One Pancakes dripping with melted butter and syrup, scrambled eggs, bacon, coffee and orange juice; the aroma in the air made his mouth water. Drool slid out the side of his mouth and onto his pillowcase. His mother floated around the table, humming softly to herself as she set out the breakfast. The scent of jasmine drifted over the wafting odors of the fresh baked griddlecakes. He reached for her and fell…hard. Wayne Foster picked himself up off the floor, looked in the mirror and said, “What’re you looking at?” and disgustedly turned away. At sixteen he was five foot eleven with lifeless gray eyes, straggly blonde hair, a misshaped nose, crooked teeth and a fairly clear complexion. Wayne was slightly overweight; he never exercised, ate junk food and had a passion for beer. He shuffled down the hallway to the bathroom, scratching himself as he walked. The rest of the house was dark. Wayne left his house at the same time every morning; passing the huddled figure of his father, who was down for the count on the couch, or the bed, depending where he’d landed the night before. Sometimes he never made it to the furniture at all, he just dropped to the floor. Just shove everything out of the way and plop himself down where he was; that was Dad…good old Dad. The only reason Wayne left the house anymore was so he wouldn’t have to deal with his dad. It hadn’t always been this way. Wayne Robert Foster was born into the loving arms of Patricia and Stan Foster, of Crest Haven, California, an upper class neighborhood with beautifully manicured lawns, expensive security systems, three car garages, and a daily service staff of a cook, and a gardener. Wayne was the eldest of two sons born to the Fosters, his younger brother, William, or Billy, coming along four and a half years behind him. Patricia was a stay-at-home mom who was involved with her sons’ daily activities. As soon as the day was over, Patricia’s attention turned to Stan. Stan and Pat, as they were known in their social circle, entertained frequently. When not entertaining in their lavish home, they would be out with friends. The Fosters did not sit down and have family dinners; the boys ate before Stan came home from work, and Pat ate with Stan. Never was there a ‘family fun night,’ that wasn’t Stan’s thing. “Mommy, can’t you stay home with us tonight?” Billy cried one rainy Friday night in the middle of February. “I’m scared the lightning monster’s gonna get me.” “Honey, no monster’s going to get you,” Patricia reassured her son. “Pat, stop mollycoddling the boy,” Stan reprimanded her. “Do you want him to grow up and be a pansy?” Stan was firm about raising his sons to be men, there was not going to be any backing down on boys being boys. Even though he didn’t really understand what his father was saying, (he was only six years old,) Billy began crying harder when he heard the harsh words. “I’m not no pansy!” “Then toughen up, boy!” Stan yelled at him. “We’re going out and that’s that!” “Mrs. Church will be right here with you and she’ll make sure you’re safe.” Pat tried to calm her hysterical son. “Wayne’s here, too. If you want, you can sleep with him until I come home. I’ll carry you into your own bed after you fall asleep.” “You’ll do no such thing, Patricia!” Stan scolded, “He’ll go to sleep in his own bed, and he’ll be just fine. It’s time he knew that there’s no such thing as monsters, and that he needs to be a big boy.” Turning his attention to his youngest son, he said, “Will, you do know that there’s no such thing as monsters, don’t you?” “Yes, Daddy.” “Then you also know that the lightning can’t hurt you, right?” “Right…” he answered, not too convinced. “Then tell your mother you’ll be just fine while we’re out, or she’ll be worried and won’t have a good time.” “Mommy, I’ll be fine while you’re out. Don’t be worried, and have a good time.” Billy said, as if he’d rehearsed it many times before. Patricia leaned over and hugged him, “Okay, Silly Billy, I love you, I’ll see you in the morning; sleep well.” Turning towards Wayne she hugged him and told him she loved him too. That was the last time William and Wayne Foster ever saw their mother alive. The next morning walking into the kitchen, Wayne was shocked to find Mrs. Church sitting at his table, “Where’s Mommy?” he asked. “There’s been an accident,” she replied, diverting her eyes from Wayne’s as she spoke. She continued speaking…more into her coffee cup than to the child, “Your dad’s coming home soon.” Wayne and Billy met their father at the door. “Daddy, where’s Mommy?” Billy asked. “When’s she coming home?” Wayne inquired. Stan walked right past both boys as if he hadn’t heard a word they’d said. His hair was ruffled and he had bloodstains on his collar; there were stitches across his cheek and forearm, but the boys didn’t notice any of that. They wanted their mother. Bewildered, Billy asked again: “Daddy, where’s Mommy?” his teary eyes followed his father’s movements across the room. Stan stopped, slowly turning around he looked at his youngest son and mockingly repeated, “Daddy, where’s Mommy?” Continuing with anger and disgust, “Maybe if you weren’t such a Mommy’s boy she’ d be here right now instead of hooked up to every machine imaginable! That’s where Mommy is…fighting for her life in a hospital bed because you’re such a cry baby!” He turned and left the room as Billy began to wail. Wayne, who had been standing next to Billy during their father’s tirade, took his little brother’s hand and they went to their room. Wayne said, “Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault. Mommy’ll be home soon and she’ll make him stop yelling at you; she always does.” Neither Pat nor Stan had any living relatives so Mrs. Church stayed with the boys for three days as they saw their father come and go, but he never talked to them…it was as if they were transparent. Time had no meaning to the boys. Mrs. Church did her best to keep them to a schedule. She kept them home from school on Monday, and told the cook and nanny to take the day off. Billy missed his mother and Wayne wasn’t enough of a comfort. The television made the time pass, but even their favorite shows could not ease the ache of not knowing where she was. Finally, on Monday afternoon, Stan came home. Dragging himself into the living room, which was usually a ‘forbidden’ room, he slumped on the couch with tear-brimmed eyes. He informed