “Smart kid.”

  The next day I stood in the back of an oversized U-Haul while John drove to the edge of the county. When he finally stopped, I leaped from the trailer. I couldn’t believe what I saw. It was as if the Walshes and I had moved into the Leave It to Beaver neighborhood. I stepped around the U-Haul and gawked at the entire block. Every lawn was perfectly manicured. The immaculate houses looked more like miniature mansions than ordinary homes, and every car in its driveway had a blinding shine, as if it had just been waxed. As I strolled down the middle of Duinsmoore Drive, I breathed in the sweet smell of flowers, and I could hear the sound of the wind fluttering through a giant weeping willow.

  I shook my head and smiled inside. “Yes!” I shouted. “I could live here!”

  In no time at all I made friends with Paul Brazell and Dave Howard, two neighborhood teenagers who seemed fascinated by my dark, rusty-red minibike and my Daisy BB gun. Their eyes seemed hungry for adventure. I was more than happy to feed them. I discovered Paul had a minibike, too, and soon the three of us held drag races in the middle of the lifeless street. Paul always won, for three reasons: his minibike had more horsepower than mine, he weighed less than I did, and he had brakes—allowing him to slow down long after I did.

  Out of the hundreds of races, I won only one. That day my throttle became stuck. I wasn’t worried since I had a cutoff switch—which I immediately discovered would not shut off the engine. Since I didn’t have any brakes, I tried to slow down by dragging my feet. As I did, my shoes slipped and the bottom of my shirt became caught in the rear sprocket. For a moment I had one hand on the throttle while the rest of my body flailed, before being dragged down the middle of the street. I was too scared to let go. I finally released my grip, and a split second later my minibike jumped the sidewalk, flying up and over a bush.

  Just in front of me, Dave hit the ground, rolling with laughter. Seconds later Paul pulled up. His eyes were as big as silver dollars. “Man, that was too cool! Can you do that again?” As I struggled to stand up, I could see some of the adults from the neighborhood staring in our direction. They seemed more concerned over the damage to the bush than my medical condition. Trying to forget the unfriendly looks, I blocked out the pain and gave Paul my widest smile. From that moment on I was dubbed “The Stuntmaster of Duinsmoore.”

  That evening the three of us plotted our next adventure. Paul’s parents had a 16mm camera, so Paul decided to make a James Bond-style movie, casting me as the lead actor. The climax of the film was to have Dr. Strange, played by Dave, drag Bond up and down the street while Paul filmed from all angles. I told Paul I wasn’t so sure about the stunt, while Dave panted like a dog, claiming he wouldn’t mind watching my knees turn into hamburger. Dave doubled as my stunt coordinator, which entailed keeping the street clear of all traffic under the age of 10 and having a set of Band-Aids at the ready whenever my gag was completed. I was thankful the next day when Paul’s camera ran out of film—before my death-defying climax.

  One day Paul helped me prepare to meet a girl from around the block. I had never talked to a girl before, but Paul loaned me his best shirt and coached me on what to say. At that time in my life I was barely looking at myself in the mirror, let alone having the confidence to talk to a girl. After combing my hair, hearing more coaching and having no more excuses, I let Paul kick me out of his house, and I strolled down Duinsmoore. As I turned the corner, I felt like a normal person. I lived in a perfect neighborhood, my foster parents let me do as I wished, I didn’t have to work and most important, my life was centered around the best friends in the entire world.

  Minutes later I rapped on the front door and waited. My hands shook, and I felt lightheaded, as sweat seemed to escape from every pore of my body. I was actually excited to be a little frightened. This was a good scare. I began to rub my hands when the door opened. I thought my mouth would fall to the floor. I felt tingly all over as I stared into the face of the prettiest girl I had ever seen. Without the girl knowing, I regained my composure as she began to talk. The more she spoke, the better I felt about myself. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to make the girl laugh. I was enjoying myself—right up until the moment when the girl’s mother pushed her aside.

  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I looked up at a woman who looked more like the lady from The Brady Bunch than someone’s mother. The woman quickly jabbed a finger in front of my face. “You’re that little . . . that little F-child, aren’t you?” she sneered, with a tight smirk on her face.

  I was too stunned to speak.

  “Have you no respect for elders? Answer me, boy!”

  “Ma’am?” I said, shaking my head
.

  “Listen to me,” the woman raved, “I know all about you and . . . those motorcycles, making all that reverberating noise and the willful destruction of private property. How did the association ever approve of . . . your kind of people residing in our neighborhood. I know all about your kind. You’re a filthy little hooligan! Just look at your attire—you reek of street trash. I don’t know what you children do to become . . . fostered children,” she said, covering her mouth as if she had just spoken a swear word, “but I’m sure you did something hideous, didn’t you?” The woman’s face turned so red that I thought she was going to explode. “Don’t you dare approach my household or converse with my children, ever!”

  I stood mesmerized by the woman’s perfectly manicured red fingernail in my face.

  “And just a piece of advice,” the woman went on. “Don’t waste your time trying. You don’t have what it takes to make it. I know! Believe me, I’m actually doing you a favor!” She smiled as she tossed her hair to the other side of her face. “You’ll see! I’m a very open-minded person who knows a thing or two. So the sooner you learn that you’re only an F-child, the better off you’ll be! So stick with your own kind!”

  Before I could respond, the front door slammed shut with such a fury that I felt a rush of air hit my face. I stood by the door dumbstruck. I didn’t know what to do. I felt as if I were an inch tall. I gazed at the sleeves of Paul’s red-and-black flannel shirt. They were a little short, but I thought the shirt looked nice. I ran my hand through my oily hair. I guess I could use a bath, I muttered to myself. I knew that on the outside I was a walking geek, but on the inside I felt better about myself than ever before. I tried so hard to do things that normal kids took for granted. I just wanted to fit in. I wanted to be like a normal kid.