The Lost Boy

know exactly how to get there, but I drove by instinct, relying on my memories as a child. When I sensed the correct exit, I turned off. I knew I was close when the towering redwood trees filled my windshield. My heart seemed to skip a beat when I parked my car at the old Safeway supermarket. My eyes gaped at the same aisles I had strolled through as a child. At the checkout counter, I dug through my pant pockets and spent the last of my splurge money on a stick of salami and a loaf of French bread. I sat on a deserted sandbar of Johnson’s Beach and slowly gnawed on my lunch, listening to the rippling sounds of the Russian River and the scraping metal of an oversized motor home that rumbled its way across the narrow evergreen bridge. I found myself at peace.
    In order to fulfil my vow of living at the Russian River, I knew I had to first find myself. I couldn’t do it living so close to my past. I had to break away. As I collected my trash and walked away from the beach, the sun shone on my shoulders. I felt warm inside. I had made
my
decision. Turning to face the river one last time, I felt like crying. If I wanted to, I could move to the river, but I knew it wouldn’t be right. I took in a deep breath and spoke in a slow voice, renewing my lifelong promise.
I will be back.
    Months later, after obtaining my high school G.E.D. and completing a series of tests and background checks, I proudly enlisted into the United States Air Force. Somehow word got to Mother, and she called me a day before I reported for basic training. Her voice wasn’t that of the
evil mother,
but
my mommy
from years ago. I could almost see Mommy’s face on the other end of the phone as she cried. She claimed that she thought of me all the time and that she had always wanted nothing but the best for me. We talked for over an hour, and I strained my ears in hopes of hearing the three most important words I had wanted Mom to say all my life.
    Alice stood beside me as I cried into the telephone. I wanted to be with my mom. I wanted to see her face in hopes of hearing those three words. I realized that I was being foolish, but I felt I should at least try. It took all of Alice’s persuasive powers to keep me from visiting Mom. But in my heart I knew that
Mother
was just toying with my emotions. For over 18 years, I wanted something I knew I would never receive – Mom’s love. Without a word, Alice opened her arms. And as she held me, I suddenly realized that my lifelong search for love and acceptance had finally ended in the arms of a foster parent.
    The next day I stood tall as I looked into Harold’s blue eyes. “Be good now, son, ” he said.
    “I will, sir. You watch. I’ll make you proud.”
    Alice stood beside her husband. “You know who you are. You’ve always known, ” she said, as she held out her hand and gave me a shiny yellow key. “This is your home. It always has been and always will be your home.”
    I pocketed the key to my home. After kissing Alice,
my mother,
and shaking Harold’s,
my father’s,
hand, I opened my mouth to say something appropriate. But this moment in time needed no words, for we knew what we all felt – the love of a family.
    Hours later, as the Boeing 727 banked its way from California, I closed my eyes for a final time as
a lost boy.
I pictured “The Sarge, ” Michael Marsh, in all his glory, with his eyes pierced toward the sky when he had said, “Well, Airman Pelzer, any thoughts?”
    “Well, ” I had replied, “I’m a little scared, but I could use that to my advantage. I have a master plan. I’m focused, and I know I’m going to make it.”
    Then my mentor had glanced down on me and smiled. “Good on you, Pelz-man. Get some.”
    Aboard my first plane ride, I opened my eyes for the first time
as a man named Dave.
I chuckled to myself.
“Now
the adventure begins!”

Epilogue
    December 1993, Sonoma County, California

    I’m alone. On the outside I’m so cold that my entire body shivers. The tips of my fingers have been numb for some time. As I exhale, a frosty mist escapes through my nose. In the distance I can hear the rumbling sounds of dark gray clouds colliding against each other. A few seconds later, thunder echoes from the nearby hills. I can see a cloudburst approaching.
    I don’t mind. I’m sitting on top of an old rotted log in front of a long stretch of empty beach. I love gazing at the splendor of the powerful dark green waves that form into a curl before pounding