“You’re going to be fine. You’ve got a strong heart. In life you’re going to make mistakes, you’re going to fall down, but it’s getting up that counts. Just like in baseball: you’ll get a few hits, but most likely, you’ll strike out more than you’ll get on base. But don’t quit. Find your focus, relax, take a deep breath, and give it a good swing. I beg of you, Stephen, don’t quit. There are so many people who cave in at the first sign of trouble. They quit school, they act like they know it all, and develop a habit of quitting on everything. You’re better than that. If you quit, everything you fought for—your grades, baseball, your self-respect—would have been in vain. The thing is, at the end of the day you still have to face yourself. I know it’s a lot to digest at your age, but I’m here to help you. Like I said, I can’t do it all for you, but my job as a parent is to make you a responsible, functional, productive adult. I’m not here to raise a child, but a happy, caring, nurturing man. I see greatness within you. You have your whole life ahead of you. If I’ve learned anything from my past, the one thing I can teach you as a father is this: Stephen, there is nothing, and I mean nothing, you cannot accomplish if you want it bad enough. The choice is yours. Always has been, always will be. Stay on your course. Be true to yourself, and you’ll be fine.”
Smiling, Stephen asked, “You think so?”
Taking his hand, I stated, “I know so. You’re going to be fine. I’m here for you. Even when I’m not physically with you, not a single day passes that I don’t think about you and pray for you. Come on,” I joked, “don’t do what I did and be so serious all the time. Have fun! Relax, seize the day. Take a breath. ‘In da nose . . . out da mouth,’ I said in my Schwarzenegger voice. As we gazed up at the stars that filled the black sky, everything seemed within reach. Both Stephen and I filled our lungs. “Feel better?” I asked.
Wiping a tear from his eye, Stephen nodded. Leaning over, I brought him to my chest. “Love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too, son, I truly do. Trust me, it’s gonna be fine,” I whispered.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Stephen said as he looked up at me.
“Well . . .” I deflected as another tear trickled down my cheek. “To, ah . . . to tell you the truth,” I stumbled, “as I sit here with you, it’s like it never happened. Just as long as I can look at you and know you’re okay, for me that’s all that matters. It’s times like these . . . that’s what I live for. I’ll always remember this, our time right now, as one of my happy thoughts.”
“Me, too.” Stephen sprang up to walk over to the nearby fence. Taking a few seconds longer to work the cramp out from my leg, I followed him, wondering what he was up to. “Remember, Dad, how you always told me about you smelling the redwood trees, how it makes you feel good even when you’re feeling down?” Still feeling emotional, all I could do was nod my head. “Well, this is going to be my smell. When I smell this, I’ll think of us and our time together. It’s going to be my happy thought.”
“Good for you,” I replied, walking over to pluck off a few strands of sweet jasmine from the vine. “So be it.”
Later, after tucking Stephen in to bed and kissing him good night, with his beloved Wally, the stuffed alligator, cradled in his arm, I stood over him long after he drifted off to sleep. Before turning off the light, I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath from the jasmine, whose fragrance filled Stephen’s room. “Happy thoughts,” I prayed as I closed the door behind me.
Returning outside, I looked down at my watch. During our walk Stephen and I had become closer in four hours than I had with my parents in twelve years. Strolling in the early morning hours of the new day, beneath a canopy of towering redwoods, I felt more fortunate than ever before. After years of intense struggles and personal battles, everything seemed to be coming together. I was a father to a terrific young man who never had a childhood like I did, I had broken the shackles of my past and was fortunate enough to help others, and I finally had a lady in my life whom I loved and adored. I was happy, in every sense of the word. And fulfilling a lifetime fantasy, I was now living yards away from the cabin where my childhood desires first took root.
