Visit with Little Biker Boy

“Here’s my bedroom,” he said. I looked around. He’s got a real bed, with sheets and pillowcases. A closet where his clothes were hung, neatly. A shelf with a bunch of toy cars. A bin filled with plastic figures.

I reached into his closet and touched the red sweatshirt. “Do you remember the day we bought this?” He nodded and came over to rub his head against me.

Little Biker Boy is living in a stable home, at last. He and I talked, and he took me out to the garage to show me his bicycle. They live on a busy street but there are trails in the backyard he can ride on.

I spent several hours talking to his foster mother, filling her in on the last four years of his life. The list of abuses is pretty long and horrific. He’s only eleven years old.

We began the paperwork that will allow me to take Little Biker Boy on outings. I said to Foster Mother, “As wonderful as Little Biker Boy is, I’m guessing you could use a break now and then.” She laughed at that. We both know how difficult he can be.

When the sun came out, Little Biker Boy and I went out to the backyard. The patio has a raised cement edge, just like my front porch, and I saw the telltale line-up of toy cars that indicated that he’d been playing there. I sat down and began moving cars around, just like I used to when he played on my front step.

“Have you talked to my mother?” he asked. I knew he meant his biological mother.

“No,” I said.

“She didn’t call and tell you where I was?” he asked.

“No,” I said. He shoved a car angrily across the cement.

“I know you’re angry,” I said. “I know you’re sad.”

“I don’t feel anything,” he said. “I don’t feel anything about my mother.” He looked up at me defiantly. I didn’t say anything. Then he moved closer so I could rub his back, and we sat quietly moving cars around in the dirt while the sun moved in and out of the clouds.