A Man Named Dave

by Dave Pelzer

  “I know there’s nothing I could have done to stop her, but that doesn’t help, doesn’t stop it from gnawing at me every day. And because of that I feel so undeserving, especially when it comes to you. You’re too pure.”

  I let out a deep breath. “I can’t do it anymore. I’m just tired, tired of swimming against the tide, proving myself . . . I’m tired.”

  “After all you’ve been through, no matter what happens to us, Dave, you deserve everything life has to offer. I’m so proud of you, I could just bust. You’re the most inspirational person I know. You’re my Robin Williams and Jimmy Stewart rolled into one. And I’m not saying that because I’ve got some schoolgirl crush on you. No matter what, you’re precious to me. No matter what, with all my heart, I believe. I believe in you, Dave Pelzer. You’re my best friend. Okay,” Marsha sighed, “I can see where you can drive people crazy, only because you want to do your best. But, Dave, you deserve, we deserve to give each other a chance. I’m not going to smother you or trick you into anything. With my hand on the Bible, if I live to be a hundred, if I know one thing: it’s that we deserve—we deserve to be together.”

  Wiping away my tears, I locked onto Marsha’s tear-filled eyes. “I’m your best friend?”

  “Why do you think I came to see you?” she asked.

  Closing my eyes, I shook off my fear of intimacy, and I stripped away my last protective layer. “When I’m with you, Marsha . . . I feel clean. You ease my shame.”

  “And you’re my white knight. Together, back to back, we can do anything, Dave,” Marsha cried. “Can’t you see that all I want is to be with you?”

  My insides became unglued. As much as I had tried to drive Marsha away, my heart ached for her to stay. With my anxiety spent and my heart bursting, I wrapped my arms around Marsha’s waist with my head bent in her lap. “I’ll never deserve you. You’re my best friend. I love you. You’re the one, Marsha. The only one . . . the only one I trust.”

  15

  ALL GOOD THINGS

  Now, this was completely different. Marsha stood with her back toward my chest, venting about the demands placed on her from the day, while I tried to calm her down by pleading for her not to take work so seriously. I had my reasons to get her mind off work, but whenever I tried to veer Marsha off the subject, it only seemed to intensify her passion.

  But that was one of the many things I loved about Marsha: her steadfast commitment. Months after meeting in California, Marsha had given up her job as an editor and moved to Guerneville—not only to be close to me, but to take over and manage my business. Since Marsha knew me like no other, and because of the respect we had for each other, she was the perfect choice. While some scoffed at her decision, thinking that she would play the role of a mere secretary, answering phones and filing paperwork, Marsha faced many demands: arranging continuous media interviews, strategizing every aspect of the strenuous travel logistics, and keeping my calendar packed with engagements. At times when I was away, Marsha slaved twelve to sixteen hours, only to end her day by fighting to keep up with paperwork correspondence, which began as a trickle but soon flooded to the point she was answering thousands of pieces of mail a month from all over the world.

  Since our lives were so crazy, we worked hard on our personal relationship. With Marsha I learned to listen and not father her, to offer advice when I thought it was needed. When we’d have a disagreement, we’d talk things through. When we’d have a heated discussion, we’d try our best to resolve the issue, learn from it, and move forward. Throughout every situation, every obstacle we faced together, Marsha remained sincere and dedicated and never broke my trust.

  Allowing Marsha into the deepest recesses of my heart and, more important, introducing her to Stephen, was the highest compliment I could give to her. I was learning from my past mistakes and respecting her as a lady. Marsha resided in a cozy cottage near the Russian River across from me. After work we’d curl up on her futon to watch a movie or read well into the late evening, until I left after kissing her good night.

  With Marsha I didn’t have to spend my time worrying about when the sky would come crashing down. In business, she protected me in so many ways. She taught me the fine line between helping others and being taken advantage of. There were ways to help others, provide for my own son, and maintain my own self-worth—instead of constantly neglecting and sabotaging myself just to please others.