Before returning to my home, I stopped suddenly when I caught a scent of the redwoods’ sweet aroma. Turning up to gaze at the silvery-white stars that twinkled far above the tops of the trees, I closed my eyes, thinking of the first time I breathed in that same smell that continued to possess me. As a five-year-old boy, as Ron, Stan, and I stood with Father by the Russian River, I had strained my neck to look up as the deep blue sky gave way to bright orange and purple streaks—as if someone had taken a paintbrush to heaven’s canvas. I had shuddered when I felt someone brush up against me. I thought it was Father, but glanced up to see Mother’s face beaming down at me as she wrapped me in her arms. “Take it in,” she had said. “Take a deep breath, hold it, and never forget. Never forget this moment.” And as I did, it was as if nature’s aroma was Mother’s perfume and the gentle rustling of the trees was Mother whispering to me. For an instant Mom, Dad, Ron, Stan, and I were the perfect family. I had never felt that safe or as loved by Mother as I did at that moment in time. Years later, at the depths of my despair, replaying the vision in my head over and over again had been enough to wash away my pain and loneliness.
Now, standing alone beneath God’s creation, I closed my eyes, relaxed my body, and inhaled as much air as my lungs could hold. I could almost recapture the scent of Mother’s perfume and Father’s shiny jet black hair and beaming smile, as I recalled that evening so long ago. Opening my eyes, I found the north star and muttered, “Rest in peace. May God Almighty grant you both eternal peace. Amen.”
EPILOGUE
JUNE 1999,
CARMEL BEACH, CALIFORNIA
Without a care in the world, I sip champagne as I gaze at the clear blue ocean. On the beach, dogs run back and forth into the water, chasing the ocean’s foam or each other, or fetching sticks. A blanket of fog begins to overtake the bay. I can feel the hairs on my body spring up from the sudden drop in temperature. I erase the mere thought of fighting the chill and throwing on a jacket or scurrying away in search of shelter if the sky suddenly opened up and poured down rain. All I do is lean back on the wooden bench, take another sip, and soak in the purple overcast sky. I’m learning to simply be still.
I still can’t stop myself from smiling. The last few days have been a whirlwind. Even now as I close my eyes, I can recapture only tiny, vibrant, burst-like fragments of a day that was taken from a fairy tale. Hours ago, I had stood with my back facing the Russian River—on the same ground that I had asked Marsha for her hand in marriage. With my son, Stephen, standing beside me as my best man, Marsha strolled down a red velvet runner as if she were an angel walking on water. We stood together beneath a white arch that was practically dripping with an array of vibrant flowers—bright orange lilies, turquoise-blue orchids, and porcelain white gardenias. I caressed Marsha’s trembling hand. My mind wandered as the minister spoke of the wonder of life, love, and commitment. All I could do was gaze out and make eye contact to those who were sharing our private ceremony. Mrs. Woodworth—my fifth-grade English teacher who had told me when I was a child not to worry about my nervous stuttering because I was destined to communicate through writing—wiped the tears from her eyes as I gave her a slight bow. Then looking behind her, I smiled at my childhood friends from foster care, Paul Brazell and Dave Howard, and Dave’s lovely wife, Kelly.
When the minister had asked if I would take Marsha’s hand, I leaned over and whispered into her ear part of a letter I had written her when we dated on the phone years ago. I then knelt down on one knee and placed the ring on Marsha’s delicate finger. Within moments, the minister presented Marsha and me to the world as Mr. and Mrs. Pelzer.
Now opening my eyes, I can still feel my heart pound from the excitement, not only because I am committed to sharing my life with Marsha, but also with how everything has unfolded in my life. I am now happy, healthy, an
d no longer terrified of what the future may hold. My son is an outstanding, caring young man who has his entire life before him. I want for nothing. I have a terrific career, a small band of close friends, and a personal relationship with my God.
