The Lost Boy

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 deserved 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