  Marsha also helped me to grow as an individual, in ways I never thought possible. For years I had felt I was swimming against the tide, with lead weights cuffed to my ankles. But somehow Marsha seemed to part the waters, while coaching me along the way. She not only made me believe there was little I could not accomplish, but that I was indeed deserving and was destined to succeed. With Marsha I was invincible.

  As a couple we went through a great many peaks and valleys. Marsha was in a completely different world. Since I was on the road so much, being pulled in every direction, combined with her getting to know Stephen, and a few difficult situations she encountered with Patsy, life for Marsha sometimes became too much. When times were tough and we could barely scrape together enough money to pay our bills, Marsha would huddle with me in my bone-chilling cabin and share a Cup-O-Soup and a loaf of day-old French bread. Yet somehow, together, we found a way to help others who we knew were worse off. For a while it seemed everything was against us. We’d question our business wisdom to the point that we’d break into tears. It seemed we were both working our tails off, but only keeping our heads above water. But together, we never lost faith, for Marsha and I knew tomorrow was indeed another day.

  Over time, as we made solid progress, Marsha insisted that I move out of my moldy “icebox,” into a warm, modern two-bedroom home among the redwood trees. It looked like a tree-house for grown-ups. After years of sacrificing and pinching every penny, Marsha basically kicked me in the behind, saying that I deserved to live like a normal human being. My proudest moment after moving into my new home was holding Stephen by the shoulders as I walked him into his bedroom—that was filled with brand-new furniture, toys, and video games that he had wanted. For years after the divorce, when Stephen would visit me at my old house, we’d shiver in bed—at first on my air mattress, then later on my cardboard-like pedestal bed. When I could not afford to make Stephen an elaborate meal, we simply heated up a frozen dinner. Because I did not have a dining room table then, Stephen would sit on a wobbly bar stool while I stood beside him. Stephen never complained. In an odd sense, maybe having him watch me struggle was good for his character. For only Marsha knew the extent of the sacrifices I placed upon myself, to provide for and protect my son.

  As with everything in my life, ever so slowly things began to fall into place. When I was on the road, after going over an endless stream of business matters, Marsha and I would steal time to chat aimlessly. As before, when the phone had been our lifeline, I’d sit back and begin to ponder our future together.

  Once back in town, as El Niño began to bear down on the Russian River, Marsha was standing in front of me, describing her day in every detail. Without her realizing, I had basically kidnapped her away from our office to the Rio Villa—to ask her the most important question of my life. For some time now I had planned to ask Marsha on Valentine’s Day. I’d take her to her favorite city in the world—Carmel—and present her with a bouquet of yellow roses on the beach as the sun set. But that was over four weeks away. Like a child at Christmas. I could no longer hold back my excitement. When it came to Marsha, my willpower was as strong as jelly. I was a man possessed.

  As Marsha chatted about her day, I kept trying to sidetrack her. But she was clueless as to my intentions. After a half hour of standing outside under the canopy, I nearly gave up all hope. My timing was completely off. I wanted everything to be perfectly magical for her. Yet deep inside I was terrified she would say no. I discovered, to my own horror, that I could not think of how to ask her. Here I was—a person who spoke for a living, and with a quick wit
to take people’s minds off their troubles—and I could not form the most important words of my life.

  As Marsha slowly began to unwind, I stepped closer to her. I wrapped my arms around her waist. In a slow, deep voice I said. “Close your eyes. Take a deep breath.” From the bottom of her chest I could feel Marsha’s tension ease. With my mind spinning, I didn’t know what to say next. Whispering into her ear, I asked, “What do you think of . . . of the Russian River?” Marsha’s soothing response seemed to calm my shaking legs. “What do you think of . . . Stephen?” I continued, as my right hand cautiously retrieved the black velvet box from my pocket and stuck it between my thighs.

  A swirl of mist coupled with the freezing rain made Marsha shiver. As she said how much she loved Stephen and how proud she was of him, I closed my eyes. Uttering a quick prayer, I reached for the box. As tears began to trickle from my eyes, I came around in front of Marsha and knelt down as I sprung open the box, asking, “What do you think of . . . spending the rest of your life with me?”