With all the mistakes I’ve made, I am now my own person. One of the only links to my dark past is my father’s badge, which I keep to honor him. I flew with it on every mission while serving in the United States Air Force, and I carried it in my back pocket when I had the honor of meeting President Reagan. When I was selected as a torchbearer for the centennial Olympic games, I carried the badge. And as I stated, “I most certainly do!” when asked if I would take Marsha as my wife, Father’s sacred badge was in my tuxedo pocket.
As a responsible adult, I am now old enough and wise enough to understand that no one’s life is perfect or even normal. Everyone has a past, everyone has issues. Life is what we make of it. I am only concerned about being a kind, humble person, a caring, guiding father, and a loving husband. With each and every day, I simply apply myself as best as I can.
Above me, streaks of maroon and purple begin to spread across the horizon. A cold breeze strikes my face as my fingers find a piece of paper in my shirt pocket. Unfolding the paper, I replay every word in my mind before my eyes scan the letter, that I had in part whispered to Marsha only hours before:
Flying at 28,000 feet westbound, somewhere over Nevada, thinking of you. It is at times extremely difficult for me to open up and talk to a woman like you. Until recently, I never had.
Getting close to someone, anyone is very, very hard for me.
It is easier, safer for me to watch from a distance. Sometimes I feel so lost. I’ve never been able to experience things like normal people; like being held as the sun goes down or feeling safe and “carefree” with a woman. A sensation I have yet to experience. So, I watch others and smile for their joy. Sometimes that’s enough. I’ll make eye contact, bow my head in respect, and stroll off feeling a little warmer inside, thinking I would never be able to share moments in time like other couples.
Somehow lately I believe this is the springtime of my life. I’ve worked hard, planted many things, and soon they will blossom and grow before my eyes. I’m still scared, but no longer terrified. I can live with that. In an odd sense, being on the constant mental defensive is a comfort zone of its own. But one day I would like to be a real person. A person who is able to let down his guard and let someone in. Before I die I would like to experience that. I want to shelve my former life’s mistakes. I would like to live in total peace, in every sense of the word.
If I have to remain alone, I will. Above all I know not only can I survive, but I can trust myself. And I feel secure with that premise, as well as knowing I will not cause anyone else anguish.
I still dream of a home—my home: clean and fresh and open. The scent of flowers while Pat Metheny plays on the stereo. As always, I dream. I always will. I’m trying to give up control, but it’s hard because for so long I was controlled by so many. But maybe if I surrender, I’ll find my answer. I’ll find peace.
Maybe, one day, I’ll have a home. Then maybe one day I can come home . . . home to you.
After replacing Marsha’s letter, I wipe away a tear, while staring outward where the swirl of water collides against the beach. I realize how far I’ve come.
“Here’s to my husband,” my wife, who was silently sitting beside me, suddenly announces. “And here’s to you, princess,” I reply, wrapping my arm around Marsha’s shoulders, while an elderly couple strolls by, smiles, and nods at the newlyweds.
Within the recesses of my heart, I know with hope, effort, and a little luck that anything is possible.
I am living a fantastic life.
PERSPECTIVES
DAVE PELZER
HUSBAND, FATHER, AUTHOR, AND ADVOCATE
As I enter midlife, even to this day it is difficult for me to fully understand the magnitude of what happened to me as a child. Because of the life I am able to live today, it is as if my past experiences never happened. Every one of us has situations from their past. On a daily basis all of us are faced with dilemmas. I am no different, then or now. As a child I believed with all of my heart that if I could survive my ordeal, then not only could I accomplish what I set my mind to, but anything else I would encounter had to be easier. This is why my story is not about my being a victim of child abuse, but of the indomitable human spirit within us all.
I lived through an extraordinary experience, yet I was fortunate enough to learn from it and walk away a better person. I can’t change my past, and it does not grant me the right to use it as a crutch, nor am I destined to become a prisoner because of it. For years I have lived by the philosophy: that which does not kill you can only make you stronger. I simply had to learn to pick myself up at an earlier age.