his sons that their mother was dead. “What do you mean she’s dead?” Wayne asked. The only brush with death he’d had was when their pet gold fish died. They’d flushed it down the toilet. Was that going to happen to his mother? Wayne’s mind started wandering to what it would look like to flush his mother down the toilet. His father’s voice brought him back. “I mean she’s never coming back,” Stan answered. “Daddy, we’re never going to see Mommy again?” Billy’s lip quivered and his eyes brimmed over with tears. “What happened?” Wayne whispered as he reached for Billy to sit next to him on the couch. He had forgotten that they were in the living room; the room where little boys were never allowed to play, or sit, or touch anything. He and Billy sat down next to each other on the far end of the couch and stared at their father for answers. Wayne’s head was filled with questions. “What happened? What happened?” Stan started screaming, “You want to know what happened? I’ll tell you what happened.” Wayne and Billy cowered away from their father as he started his tirade. They were accustomed to his anger, but now their mother wasn’t there to run interference. They sat quietly as he continued: “Your mother was so upset at the party that your precious little brother was afraid of the lightning that she kept yelling at me.” He had a glazed look in his eyes as he recalled the party from three nights earlier. “She was yelling and yelling. Finally I agreed to come back home. I didn’t see the truck coming and we were hit. Your mother’s injuries were too much for her to handle and she died.” Stan started crying, slowly at first and then in loud gut wrenching sobs. Wayne and Billy were shocked. They’d never seen their father cry before. Never! Just as they were about to comfort him, he stopped and said, “That’s what happened! Thanks to your little brother and his lightning monster,” Stan looked directly at Wayne, “your mother is dead!” Billy slowly crept off the couch and slunk over to his father. “Daddy, I’m sorry.” He quietly sobbed, “I didn’t mean to kill Mommy.” Then he turned and walked out of the room crying. Stan just sat on the couch weeping, as if he had not even heard his youngest son. Wayne was at a loss; should he comfort his father or not? He sat on the end of the couch, looking around this room he’ d only been allowed to peer into before. The furniture was overstuffed and off-white. It was not very comfortable. The walls were painted a slightly darker shade than the couch and loveseat, and the carpet was the same shade. There were family portraits hanging on one wall. Wayne was staring at how beautiful his mother was. One picture was of her mother and father’s wedding day and he was transfixed at what a beautiful couple they were with her curly chestnut hair, brown eyes and sparkling smile, standing next to his father in his tailor made tuxedo. They had the promise of a whole life ahead of them. Another picture was of the four of them right after Billy was born; the happy family. Suddenly it hit him: he’d just lost his mother, and his father was sitting in the same room with him, crying. What was going to happen to him? He curled up on the end of the couch and started to cry…not only for him, but for all of them. When Wayne woke up, in the same spot, on the end of the couch, the room was dark. Stan was no longer in the living room; Wayne had no idea how long he’d been asleep. He went to find Billy. Wayne left the living room in a dazed stupor. Losing a parent is not easy, at any age, and Wayne was two months short of his eleventh birthday. Wayne Foster was extremely intelligent; top of his fifth grade class with a reading comprehension of seventh grade. His math skills were highly advanced as well, but Wayne was extremely shy. His light blonde hair fell to his shoulders and he rarely looked at a person when he spoke to them. He lacked self-confidence and would prefer to read a book, than play outside. Often he would overhear conversations between his parents; his mother would stick up for him; “Stan, he’s shy, he’ll outgrow it. Don’t be so hard on him.” Walking down the hallway towards the bedroom he shared with Billy he thought about those conversations and wondered, “Who’s going to stick up for me now?” Wayne was not very fond of his father. He was a hard man to like. Stan left in the morning before the boys went to school and came home after the boys ate dinner. As soon as he came home from work, Pat’s attentions were focused on Stan. Wayne couldn’t remember a family event when the four of them did anything fun. He could remember lots of time when Billy and Wayne did things with their Mom, but never with their Dad. He turned the corner into their bedroom, and turned on the light; the first thing he noticed was how messy it was. “Mommy would be mad.” And then it hit him again; she wasn’t coming back anymore. Tears began to flow as his stomach lurched. Wayne started to pick up the toys as he worked his way towards Billy’s bed, thinking maybe Billy was in it, when he realized that it was empty. He threw the toys in the toy box and looked under the beds, assuming his little brother was hiding from their dad. Again, no Billy. Wayne searched the closets, behind the doors and everywhere he could think of that his brother would hide before he went to find his father. Hesitantly creeping into the master bedroom, Wayne heard his father’s snoring before he actually saw him; and smelled the familiar odor before seeing the outline of his father on the bed. “Daddy?” he shyly questioned into the darkened room. “Mmmmm.” “Daddy?” he queried a bit louder, with more urgency. “Whhhaaa” “Daddy!” Wayne spoke louder and had garnered more courage as he blurted out: “Billy’s gone!” “What?” Stan asked, half asleep. “I can’t find Billy,” Wayne said, through tears. “Whatcha mean ya can’t findim?” Stan slurred as he rolled back over and fell back into a drunken slumber. As Wayne stood staring at his father’s back, wringing his hands together, he debated what to do. Should I try to wake him up again and get him mad? Or should I call the police? Should I wait until tomorrow and see if I can find Billy? I wish Mommy were here, she’d know what to do. This was the turning point in Wayne Foster’s short life: “Daddy! Wake up! Billy’s not here!” Wayne was willing to suffer the consequences of his father’s wrath. His little brother needed him. |