  I thought by Marsha’s scream that she was furious with me. She jumped up and down on the wooden deck for what seemed like an eternity. Only when she nearly snapped my neck off as she hugged me did I realize she was accepting my proposal.

  A few hours later, in the middle of the worst series of storms to hit California, Marsha and I drove west toward the setting sun. We were putting away the world’s problems for a day. Our only ambition was to spend the remainder of our lives together . . . happily ever after.

  Another rare moment in time occurred during Stephen’s summer vacation. In July 1998, after celebrating a beautiful day, topped off with a barbecue dinner, I went outside for my evening walk. As usual, Stephen joined me. For years, since he was able to walk, we had strolled together, and since moving to the Russian River, we had practically worn out pairs of shoes watching dusk turn into night as we held hands, taking in the majestic beauty around us. Now, as he approached adolescence, Stephen at times seemed apprehensive about his place in the world.

  That evening the air held a certain crispness as the clouds above us seemed to melt away to streaks of orange as the sun vanished below the ridge. Taking a turn by a familiar road. Stephen looked up and asked, “Back then . . . was it hard?” Not understanding the question, I asked what he meant. Stephen ducked his head down. “You know, back then?”

  “Oh,” I lightly replied. As a parent, I always had felt my first obligation was to protect my son from the atrocities of the world, especially the horrors from my past. And yet in order to prepare him for adulthood, I felt I had to inform Stephen of the realities of life. As early as age six, he had begun inquiring about my past. Rather than break his trust by lying to him, I had skirted the issue by claiming “my mommy” was sick and sometimes said or did bad things. Back then a simple answer had seemed enough for Stephen’s inquisitive mind. I never had any intention of revealing the magnitude of what had happened to me out of fear of scaring him. But now, after I had appeared on numerous television talk shows, with two books about my life on international best-seller lists, it was impossible to shield my past from him. “You know, Stephen, I never thought of it as being hard. It was just something I had to get through, that’s all.”

  “But were you scared?” he probed.

  Addressing the very topic I had fought so hard to protect him from, I said, “Sometimes, yeah. But . . . aren’t you scared sometimes when you’re in the batter’s box . . . when you’re facing a pitcher?”

  His eyes lit up. “Oh yeah; I mean, sometimes.”

  “Well,” I asked, “what do you do?”

  “You know.” Stephen shrugged.

  “No, I don’t,” I claimed. “I never really played baseball. I never experienced what it’s like to stare down a pitcher and have a ball coming at you in the blink of an eye. To tell you the truth, I don’t see how you do it.”

  Shaking his head, Stephen said, “It ain’t much. Just practice, that’s all. I’ve been doing it all my life. You just do it; that’s all there is to it.”

  “Even when you’re behind on the count, with two strikes against you, and you can feel all the pressure, don’t you ever thinking about quitting?” I inquired.

  “No,” Stephen stated, “I just do what I have to do.”

  “And that’s all I did as a kid, Stephen. I dug in and made the best of things. Just like you and I did at the cabin when we didn’t have enough wood to heat the house. You adjust, that’s all.”

  “But your dad, didn’t he know?”

  “Yes and no. I think he didn’t realize or want to understand what was going on, and by the time he did . . . it was too late. You see, my dad, like my mom, was an alcoholic. Back then things were very different. A lot of things happened, but they were kept in the closet. A secret, like cancer, AIDS, equal rights, and lots of other things were not supposed to be discussed, either out of embarrassment, shame, or whatever the reason. Hopefully, as a society, things are better now. We can openly talk about things that we would never speak of when I was your age. In fact, did you know,” I asked, taking Stephen away from our subject matter, “the one thing you never said to a parent?”

  His eyes grew wide. “What?”

  “No. You never said the word no. As a kid, when a parent said, ‘Jump,’ you asked, ‘How high?’ ”

  “That’s kinda stupid. I say no all the time. I wouldn’t let anyone treat me like that.”

