A Chance in the World Read online

  PRAISE FOR A Chance in the World

  “A Chance in the World is a must read. Steve Pemberton’s beautifully told story is a rags to riches journey—beginning in a place and with a jarring set of experiences that could have destroyed his life. But Steve’s refusal to give in to those forces, and his resolve to create a better life, shows a courage and resilience that is an example for many of us to follow. He makes us all proud.”

  —STEDMAN GRAHAM, AUTHOR, EDUCATOR, ENTREPRENEUR

  “Pages into this beautifully written story of Steve’s early years, my heart began to sing. I was profoundly moved by his amazing ability, despite his circumstances, to understand and forgive; redeem and reconcile; see possibilities not dead-ends; and begin a-new. Steve’s triumph is a lesson for all of us.”

  —JOHNNETTA BETSCH COLE, PH.D, PRESIDENT EMERITA, SPELMAN COLLEGE AND BENNETT COLLEGE FOR WOMEN

  “A Chance in the World is a fantastic book. As a narrative, it tells the story of a boy who found in books the imaginative ability to see a new, different, and better world. As a history, it unearths a painful and abusive past that, against all odds, forged the character of the wonderful man Steve Pemberton has become. But, most important, the book affirms a set of values central to all of humanity—love, hope, faith, and perseverance. A Chance in the World reminds us of a universal truth: the human spirit is enduring.”

  —RONALD S. SULLIVAN JR., EDWARD R. JOHNSON CLINICAL PROFESSOR OF LAW, HARVARD LAW SCHOOL

  “Unfortunately like so many, Steve Pemberton endured more than his share of hardship as a young child. Yet through true grit and unyielding hard work with a high standard of dignity, Steve has not only become a leader in the business world but also an inspiration to those of all walks of life. Steve’s book A Chance in the World will open one’s heart and leave no doubt on the unconquerable human spirit.”

  —DAVE PELZER, # 1 NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLERA CHILD CALLED “IT,” NATIONAL JEFFERSON AWARD RECIPIENT

  “Steve Pemberton tells the story of an orphan who would not allow the tragedy of his childhood to destroy his spirit or his hope for a happy future. It is his own story and he tells it with honesty and without a trace of self-pity. As he follows the faint and fading trail back to his family, we are given a glimpse of a remarkable young man, uncomplaining and determined. Though horrified by what he was made to endure, in the end we are uplifted by his purity of heart, and rewarded by his success. A Chance in the World teaches us that from bad beginnings can come happy endings.”

  —LARRY LUCCHINO, PRESIDENT AND CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER, BOSTON RED SOX

  “This is a remarkable story of pain, hope and most of all resilience. It is a powerful reminder of the complexity and urgency of the work we must do to keep our children safe, healthy and happy. It is an important book for service providers, policy makers, parents and community leaders concerned about making sure that all children enjoy the safety, security, normality and renewed sense of identity that Steve found.”

  —CHRISTINE L. JAMES-BROWN, CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER, CHILD WELFARE LEAGUE OF AMERICA

  A

  CHANCE

  IN THE

  WORLD

  © 2012, 2018 by Stephen J. Pemberton

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Nelson Books, an imprint of Thomas Nelson. Nelson Books and Thomas Nelson are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  This story is based on true events, but certain names, persons, characters, places, and dates have been changed so that the persons and characters portrayed bear no resemblance to persons actually living or dead.

  Page design by Mandi Cofer.

  ISBN 978-1-4041-8355-1 (TP)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Pemberton, Stephen J., 1967-

  A chance in the world : an orphan boy, a hidden past, and how he found a place called home / Stephen J. Pemberton.

  p. cm.

  Includes bibliographical references and index.

  ISBN 978-1-59555-263-1 (alk. paper)

  1. Orphans—New England—Biography. 2. Foster children—New England— Biography. I. Title.

  HV983.P46 2012

  362.73’3092—dc23

  [B]

  2011017143

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Tonya, Quinn, Vaughn, and Kennedy

  For being greater than my dreams

  For Marian and Kenny

  May this story, and this life, finally bring you peace

  The fullness of life is in the hazards of life. And, at the worst, there is that within us, which can turn defeat into victory.

  —EDITH HAMILTON, REFERRING TO

  THE GREEK DRAMATIST AESCHYLUS

  CONTENTS

  PART 1: AN ORPHAN BOY

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  PART 2: A MYSTERIOUS PAST

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  PART 3: THE JOURNEY HOME

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  PART 1

  AN ORPHAN BOY

  CHAPTER 1

  For decades a recurring memory haunted me. Or was it a dream? It’s early evening, and I am in the backseat of a moving car, on the right-hand side. Another child sits beside me, on my left. Is this child a boy or girl? How old is he? What is her name? I am cold, hungry, and disoriented. In front sit two people, but I cannot tell what they look like. Are they men or women? They are asking me questions, and I am answering them. I sense they are trying to reassure me.

  The car lurches to a stop. We get out and walk into a large brick building. It is incredibly clean, and my feet squeak when I walk. I think I am in a hospital. Why have I been brought here? The other child remains next to me. The two of us stand against the wall while my front-seat companions (who exited the car with us) talk in hushed tones to a woman dressed in white and a strange-looking hat. The three of them then approach us, and the other child is led away by the woman dressed in white. This child looks over his or her shoulder one last time at me. I don’t know why, but I do not want the white-clad woman to take the child. Still, there is nothing I can do to stop her. I feel a hand on my shoulder holding me
in place as they walk out of sight.

