I walked among the dirty sleeping bags and blankets, peering at the prone bodies. Many of the huddled sleepers resembled my son: skinny, white, teenagers, rank from dumpster diving and no showers. From a perch on a picnic table, a young girl with blond dreadlocks watched my snooping and glared. Someone like me, a plump, middle-aged mom, was out of place and not welcome, navigating this corner of Golden Gate Park on the edge of San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury District. I steered clear of the solitary men guarded by dogs or surrounded by shopping carts. Their layers of clothing were streaked with filth from years of living on the street. My son had been missing from his group home for only a few days, so he wouldn’t be as settled into this life outdoors.
Eight years earlier, in 1988, my husband Michael and I fostered, and later adopted Robert and his little sister, Jenny from the Alameda County Foster-Adopt program. When he first arrived at our home at the age of six, Robert showed signs of severe emotional problems, brought on by years of neglect and multiple foster placements. After extensive psychotherapy and two stints at a residential treatment center, Robert continued to need more supervision than what we could give him. We found a therapeutic group home in San Francisco, but like most of these facilities, it wasn’t locked, and the staff couldn’t prevent him from running away.
I headed down the hill toward the head shops and hippie clothing stores filled with souvenirs of the Summer of Love. I was determined to hand out my homemade flyers, but few of the store clerks bothered to look at them, pointing to their bulletin boards filled with posters of missing children. I stapled them up anyway; making sure this photo of my smart, dark-haired, fourteen-year old son was displayed front and center for at least a few days.
I was afraid this effort to find Robert was a waste of time. The group home had filed the missing person’s report, but I knew from experience the police wouldn’t look for a runaway kid unless he caused trouble. Worry and fear gnawed at me as I imagined the worst. After four days of searching, I got a call from the director of the group home.
“They’ve found him,” she said.
“Where is he?”
“He’s at the Berkeley police station. They picked him up in People’s Park.”
I sat down on the couch by the phone, relieved and anxious. Her somber tone told me there was more I needed to know.
“Is he all right? Can I get him or are you supposed to?”
“I think you and your husband better go see him,” she said. “They’re saying he may have been molested. They picked him up with a pedophile who’s known to hang around skateboarders and homeless kids. The police are questioning Robert to see if he was harmed, and is willing to talk about what happened.
The room grew dark and I gasped for air.
“Are you there?”
“Give me a second.” I fumbled for a pen and paper and asked her to repeat the name of the officer and the address of the police station. When we got off the phone, I took a moment to gather my thoughts, pushing away the horror that my son may have been abused by a predator. I called Michael at the high school where he taught, interrupting his class to give him the news Robert had been found.
“Does he have any idea what we’ve been through?” Michael said. “We’ve been worried sick. Is he all right?”
“That’s just it. The police think he may have been molested. They’re interviewing him now and holding the guy he was with.”
“Dear God. What else can happen?” Dealing with Robert’s many emergencies had exhausted Michael over the years and strained our marriage to the breaking point. I gave him the address to the police station and asked him to pick Jenny up from school and meet me there.
It had been raining earlier in the day and the overcast skies added to the gloom. The lobby of the police station was deserted except for an officer behind the glass enclosed counter and a dozen plastic chairs jumbled in the center of the room. After checking in, I took a seat and shivered, wishing I had brought my coat from the car.
When Michael and Jenny entered the police station, Jenny was clinging to her father, looking worried and teary. Unlike her dark-haired brother Robert, who excelled in school, she was blond and blue-eyed, and struggled with learning disabilities. Jenny loved her brother and had not slept well since he went missing.
“Is Robert in jail, Mom?” she asked.
“No, Honey. He’s not in trouble. The police want to talk to him for a while before we take him back to San Francisco. We’ll see him when they’re finished. We might have to wait a while. Did you bring your homework?”
Doing homework was a ridiculous suggestion under these circumstances, but I thought it would distract us from worrying. Jenny took off her backpack, dropped into the chair beside me and laid her head on my shoulder. She made no move to pull out her books and I wrapped my arm around her.
My husband sat beside her and stared at the floor. Short and trim, with salt and pepper hair, Michael was a few years older than me. We had become foster parents late in life, shortly after we married, and had hoped we could start a family with Jenny and Robert. Now our eyes connected and I saw in his the same misery and despair I felt. Nothing needed to be said.
“Mr. and Mrs. Sievert.”
Michael and I turned to the officer who spoke to us from the counter. He continued to examine his paperwork as he called us over.
“We finished interviewing Robert. I’m afraid he hasn’t been able to help us much. He may have been drugged, or too stoned to remember what happened. San Francisco PD has a warrant for the man he was with. We may ask Robert to testify in court later.”
I felt unsteady and leaned against the counter for support. This was going to be a nightmare.
“Can we talk to him now?” Michael asked.
“That’s the problem. He says he doesn’t want to see you now. Your situation was explained to us by the group home and I sympathize, but we can’t force him. We’ll take him back to San Francisco in a few minutes.”
“I guess we should have expected this,” Michael said.
“Wait—what?” I asked. I leaned forward on the counter, but Michael took my elbow and steered me away before I could object further.
“Aren’t we going to see Robert now?” Jenny asked.
“No, we can’t, Jenny, sorry,” Michael said. “Get your backpack so we can go home.”
She looked at me, noticed I was near tears, and started to cry. I knew I had to control myself for her sake, but I was tired of being stoic when the situation was so hopeless.
“I’m sorry, Jenny. We can’t see him right now.” I said. “The police thought it best they take him back to San Francisco. We’ll go visit him this weekend, okay?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that Robert didn’t want to see us. He had lots of reasons for pushing away the people who cared for him. For now we were the bull’s-eye, taking the hit for the disappointments he’d suffered during the years of neglect before our care. I understood this in theory, but it was painful to be on the receiving end.
We walked out of the station toward the parking lot as the police car pulled out of the garage. Robert, sitting in the back seat, turned to look out the window. At first his eyes lit up when he spotted us, but then he smiled and turned away. The three of us stared helplessly as he rode by. We stood in silence while we waited for the traffic to clear and held hands as we crossed the street together.