  “Yes.” I raised my finger. “Because of the changes within society. Things . . . things were very different back then.”

  Stopping in front of me, Stephen asked, “Do you forgive her? I mean, your mom?”

  Kneeling down, I held him by his shoulders. “Absolutely. Somehow, some way, something made my mom the way she was. Back then, when she was raised, she was not allowed to talk about things that might appear to be negative. I don’t think she had anyone to turn to, to really help her deal with whatever it was that troubled her. From what I know, I don’t believe anyone wakes up one day and wants to be bad, hurt others, or get high on drugs, but something leads them to that decision because of something they haven’t dealt with. In a weird sense, as much as my mom did to me, I learned from her what not to do.” Stephen nodded that he understood. “That’s why I’m always on you for facing things as they come up. If you learn anything from my past, it’s to hate no one. If you do, you’ll become that person who did you wrong. As you grow older, you’re going to face a lot of issues. If you have a problem, don’t go to bed upset; talk to your mom, call me in the middle of the night, whatever. It’s important because if you let things build up inside you, whatever the situation is, little by little it will eat away at you, like it did my mom. And that would be a waste,especially for all that you have going for yourself. Hate no one!”

  “Did your dad and you ever spend time together?”

  “Not a lot of time. But like I said, things were different back then. I’m sure part of him wanted to, but I don’t know. . . .” My voice trailed off as I thought about Father and me.

  “Did you two have a special time together?” Stephen asked, tilting his head.

  Realizing where I was at that moment, I slowly turned Stephen to the right. “Well, as a matter of fact . . .” I choked for a split second, “I was maybe a little younger than you when one evening, on a night just like this, my dad was out for his evening smoke and I followed his footsteps to this exact spot, where my family and I would spend our summers together.”

  “Right here, at that cabin?” Stephen pointed as he asked in amazement.

  “Yep, right here. We walked around the block, and that one time with Dad I felt like I was ten feet tall. I was a somebody. It’s something I never forgot. Back then it meant the world to me. That’s why I love walking with you; it’s something I can pass on.” I smiled.

  Together in silence Stephen and I retraced a journey that had begun a lifetime ago. Only this time we held hands, and I kept my son close to my side. At the end of the block Stephen stopped
to hug me around the waist. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “No.” I again choked up. “Thank you, Stephen. You mean the world to me, and well, I know it hasn’t been easy for you, but I try. I want you to know how much I love you. I truly do.”

  On the block near our house, Stephen shyly asked, “Dad . . . am I going to make it?”

  I could only stroke his short blond hair in wonderment. That same question had plagued me for so many years.

  “It’s okay, Dad. I know it’s a stupid question. I don’t want to waste your time.”

  “Stephen, take all the time you want. Here, sit down,” I instructed.

  “Here, in the middle of the street?” he asked, looking around.

  I sat down, folding my legs on the pavement. “Right here, right now, nothing else is more important. Relax, you’re too young to be so serious. You’re going to make it. Not a doubt in my mind. Absolutely!”

  “How do you know? I mean . . .”

  “I know.” I nodded my head. “I know you. You’re a terrific young man. You’re kind, you’re sensitive. You know right from wrong and, most important, you’ve got a good heart.” Switching topics for a moment, I admitted, “I know our divorce wasn’t easy, and I am sorry. I truly am. I know school isn’t always easy, or dealing with other kids, or things you have to face on a daily basis. No offense, but that’s life. Everybody has problems. Everyone.

  “But you’re different: you deal with things. It’s not always easy, but that’s the way it is. I’m not trying to be a tough guy about this, but no matter what happens to you, it doesn’t give you an excuse to blame others or wallow in self-pity. Your mother, your teachers, others who love you, or even myself: we can only help you so far. It’s going to be up to you to make it happen. No one’s perfect. There are no sets of perfect parents; no one has a perfect life. Your mother and I tried to make it work out. But it didn’t. And as you grow older, maybe you can learn something positive from our mistakes.