Dave Pelzer - The Lost Boy

The Lost Boy

Dave Pelzer

To the teachers and staff who rescued me

Steven Ziegler

Athena Konstan

Joyce Woodworth

Janice Woods

Betty Howell

Peter Hansen

the school nurse of

Thomas Edison Elementary School

and the Daly City police officer

To the angel of social services

Ms Pamela Gold

To my foster parents

Aunt Mary

Rudy and Lilian Catanze

Michael and Joanne Nulls

Jody and Vera Jones

John and Linda Walsh

To those with a firm but gentle guiding hand

Gordon Hutchenson

Carl Miguel

Estelle ORyan

Dennis Tapley

To friends and mentors

David Howard

Paul Brazell

William D. Brazell

Sandy Marsh

Michael A. Marsh

In memory of Pamela Eby

who gave her life to saving the children of Florida

To MY PARENTS, who always knew

Harold and Alice Turnbough

And finally, to MY SON, Stephen

whose unconditional love for who I am and what I do keeps me going.

I love you with all my heart and soul.

Bless you all, for,

It takes a community to save a child.

Acknowledgments

This book would not have been possible without the tenacious devotion of Marsha Donohoe editor extraordinaire of Donohoe Publishing Projects. It was Marsha who not only edited the entire text from the original, dismayed printed version, but who also typeset, copyedited and proofread the tome to simplify the publication process. And, more important, she maintained the rigid, chronological perspective of the continuing journey through the eyes of a bewildered child. For Marsha, it was a matter of If I Could.

Thank you to Christine Belleris, Matthew Diener and Allison Janse of the editorial department for their professionalism throughout the production of this book. And a special thank you to Matthew for handling all of our needs and last-minute requests with a smile, and expertly following through on everything.

To Irene Xanthos and Lori Golden of the sales department of Health Communications, Inc., for their undying genuine sincerity. And to Doreen Hess for all her kindness.

A gargantuan thank you to Laurel Howanitz and Susy Allen of Hot Guests, for their unyielding dedication and promotion. Thanks for believing.

To Cindy Edloff, for her efforts and time.

A special thank you to the owners and staff of Coffee Bazaar in Guerneville, California, for keeping the raspberry mochas coming, for allowing Marsha and me to plug in and camp out, and for providing us with The Big Table enabling us to spread out, take over and promote chaos within the quiet confines of this serene setting.

Authors Notes

Some of the names in this book have been changed in order to protect the dignity and privacy of others.

As in the first part of the trilogy, A Child Called It, this second part depicts language that was developed from a childs viewpoint. The tone and vocabulary reflect the age and wisdom of the child at that particular time.

The perspective of A Child Called It was based on the childs life from ages 4 to 12; the perspective of this book is based on life from ages 12 to 18.

1 The Runaway

Winter 1970, Daly City, California Im alone. Im hungry and Im shivering in the dark. I sit on top of my hands at the bottom of the stairs in the garage. My head is tilted backward. My hands became numb hours ago. My neck and shoulder muscles begin to throb. But thats nothing new Ive learned to turn off the pain.

Im Mothers prisoner.

I am nine years old, and Ive been living like this for years. Every day its the same thing. I wake up from sleeping on an old army cot in the garage, perform the morning chores, and if Im lucky, eat leftover breakfast cereal from my brothers. I run to school, steal food, return to The House and am forced to throw up in the toilet bowl to prove that I didnt commit the crime of stealing any food.

I receive beatings or play another one of her games, perform afternoon chores, then sit at the bottom of the stairs until Im summoned to complete the evening chores. Then, and only if I have completed all of my chores on time, and if I have not committed any crimes, I may be fed a morsel of food.

My day ends only when Mother allows me to sleep on the army cot, where my body curls up in my meek effort to retain any body heat. The only pleasure in my life is when I sleep. Thats the only time I can escape my life. I love to dream.

Weekends are worse. No school means no food and more time at The House. All I can do is try to imagine myself away somewhere, anywhere from The House. For years I have been the outcast of The Family. As long as I can remember I have always been in trouble and have deserved to be punished. At first I thought I was a bad boy. Then I thought Mother was sick because she only acted differently when my brothers were not around and my father was away at work. But somehow I always knew Mother and I had a private relationship. I also realized that for some reason I have been Mothers sole target for her unexplained rage and twisted pleasure.

I have no home. I am a member of no ones family. I know deep inside that I do not now, nor will I ever, deserve any love, attention or even recognition as a human being. I am a child called It.

Im all alone inside.

Upstairs the battle begins. Since its after four in the afternoon, I know both of my parents are drunk. The yelling starts. First the name-calling, then the swearing. I count the seconds before the subject turns to meit always does. The sound of Mothers voice makes my insides turn. What do you mean? she shrieks at my father, Stephen. You think I treatThe Boybad? Do you? Her voice then turns ice cold. I can imagine her pointing a finger at my fathers face. You listen to me. You have no idea whatItslike. If you think I treatItthat bad thenItcan live somewhere else.

I can picture my father who, after all these years, still tries somewhat to stand up for me swirling the liquor in his glass, making the ice from his drink rattle. Now calm down, he begins. All Im trying to say is well no child deserves to live like that. My God, Roerva, you treat dogs better than than you do The Boy.

The argument builds to an ear-shattering climax. Mother slams her drink on the kitchen countertop. Father has crossed the line. No one ever tells Mother what to do. I know I will have to pay the price for her rage. I realize its only a matter of time before she orders me upstairs. I prepare myself. Ever so slowly I slide my hands out from under my butt, but not too far for I know sometimes shell check on me. I know I am never to move a muscle without her permission.

I feel so small inside. I only wish I could somehow

Without warning, Mother opens the door leading to the downstairs garage. You! she screams. Get your ass up here! Now!

In a flash I bolt up the stairs. I wait a moment for her command before I timidly open the door. Without a sound I approach Mother and await one of her games.

Its the game of address, in which I have to stand exactly three feet in front of her, my hands glued to my side, my head tilted down at a 45-degree angle and my eyes locked onto her feet. Upon the first command I must look above her bust, but below her eyes. Upon the second command I must look into her eyes, but never, never may I speak, breathe or move a single muscle unless Mother gives me permission to do so. Mother and I have been playing this game since I was seven years old, so today its just another routine in my lifeless existence.