The Lost Boy

wearing only my soiled underwear briefs filled with holes. As she washed my face, I turned away and kept my eyelids closed as tightly as I could. When the nurse finished, I gazed at the yellow-colored room filled with Snoopy cartoon characters. I looked down at different parts of my body. My legs and arms were a combination of yellow and brown. Dark circles of purple bruises faded on top of fresh rings of blue bruises -where I was either grabbed, punched or slammed down on the kitchen floor. When the doctor came into the room he seemed very concerned about my hands and arms. My fingers were dry, raw and red from all the years of using the combinations of cleaning chemicals used to complete my household chores. The doctor pinched the tips of my fingers, asking me if I could feel the pressure. I shook my head no. I hadn’t been able to feel the tips of my fingers for some time now. He shook his head, claiming it was nothing to worry about, so I didn’t think anything more of it.
    Afterward, the police officer kindly led me through the maze of corridors as we made our way from room to room for lots of examinations, tests, blood samples and X rays. I found myself moving in a daze. I felt as if I were watching someone else’s life through my own eyes. I became so scared that I first asked, then begged the policeman to check around every corner and enter every room before I did. I knew that somewhere out there Mother was poised, ready to snatch me away. At first the officer refused, and only after I became so petrified that I couldn’t breathe or move did the policeman humor me and follow my requests. I knew deep inside my heart that things were happening too fast – it was too easy for me to escape Mother.
    Hours later we ended up with the same nurse who bathed me. She bent down to say something. I waited. She stared into my eyes, then after a few moments, she turned away. I could hear her sniffle. The doctor walked up behind me, patted my shoulder and gave me a bag containing cream for my hands. He then instructed me to keep my arms as clean as possible and said that it was too late to cover them. I looked at the officer, then down at my arms. I didn’t understand. To me, my arms seemed the same as they always did – dark red with little skin. Both arms itched quite a bit, but that was normal for me. Before the policeman and I left, the doctor reached over and said to the officer, “Make sure David gets plenty of food. And make sure he gets lots of time in the sun.” Then the doctor bent a little closer to him and asked, “Where is she? You’re not sending him back to his … ?”
    The policeman locked eyes with the doctor. “Not to worry, Doc. I gave this kid my word. His mother is
never
going to hurt him again.”
    From that moment on, I knew I was safe. Standing near the officer, I wanted to hug his leg, but I knew I shouldn’t. My eyes gleamed with joy. The police officer became my hero.
    A few minutes after we left the hospital, he slowed his car as he drove through the hills on the narrow one-lane roads. I rolled down my window and stared in amazement at the sloping brown hills and tall redwood trees. Moments later the officer parked the car. “Well, David, here we are.” I gazed down below me at the prettiest home I had ever seen. The officer explained that I would live here for a while and that this would be my new foster home. I had never heard the words
foster home
before, but I knew I would love the home. To me it seemed like a giant log cabin with lots of open windows. I could see that behind the home was a huge backyard, where sounds of screeching and laughter echoed by the tiny creek.
    The elderly woman who ran the temporary foster home introduced herself as “Aunt Mary” and greeted me at the kitchen door. I thanked the police officer with the strongest handshake I could. I felt bad that he had worked overtime for me. He knelt down and said in a deep voice, “David, it’s kids like you that made me want to become a policeman.” Without thinking, I grabbed his neck. The moment I did, my arms felt as if they were on fire. I didn’t care. “Thank you, sir.”
    “Hey, kid, not a problem, ” he replied. He then strolled up the curved walkway and saluted me from his car before driving off. I didn’t even know his name.
    After Aunt Mary fed me a delicious dinner of filet of sole, she introduced me to the seven other children who, like myself, for one reason or another no longer lived with