A Man Named Dave

have no friends at school, I have no one to express my feelings to. “Other times in the garage, at night, when I lay on my cot, I’d think hard to figure out what I could do. I mean, to fix things between Mother and me, to make things better. I wanted to know why, how, things became so bad. I really thought if I tried hard enough – if I prayed with all my spirit – I’d find my answers. They never came.
    “I … I, ah, tri – tried,” I stutter. I’m holding back my tears. “I spent so much time … I, ah, I just … I just wanted to know why. That’s all. Why me, why us? I just wanted to know. Why?” I stare into the nurse’s eyes. “I don’t care anymore! I just want to go to sleep! I’m tired of everything! The games, the secrets, the lies, hoping one day Mother will wake up and everything will be better again! I can’t take it anymore!
    “If you could just let me sleep, for just a while, please?” I beg.
    She shakes her head. “This has to end, David. Look at you. You’re –”
    “It’s okay,” I interrupt in a calm voice. “I’m not… when I’m at school, I’m not afraid. Just promise me you won’t tell. Not today, please? ”
    “David, you know I can’t do that,” the nurse replies in a flat tone.
    “If you … if you tell,” I pant, “then you know what will happen. Please, let it go!”
    She nods her head in agreement. “Just for today.”
    “Promise?”
    “Promise.” She takes my hand and leads me to the small bed in the corner of the room.
    “Cross your heart and hope to die?” I ask, making an X mark on my chest with my finger.
    “Cross my heart,” she repeats in a choked-up voice. She covers me with a thick wool blanket.
    “… And hope to die?” I repeat. The nurse’s lips part with a smile as she gently strokes my matted hair. I take her hands and cup them around mine. “… And hope to die?”
    The nurse gives my hands a gentle squeeze. “And hope to die.”
    In the deepest part of my soul, I feel at peace. I am no longer afraid. I am ready to die.

2 – Fly Away
    August 24, 1979
     
    Thick, sticky sweat coated every pore of my skin. My stomach seized with fear. My fingers seemed fused together as they clawed the armrest. I wanted to shut my eyes, but the combination of exhilaration, fascination, and terror inside me kept them glued to the small Plexiglas window. I studied every feature of the Bay Area – my home for the last eighteen years.
    “I’m flying?” I asked, to my own amazement.
    My body slid from my seat, and I thought for sure I’d fall out of the plane as the Boeing 727 made a sudden sharp roll to the right. To help contain my fear, I forced my eyes shut. I’m okay. I’m all right. I’m fine. My God, I can’t believe it! I’m flying! I’m actually flying! I could feel myself drifting off. Because of the excitement of finally enlisting in the U.S. Air Force, saying good-bye to my foster parents, and struggling with my past, I had not slept in days. As the roar of the jet’s engines began to fade, I started to unwind. The more my tension disappeared, the more I began to think of how far I had come.
    As a child surviving in the garage of Mother’s house, I had never dreamed of making it out alive. Somehow, I had known Mother was close to killing me, and yet I did not care. I had given up all hope. Yet on March 5, 1973, the day after Mother had thrown me down the garage stairs, my teachers called the police, who immediately placed me into protective custody. I was free. As elated as I was, I sensed that my freedom was a hollow victory. At the county’s court proceedings, I felt that Mother had given me away. I felt as if I was not good enough for her. When my angel of mercy – my social worker, Ms Gold – informed me that I was never to have any contact with Mother or her children ever again, I was crushed.
    It was then that I became obsessed with finding answers to my past. Even though I was still terrified of Mother, who wanted nothing to do with me, I still struggled to prove that I was worthy of her love and worthy enough to be a member of her family.
    As a foster child, I soon learned that I knew absolutely nothing about living in the real world. My former life as Mother’s prisoner had been dominated by elemental needs of survival. But after my rescue I felt like a toddler – learning and growing by leaps and bounds. The simplest things taught to preschool children became major obstacles for me. Because I had spent years in the garage with my head bent backward in a POW position, I developed very