I nodded in return. Now I understood.
After my argument with Larry Jr., I kept to myself and tried to stay as far away from him as I could. But whenever no one was around and I found myself running into him, for no reason I’d blurt out feelings of hatred at him. Sometimes he’d simply swear, while other times he’d chase me around the home. Larry would always catch me and tackle me to the floor. Once, after punching me a few times in the arm, he yelled, “Say ‘uncle’!”
I didn’t understand. I twisted from side to side, trying to squirm myself out from under Larry as he sat on top of my chest and continued to hit me. “No way!” I yelled back.
After a few minutes I could see the sweat pour from his forehead. “Say uncle! Say it!” Larry panted. “Give up, man!”
Even though I was exhausted from struggling to get away, I felt that I was wearing Larry down. “No way! You ain’t my uncle. Now get off!”
Larry let out a laugh as he rolled off me. Without thinking, I laughed, too. He patted me on the back. “You okay, kid?” I nodded. “I’ll say one thing for you, runt: you got a lot of nerve. You never give up,” he said, still panting. “But you are the most craziest son of a . . .”
Suddenly I sprang up and shoved Larry on the floor with all my might. I pointed my finger at him, and he seemed dazed by my actions. “I’m not crazy! And don’t you ever, ever, say that to me again!” I screamed, as I burst into tears.
From below I could hear Mrs. Catanze close the front door. I fixed my eyes on Larry as long as I dared, before hiding in my bedroom.
“What’s going on now?” Lilian asked with a huff. “Are you two fighting again? I tell you, I’ve about had it with the both of you.”
“Mrs. C., it ain’t me, but the runt,” Larry said in a low voice. “He ain’t right. I mean, he’s loony toons, man. I was just playing with him, and he went off on me.”
I turned away from the door and cried.
I didn’t know why I was so stupid. I had tried so hard to understand what the other foster kids were saying so I could learn—so I could be accepted within the group of the older kids. I wanted so badly to be liked. But I still couldn’t comprehend. Maybe, I told myself, I am a moron. Maybe I am crazy.
I turned when I heard a faint tapping on the door. I quickly wiped my nose with the sleeve of my shirt before opening the door. “Can I come in?” Mrs. Catanze said with a bright smile. I nodded my head yes.
“So, you and Larry were at it again?” she asked.
I nodded my head again, but more slowly.
“Well, what do you think we ought to do?”
I closed my eyes as tears rolled down my face. “I just don’t know why I feel so bad,” I cried.
Mrs. Catanze wrapped her arms around my shoulders. “Not to worry. This is something we’ll just have to work through.”
A few days later Rudy and Lilian drove me to a doctor’s office. Rudy stayed in the blue Chrysler as Lilian walked me to the office. She and I waited for several minutes until an elderly woman directed Lilian into another room. After a few minutes Lilian returned. She knelt down and told me I was going to see a special doctor who was going to make me feel better “up here,” Lilian said, as she pointed to my head.
Moments later, I followed the same lady who had escorted Lilian. She opened a wide door and waved her hand as if telling me to enter. As carefully as I could, I walked into the room. The lady closed the door behind me. I stood alone in a dark room. I searched for an open window, but I could tell that the shades were drawn. The room had an eerie feeling. I remained standing in the middle of the room for several seconds until a man, whom I hadn’t seen when I came in, told me to sit down. I jumped when I heard the stranger’s voice. The man flicked on the light on his desk. “Come on now, sit; sit down.” I obeyed, finding an oversized chair. I sat and stared at the man. I waited for him to say something, anything. Am I in the right room, the right office? Is he the doctor?Surely he can’t be a psychiatrist!
Seconds turned into minutes. Though I tried, I could barely make out the outline of the man’s face. He rubbed his two hands together as he appeared to study me. My eyes darted from side to side. I could see there was a long couch against the wall behind me. The other walls of the room were covered with shelves filled with books.
As the man continued to stare at me from behind the desk, I began to fumble with my hands. I couldn’t take it any longer. “Excuse me, sir, are you the psychiatrist? Do you want me to lay down on the couch, or is it okay to sit here?” I asked in a broken voice.
