The Lost Boy

Turnboughs was day by day. The days turned into weeks, with still no word of where I would end up. Out of frustration, Alice re-enrolled me into Parkside Junior High. As happy as I was to return to school to see my teachers again, I still felt a dark cloud over me. I dreaded walking to Alice’s home after school. I’d peek around the corner looking for a county car, knowing I’d soon be driven off. Every day, out of fear, I’d bug Alice in my desperate effort to find out any news from Gordon Hutchenson. I just wanted to know.
    As the weeks turned into months, I found myself still sleeping on the couch and living out of a grocery bag. My clothes became weathered and moldly because I only washed them on Saturday afternoon after 3:00 p.m. or on Sunday – I knew that those were the only times I was safe from being moved. After forgetting my pet turtle at the Catanzes, I didn’t want to take the chance of losing anything else again. Every night after everyone had gone to bed, I would pray on the couch that tomorrow Gordon would decide my fate.
    One day, when I returned to Alice’s home after school, she sat me down. I swallowed hard as I braced myself for the bad news. But no word had come. Alice informed me of something else: I would be seeing a psychiatrist tomorrow. I shook my head no. Alice went on to explain that she understood the problems about my former doctor. I was surprised that she knew so much about my past, when I hadn’t told her anything. “So, you’ve been talking to my probation officer, and he still hasn’t seen me?” I asked, feeling exposed and ashamed.
    Alice explained that she was working on a plan to have me placed with her, but it would take time to receive a license to have boys in her home. “But not to worry, ” she stated. “Harold and I have decided that we’d like you to stay with us for a while.”
    Without hesitating I gave Alice a kiss. Then I thought about her last statement and gave her a frown. “You mean Harold wants me to stay, too?”
    Alice laughed. “Just because Harold doesn’t talk that much to you doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you. He just has a hard time understanding you. Frankly, I’m sure a lot of people would. But take my word, if Harold didn’t want you, you wouldn’t be here.” Her big hands wrapped around my skinny fingers. “Ol’ Leo likes you more than you know.”
    Alice’s explanation of Harold meant the world to me. Ever since I had blurted out to him about sharing a room with a girl, I felt Harold thought of me as a weird kid. He never seemed to talk to me. Whenever he did utter a few words in my direction, he’d try to get me to read rather than watch television. Every night after dinner, like clockwork, Harold would always pull out an old Western paperback and smoke his Camel cigarettes before going to bed precisely at 9:00 p.m.
    I respected Harold so much, although he never knew. As a carpenter, he had a passion for his craft. I hoped I could stay with the Turnboughs long enough for Harold to teach me a few things. Ever since I was a small child I had fantasized about building a log cabin at the Russian River, so at times I’d imagine Harold and me working on a project together, in hopes of bringing us closer. Maybe, I thought, by then I could prove myself to him.
    The next day, after much prodding from Alice, I hopped on a bus and went to meet my new psychiatrist, Dr Robertson, who turned out to be the complete opposite of “The Great Doctor” I had before. He greeted me with a handshake and told me to call him by his first name, Donald. His entire office was bathed in bright warm sunlight, but the thing that meant the most to me was that Dr Robertson treated me like a person.
    On my weekly visits to Dr Robertson, I never felt forced to talk about anything, but soon found myself initiating the conversation about my past.
I
questioned
Dr Robertson
about everything, including whether I was doomed to follow in my mother’s footsteps. Dr Robertson always tried to steer me in another direction, but I fought to maintain my lifelong course of finding my answers. I learned to trust him as he gently led me through the maze of the sensitive parts of my past.
    Because of my persistence, Dr Robertson suggested some books for me to study on basic psychology. Soon afterward, Harold and I seemed to bicker about who was hogging the lamp by the end of the couch, as I tried to read books on self-esteem by Norman Vincent Peale or others on the