Steve Pemberton - A Chance in the World (Young Readers ): An Orphan Boy, a Mysterious Past, and How He Found a Place Called Home

A Chance in the World (Young Readers Edition)

2021 Stephen Pemberton

Tommy Nelson, PO Box 141000, Nashville, TN 37214

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This story is based on true events, but certain names, persons, characters, places, and dates have been changed so that the persons portrayed bear no resemblance to the persons actually living or dead. Any internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Thomas Nelson, nor does Thomas Nelson vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

ISBN 978-1-4002-2517-0 (audiobook)

ISBN 978-1-4002-2516-3 (ebook)

Epub Edition February 2021 9781400225163

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Pemberton, Steve, 1967 June 15- author.

Title: A chance in the world : an orphan boy, a mysterious past, and how he found a place called home / Steve Pemberton.

Description: Young readers edition. | Nashville, Tennessee : Thomas Nelson, [2021] | Audience: Ages 8-12 | Summary: An inspiring, suspenseful memoir for kids and tweens, A Chance in the World (Young Readers Edition) is the astonishing true story of Steve Pemberton, a discarded boy who, while uncovering the secrets of his past, discovers his own inner strength, the power of kindness, and the freedom to build a better future for himself and others-- Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2020054626 (print) | LCCN 2020054627 (ebook) | ISBN 9781400225149 (paperback) | ISBN 9781400225163 (epub)

Subjects: LCSH: Pemberton, Steve, 1967 June 15---Juvenile literature. | Orphans--New England--Biography--Juvenile literature. | Foster children--New England--Biography--Juvenile literature.

Classification: LCC HV983 .P46 2021 (print) | LCC HV983 (ebook) | DDC 362.73/3092 [B]--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020054626

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020054627

What About You? questions written by Lisa A. Crayton

Cover illustration by Susan Gal

You Can Help Stop Abuse resource page reviewed by Dr. Sara Gould, ABPP, CEDS licensed psychologist

Printed in the United States

2122232425LSCC10987654321

Mfr: LSCC / Crawfordsville, IN / March 2021 / PO #12040404

For Tonya, Quinn, Vaughn, and Kennedy
For being greater than my dreams

For Marian and Kenny
May this story, and this life,
finally bring you peace

F or decades a repeating memory haunted me. Or was it a dream?

Its early evening. I am in the back seat of a moving car, on the right-hand side. Another child sits beside me, on my left. Is this child a boy or girl? How old is he? What is her name? I am cold, hungry, and disoriented. Two adults sit in the front seats, but I cannot tell what they look like. They are asking me questions, and I am answering them. I sense they are trying to reassure me.

The car lurches to a stop. We get out and walk into a large brick building. It is incredibly clean, and my feet squeak when I walk. I think I am in a hospital. Why have I been brought here? The other child remains next to me. The two of us stand against the wall while the adults talk in hushed tones to a woman dressed in white and a strange-looking hat. Then the three of them approach us, and the other child is led away by the woman dressed in white. My companion looks back at me one last time. I dont know why, but I do not want the white-clad woman to take the child. Still, there is nothing I can do to stop her. I feel a hand on my shoulder holding me in place as they walk out of sight.

Now we are in the car again, driving. The streetlights whip by, fascinating me. Where am I going? We stop again, and I am hustled into another building whose features I cant discern. Someone carries me into a room and places me on a bed with a pillow. I have never been warmer and more comfortable in my life. Another woman appears, and the three of them keep saying, Youre going to be okay now. I drift off into a peaceful sleep.

For years these events lived in the gray area between memories and dreams. There were times when I accepted that I was never to know what these images meant. Other times I believed that if I investigated the images once more, I would finally unlock their meaning. The persistent visits of these images became a mystery as much as the images themselves. Why had I remembered this? Nevertheless, these events have always been with me, part of the poetry of my childhood. They are interwoven with spelling bees, trick-or-treating, and trips to the local library.

One day I learned the truth. These memories were from the day I was taken from my mother.

I would never see her again.

A s a young boy, and then well into my teens, I would stare long and hard in the mirror, drinking in every detail of my features. First I went into the bathroom, locked the door, and turned on the water so the houses other occupants would believe I was busy. Then, with dramatic anticipation, I would lift my head and peer into the mirror.

I started with my curly brown hair, which I wore in an Afro. The tips carried blond tints that would brighten during the summer. I then proceeded to my strong and prominent forehead. My eyebrows held no real interest for me, although I got distracted from my inspection by trying to raise the right one as well as I was able to lift the left. (I still cant do it.)

I skipped over my eyes, saving them for last. My nose was straight with no hooks or curves, and my nostrils were flared slightly. My lips were of average size. On the rare occasions that I smiled, I noticed the right side of my mouth turned up ever so slightly. I had brown freckles of various shades under my eyes and on my nose. I also had a habit of tilting my head when I was listening to someone, almost as if I were asking them to pour the information into my ears. My skin was very fairnot white, but close.

On the fifth finger of my left hand was a small nub. I held it up to the mirror, turning it this way and that, hoping that a new viewing angle would tell me what it was and where it had come from. On that same hand, I found a circular scar on the tip of my third finger, almost as if my fingerprint had been sliced off and then reattached. More scars appeared on my rib cage and on my left foot. A story had been written on me, and a violent one at that. But it was a tale I neither knew nor understood.

I ended my regular inspection with my eyes, since these did not seem to match the rest of me at all. They were a deep blue, and I leaned even closer to the mirror to get a better look. With my nose nearly touching the glass, my breath would leave a temporary fog. I could pick out gold flecks around my pupils with little rivers of blue running from them. I would stare so long and hard into my own eyes that I felt almost as if I were looking at another person. The effect dizzied me, so I looked away and shook my head to clear the cobwebs.