I could feel my words trailing off as I waited for some sort of response from him. He folded his hands. “Why did you ask that question?” the man asked in a flat voice.
I bent my head down so I could hear better. “Sir?” I asked.
The man cleared his throat. “I said, why did you ask that question?” he said, emphasizing every word.
I felt about 10 inches tall. I didn’t know what to say. It seemed to take forever before I replied, “I dunno.”
In a flash, the man picked up a pencil and began to scribble on a piece of paper. A moment later the pencil disappeared. He smiled. I smiled back. I knew my last statement was a dumb one, so I tried to think of something clever to say. I wanted the man to like me. I didn’t want him to think I was a complete idiot. I nodded my head with confidence. “Kinda dark in here, huh?”
“Really?” the doctor immediately began to write again, at a frantic pace. I then realized that whenever I said anything, the man—the doctor, I assumed—would record everything.
“And why did you ask that question?” the doctor asked.
I thought very carefully before I answered. “ ’Cause . . . it’s dark,” I said, searching for approval.
“And you are afraid of the dark—yes?” the doctor said, as if finding his own answer.
Crazy, I said to myself. He thinks I’m crazy. I squirmed in my seat, not knowing how to reply. I began to rub my hands. I wished Mrs. Catanze would burst through the door and take me away.
A long stretch of silence followed. I felt I’d be better off not digging my grave any deeper. I looked down at my moving fingers. The doctor cleared his throat. “So, your name is Daniel?”
“David, sir. My name is David,” I proudly stated, as my head snapped forward. At least I knew my name.
“And you are in foster care, is that correct?”
“Yes . . . sir,” I answered slowly, as I began to think about where his questions were leading.
“Tell me, why is that?” the doctor asked, as he folded his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling.
I was not sure of the question. “Sir?” I asked, sounding hollow.
The doctor tilted his head toward mine. “Tell me, young David, why is it that you are in foster care?” he asked with irritation in his voice.
The doctor’s question was like a punch in the face. I felt creepy all over. I did not mean to make him mad, but I just did not understand his questioning. “I . . . uh . . . I dunno, sir.”
He picked up his pencil and began to tap the eraser on top of his desk. “Are you telling me that you have no idea why you are in foster care? Is that what you are telling me?” he asked as he made more notes.
I closed my eyes, trying to think of an answer. I could not think of the right response, so I leaned close to the doctor’s desk instead. “Whatcha writing, sir?”
The doctor flung his arm on his desk, covering his notes. I could tell I had upset him. I sat rigid in the back of the seat. He fixed his eyes on mine. “Perhaps I should set the ground rules. I ask the questions. I am the psychiatrist. And you,” he said, pointing his pencil at me, “are the patient. Now, do we understand each other?” He nodded his head as if telling me I should agree and smiled when I returned his nod. “So,” he said in a kinder voice, “tell me about your mother.”
As I cleared my thoughts, my mouth seemed to hang open. I felt so frustrated. Maybe I wasn’t so smart, but I didn’t think that I deserv
ed to be treated like an idiot. The doctor studied my every expression as he took more notes. “Well,” I began, as I fumbled for words, “my mother . . . I really don’t think . . . she was . . .”
He cut me off with a wave of his hand. “No! In here I perform the analyses, you answer the questions. Now tell me, why did your mother abuse you? ”
I let out a deep sigh. My eyes scanned behind his desk. I tried to imagine what was behind the window blinds. I could hear the sounds of cars rushing past the building. I imagined Rudy, sitting in his Queen Mary-sized car, listening to the radio station that played oldies. . . .
“Young man? Daniel! Are you with me today?” the doctor asked in a bellowing voice.
I lurched deeper into the back of the chair, ashamed that I was caught daydreaming in the presence of a doctor. I felt ashamed for acting like a little kid.
