We’ve just endured a dreadful 18 hours with 11-year-old Max in our home, and it’s safe to say that absolutely nothing went well. Our conclusion begins with all of us in the car as we take Doug, Chris and Buzzy to school following a devastating beginning of our day.
* * *
Although the air in the car was blue, no one erupted during the ride. Things were quiet except for understandable muttering and ventilating by Doug, whose backpack had been cruelly violated just minutes before. I let the three kids off at school, and the ride back home was quiet. By now Max must have begun to wonder why the axe hadn’t already fallen. On the other hand, maybe he didn’t care. I began to prepare myself for the phone call I knew I must make.
I put out some cereal and milk for Max, and told him we were going to have a little conversation after breakfast, and he nodded, although it seemed obvious that he didn’t intend to enjoy it.
Still, I was going to try. “Max, what did you mean when you said you wouldn’t be staying here very long?”
“I haven’t stayed anywhere very long.”
“How come?”
“Because everyplace I’ve been, they’ve always been on my case about stuff. I never get to do anything I want. And the other kids I lived with were buttholes, just like your kids. And this isn’t gonna be any different. They kiss up to you and they hate me.”
“Max, Chris told you they wanted to be your friends?”
“You believe that? You probably put him up to it.”
“And what about me? Do you have a problem with me, too?” He didn’t answer.
And then, as we stood facing each other, I did something I have seldom done before or since. It was a spontaneous and instinctive gesture.
I placed my hands on his shoulders. He looked frightened, but he didn’t have a chance to react. I pulled him toward me and I hugged him, tightly. I thought he would stiffen, try to pull away.
But he didn’t. He stayed there. Several seconds passed, and then I felt his shoulders heaving. He was sobbing. We stayed that way for half a minute.
Then he pulled away and looked at me, tears running down his face. “You care about me, you really care, don’t you?” he sobbed. “Nobody’s ever cared about me before. Anywhere I’ve ever been.” Then he grabbed me back, resuming the hug, still crying hard. It was the stuff of filmdom, only it was real.
I let it go on a little longer, then I gently steered him to a chair. “Let’s sit down, Max. We’re going to devote the rest of this day to making your life be all right.”
I don’t remember the words we spoke over the next few hours, but there were many. We talked about his life up to now. We talked of goals, of hopes and dreams, of love, respect and caring.
Of course, we had to deal with the subject of the other kids in general and the backpack in particular. I told Max we would have a family meeting when the other boys got home from school. I didn’t know how it would go (after all, I had broken my promise to them), but Doug, Chris and Buzzy being who they were, I had a feeling it would fly.
After lunch, Max busied himself out on the deck cleaning out the backpack, drying things off the best he could.
When the boys saw Max in the car after school, their anger was palpable. “I thought you were gonna get rid of him,” one of them said.
“I want you to get in the car,” I said, “and I want no one to speak until we get home. I know you are still upset and angry, but there are some things I want you to hear as soon as we get home. Meanwhile please trust me.”
At home, I asked again for silence. The boys pulled out beanbag chairs, and I sat across from them with Max in another chair next to me. I asked for some deep breathing, and then I asked them, without interruption, to let Max speak first.
He began to cry again, then composed himself a little and began to say what he wanted to say. He broke down a couple of times, but managed to get it all out, and it went pretty much like this: “I’ve done a lot of bad stuff to people, but this morning was the worst thing I’ve ever done. I was sure I wasn’t going to stay here, so it didn’t matter to me what you thought of me. But then something happened to me that’s never happened before, and I think I’m going to be better now.
“Chris, you said you guys wanted to be my friends, and nobody has ever said that to me. But I don’t know if you’ll ever be my friends now after what I’ve done. I want to stay here and be part of this family, if you’ll have me. Doug, I’ll pay for a new backpack out of my allowance, and I’ll do my share around here. Please let me stay, I’ve never wanted to be somewhere like I want to be here. This is a good place. Please, can we be friends? I want it so bad.” Then he started sobbing as he had done this morning.
The three kids looked nonplussed. They sort of nodded at each other, and when the crying subsided, peacemaker Chris said, “Welcome to the family.” Then he walked over and put his arm around Max’s shoulder. Doug and Buzzy joined them.
“Come on,” somebody said, “Let’s play Battleship.”
Max had demonstrated many symptoms of Reactive Attachment Disorder. Whether he was truly attachment disordered may be subject to interpretation, centering around the fact that such a child would never react to a hug in the way Max did.
I have thought many times of that day — the most astounding turnaround I’ve ever seen. And I reflect how precipitous it was and how close it came to going the other way.
After Doug and Buzzy found permanent homes a year down the road, Max and Chris were still around, and became close friends.