It seems all of my life I have been put down, taken advantage of, and at times fallen flat on my face. But, by the grace of God, I have somehow found myself being able to stand up, repair any damage, and forge ahead.
Years ago, a dear friend once told me a great deal of people mature in their thirties. As much as I have been through in my life, I am now a believer. With every day I soak in something previously unknown to me the day before. Like any adult I carry regrets, one of which is Patsy. With time, hindsight, and maturity, no matter what others may say, I realize we were simply two different people and that she in fact applied herself to our union more than I. That is why I call Patsy my former wife rather than my “ex.” I know what it’s like to be a non-person, and I refuse to treat anyone as such. I can only pray my mistakes as a parent do not reverberate to my son. Strangely, because of my failed relationship, I have committed myself to be a better husband to Marsha, and this makes me appreciate her all the more. I am now fortunate enough to share my life with a person who truly makes me whole.
But as I look back, I fully realize I made a fair amount of mistakes. Like many individuals who suffer from low self-esteem, I, too, allowed myself to become associated with others who mistook my kindness or generosity as a sign of weakness and attempted to exploit that for their own agenda. At the time, part of me felt as though I were a schoolboy willing to do anything just to gain acceptance so others would approve or believe in me. I never even thought about protecting my interests, or maintaining my standards I had fought so hard for—even though I had fully realized how grave my situations were—because of fear of rejection and being all alone. But now time, experience, and maturity have become valuable allies for me.
Because of all that was stacked against me, I should have never made it. Not a single day passes that, no matter how strenuous, hair-pulling, or defeating the day may have been, I do not thank my lucky stars. I appreciate everything—from a soggy, cold hamburger that has been sitting in the car for hours as I make my way to the airport in the middle of the night, to struggling to find the precise answer to someone’s problem even after speaking nonstop for the entire day. I cherish every breath, spend hours staring at the delicate, vibrantly colored petals of flowers, become excited at the touch of my lover’s fingers, or love to hear the sound of my son’s laugh. Perhaps because of my past, the most important things for me are still the simplest— feeling the sun’s warm rays upon my back or gazing up at the clear blue sky. Even to this day, I would not change one moment of my life. If it all ends now, I have lived, I have learned, and I have been loved. The greatest lesson is the gift of life, and no matter what, tomorrow is always another day.
There are still times when I am overwhelmed by immense feelings of hollowness, guilt, and fear of anyone becoming too close to me. It is something I will have to stand up to on a daily basis. All I can do is maintain my vow that I took years ago when I was eight years old, immediately after my mother had burned my arm on the gas stove. From this day forward I will never give up. From this day forward I will give everything my all. As an adult I expect nothing less from myself.
When my time comes, I would like t
o know that I have repaid my debt to those who have made a difference in my life. And to be at peace knowing that I stopped the cancer from spreading to those I love.
PERSPECTIVES
CLAIRE FRAZIER-YZAGUIRRE,
M. DIV., MFCC
MARRIAGE AND FAMILY THERAPIST
As a full-time marriage and family therapist, I have been involved for many years with people who’ve suffered childhood trauma and its tremendous impact in their lives as adults. Together with my husband, Dr. John Yzaguirre, we are passionate about empowering people to overcome this cycle of hurting themselves and others, and create dynamic and healthy families. We believe that relationships, where priority is given to cooperation and unity, are at the very heart of not only preventing the hurt, but will create in us the ability to become a culture of caring that will renew our society from the devastating effects of the indifference, domination, and submission that characterize toxic relationships.
I love reading and sharing stories about people who’ve experienced triumph over tragedy. And the best part, for me always, is how someone can reclaim their power through pain and inspire others with hope and healing. It was on just such a day of story gathering in a nearby bookstore that I came across Dave Pelzer’s poignant and heartbreaking story. As I devoured his incredible story in A Child Called “It” and The Lost Boy, I knew I had to talk with Dave about how he was able to transform his immense suffering into a life of helping others.