“I asked you, why did your mother abuse you? ”
Without thinking, I snapped back. “How do I know? You’re the doctor. You figure it out. I don’t understand you . . . your questions . . . and every time I try to answer them, you cut me off. Why should I tell you about me when you don’t even know my name? ”
I stopped to catch my breath, when I heard a buzzing sound. The doctor pushed a button, picked up the phone, nodded, then put the phone back down. He waved his hand in front of me as he jotted down another note before saying, “Would you hold that thought for me? That’s all the time we have for this week, and I’ll . . . let me see . . . I’ll pencil you in for next week. How’s that sound? I think we have a real good start here, Daniel, okay? So I’ll see you next week. Good-bye now,” he said, with his head bent over his desk.
I gazed at him in total disbelief. My mind was so jumbled that I didn’t know how to react. Is this the way a session normally goes with a psychiatrist? I asked myself. Something was wrong, and I felt that that something was me. I sat motionless for a few moments, then slid out of the chair and walked to the door. As I opened it, the doctor muttered for me to have a nice day. I turned around and smiled. “Thank you, sir,” I said in a cheerful voice.
“Well,” Mrs. Catanze said, “how did it go in there?”
“I dunno. I don’t think I did too well. I think he thinks I’m dumb,” I said, as Lilian led me back to the car. “He wants to see me next week.”
“Well then, you must have made a good impression. Relax; you worry too much. Come on now, let’s go home.”
I slid into the backseat of Rudy’s car. I became lost as the streets signs streaked by. I felt more upset than I had before. I wanted to tell Lilian how I felt, but I knew if I did, my words would come out wrong and I would make a fool of myself in front of her and Rudy.
Lilian broke my concentration. “So, how do you feel?”
I crossed my arms tightly across my chest. “Confused,” I announced in a firm tone.
“Well,” she said, as she tried to find the right words to make me feel better, “these things take time.”
My next session was just as bizarre.
“Today, let’s begin our session by telling me . . . Daniel, how did you feel when your mother abused you? I understand that at one time she . . .”
The doctor flipped through an open file that I had figured was on me. He began to mumble to himself until he closed the folder. “Yes,” he stated to himself. “You were eight years old when your mother . . .”—he put on his glasses as he began to read a paper from the file—“. . . held your arm, your right arm . . . ,” he nodded again, but at me, “. . . over a gas stove. Is that correct?”
A bomb exploded inside my stomach. My hands began to twitch. Suddenly my entire body felt like rubber.
I stared at his facial movements as he casually replaced the sheet of paper on his desk—a paper that contained the most horrible parts of my life. Scribbled on that sheet is my life—my life, which the great doctor holds in his hands—and he still doesn’t even know my name! My God! I yelled to myself. This is nuts!
“Daniel, why do you think your mother burned you that day? You do remember that incident, don’t you . . . Daniel?” he paused for a moment.
I stroked my right forearm as I felt myself hovering in time.
“Tell me,” he added, “how do you feel toward your mother?”
“David,” I said in an ice-cold voice. “My name is David !” I shouted. “I think she’s sick and so are you!”
He didn’t even blink an eye. “You hate your mother, don’t you? That’s perfectly understandable. Express yourself. Go on, tell me. We have to begin somewhere so we can work through these things, problems, in order to . . .”
I lost track of the doctor’s voice. My right arm began to itch. I scratched it before I glanced down. When I did, I saw that my right forearm was engulfed in flames. I nearly jumped out of my seat as I shook my arm, trying to put out the fire. I clenched my fist as I blew on the flames. Oh my God, no! I screamed to myself. This can’t be happening! Please help me! Please! I tried to cry out to the psychiatrist. My lips parted, but nothing came out. I could feel the sides of my face flooding with tears as flames of orange and blue danced on my arm. . . .
“Yes! That’s it!” the doctor yelled. “Good! Let it out! That’s fine, Daniel. Now, Daniel, tell me, how do you feel right now? Are you . . . upset? Do you feel violent? Do you want to take out your aggressions on someone or something?”
I looked at my arm. The fire was gone. As much as I tried, I could not control myself from shaking. I cupped my arm and gently blew on it as if to make myself feel better. I leaned forward to get up, still clutching my right arm. I wiped my face as best I could before I opened the door to leave.
The doctor sprang up from behind his desk. “All right, you can leave early. We’ve made progress today. Don’t let this upset you. I’ll pencil you in for next . . .”
Slam! I closed the door with all my might.
In the outer office, the elderly receptionist jumped from her seat. I stopped by her desk for a moment. The woman seemed as if she were about to scold me, until she took a long look at my face. She stopped mid-sentence and turned away as she seized the phone. The next patient turned his head, too, as I marched out of the office.
By accident I slammed the door to Lilian’s car. She flung her paperback book into the air. “David! What . . . ? You’re early. Is everything all right?”
I clenched my two hands together. “No! No! No!” I yelled. “That man,” I pointed my finger at the building across the street, “is sick! He asked me the weirdest questions. Today he asked me how I felt when . . .”
“Well, David,” she said in a firm voice, “that’s his job. He’s the doctor. I’m sure he’s only trying to help. . . .”
“No!” I blurted, as I shook my head. “He doesn’t ask questions like you or Ms. Gold, but sick ones. Like, what did it feel like to be burned on a gas stove? And that it was all right to hate my mother,” I said, imitating the doctor’s tone of voice. “I don’t know what to say or do around him. He’s weird. He’s the one who needs help, not me. He’s the sick one.”
“Is that the reason why you were so upset last week? Did he treat you like that last time?” Lilian asked.
I nodded. “I just don’t know. I feel so dumb, so small. I mean, I know what happened with Mother, and I was wrong and I’m really trying to forget all about it. I mean, maybe my mom’s sick. I know it’s the booze, but I have to know: Am I sick, too? Am I going to end up like her? I just want to know. I just want to know why it all happened the way it did. We were the perfect family. What happened?”
After I blew off my steam, I stretched out in the passenger seat. Lilian leaned over. “All better now?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered. She started the car. I could feel myself drifting off to sleep. I held my right arm just above my wrist. I strained myself to stay awake a little bit longer. “Mrs. C., I don’t ever want to go back there—ever,” I said. And then my world went black.
I stayed by myself in my room for the next few days.
Then Big Larry asked if I wanted to watch him bowl. I happily accepted, and once again my big foster brother and I set out for another adventure. I found out our destination as we rode our bikes through nearby Daly City. Larry and I rode down the small street that led into the parking lot of Thomas Edison Elementary School. Slowing my bike, I watched as the children played on the swing sets. I skidded to a stop, breathing in the smell of fresh tanbark. It seemed like a lifetime ago that I was a child who happily played in the same play yard during recess.
A heavy fog seemed to hover over the school before it lowered itself. The outline of the children became lost as the gray mist seemed to swallow them, too. After a few minutes, only their sounds of laughter told me that the children were even there.
I shook off the thoughts of my past as I pumped my bike up another hill and away from my old school. About 10 minutes later, Larry and I stopped at the Sky Line grocery store—the same store I had stolen from when I ran from the school during my lunch recess. I stayed close to Larry’s side. I thought for sure someone would recognize me. “Are you okay?” Larry asked as we strolled down the aisles.
“Yeah,” I answered in a low voice. My eyes darted around every corner. I walked in slow motion and grabbed Larry’s belt to tell him to slow down. I was on Mother’s turf now.
“Hey man, what’s your problem?” he asked after my last tug.
“Shh. I used to live here,” I whispered.
“Really? Cool,” Larry said, as he chomped on a fruit pie as we were walking outside the store. “Is that why you acted funny at that school?”
“I . . . I guess so,” I answered.
After Big Larry finished two more cream pies, a few candy bars and two sodas, we set off to the bowling alley. The ride up Eastgate Avenue became too much for me. I hopped off my bike and stared down the street as I walked past. “Stop!” I barked without warning.
From behind me Larry was panting like a dog. “What’s up?”
“Do me a favor,” I said. “Let’s take a break and ride down this street.”