  Now we are in the car again, driving. The streetlights whip by, fascinating me. Where am I going? We stop again, and I am hustled into another building whose features I can’t discern. Someone carries me into a room and places me on a bed with a pillow. I have never been warmer and more comfortable in my life. Another woman appears, and the three of them keep saying, “You’re going to be okay now.” I drift off into a peaceful sleep.

  For years these events lived in the gray area between memories and dreams. There were times when I accepted that I was never to know what these images meant and still other times when I believed that if I unpacked them one more time, I would finally unlock their meaning. The sheer persistence of these images haunted me as much as the images themselves. These events have always been with me, part of the poetry of my life, interwoven with first kisses, high school graduation day, college finals, first days on the job, and Lamaze classes.

  One day I learned the truth. These memories were from the day I was taken from my mother.

  I would never see her again.

  CHAPTER 2

  GRUMPY: Ask her who she is, and what she’s doing here!

  DOC: Ah, yes. What are you, and who are you doing here?

  —SNOW WHITE AND THE SEVEN DWARFS (WALT DISNEY)

  As a young boy, and then well into my teens, I would stare long and hard in the mirror, drinking in every detail of my features. I went into the bathroom, locked the door, and turned on the water so the house’s other occupants would believe I was busy. Then, with dramatic anticipation, I would pick up my head from its bowed state and peer into the mirror.

  I started with my curly brown hair that I wore in an Afro. The crowns carried blond tints that would brighten noticeably during the summer. I skipped over my eyes, saving them for last, and proceeded to my strong and prominent forehead. My eyebrows held no real interest for me, although I got distracted from my inspection by trying to raise the right one as well as I could the left. (I still can’t do it.) My nose was straight with no hooks or curves, and my nostrils were flared slightly. My lips were of average size, and on the rare occasions that I smiled, I noticed that the right side of my mouth would turn up ever so slightly. I had brown freckles of various shades under my eyes and on my nose. I also had a habit of tilting my head when I was listening to someone, almost as if I were asking them to pour the information into my ears. My skin was very fair—not white, but close.

  On the fifth finger of my left hand was a small nub, and I held it up to the mirror, turning it this way and that, hoping that a new viewing angle would tell me what it was and where it had come from. On that same hand, I found a circular scar on the tip of my third finger, almost as if my fingerprint had been sliced off and then reattached. More scars appeared on my rib cage and on my left foot. A story had been written on me, and a violent one at that, but it was a tale I neither knew nor understood.

  I ended my regular inspection with my eyes, since these did not seem to match the rest of me at all. They were a deep blue, and I leaned even closer to the mirror to get a better look, my nose nearly touching the glass, my breath leaving a temporary fog. I could discern gold flecks around the pupils with little rivers of blue running from them. I would stare so long and hard into my own eyes that it appeared as if I were observing another person. The effect dizzied me, so I looked away and shook my head to clear the cobwebs.

  This type of examination was not borne of vanity. I was too young to try to determine whether I was handsome or not, or even to care. Nor was I all that interested in determining if I was black or white. I was trying to discover much more important things: Who did I look like? Where had I come from? And most important, where were my mother and father?

  Further compounding the mystery was my last name: Klakowicz. This jumble of vowels and consonants felt alien to me. How had I gotten this name? Where did it come from?

  I stared into that magnificent piece of glass—asking, probing, and demanding. But the mirror always kept its secrets.

  CHAPTER 3

  My only memory of the Andrades, the people who took me in after I was removed from my mother, is not pleasant.

  Several members of the Andrade family are preparing to go somewhere important. People shout, “Are you ready?” and “Let’s go!” Finally, after much hustle and bustle, we stroll out onto the porch. A metal walkway extends from the porch to the sidewalk, and as we begin to move down it, I realize that we are approaching a car.

  I stop dead in my tracks. No way, I think to myself. I am not going. In my four-year-old mind, cars are dangerous because when you get in them, your whole world changes. Unfortunately, I am too young to articulate these fears, and the only way I am going to get in the car is if someone picks me up and carries me.

  They do not do that, though. They do something worse. They leave me on the back porch of the house and drive off. At first I think my ears have betrayed me and that I did not hear the doors slam, the engine start, and the car pull away from the curb. I leave the porch, walk down to where the car had been parked, and an empty space greets me.

  I do not entirely believe that they have left me. I think they are coming right back—that they are just trying to scare me. I stand there on the walkway, listening, turning my head this way and that, hoping the wind will bring the sound of their approaching car, but there is nothing. I cry and yell for help. I beg them to come back. I promise to be a good boy.

  Nothing I say brings them back.

  I walk back down the path to the back porch and sit at the top of the stairs. The porch is not big; it is close to the ground and only has three steps. Yet its familiarity offers a safe haven. Beyond it is something less comforting: a forest of trees that stretches for miles. In that hostile place, shadows lurk and strange sounds echo. I do not dare leave the porch.

  At some point I try the back door, but it is locked. As minutes pass and then hours, anxiety yields to a new emotion: terror. I have been left here—alone. They are not going to return. Daylight turns to dusk. It becomes completely dark. The night birds settle in, and crickets chirp. Additional night sounds ring, surrounding me. I jump at each one and cast furtive glances. I put my fingers in my ears, draw my knees to my chest, and rock back and forth.

  Many hours later, car lights come down the road. A door slams, and I hear footsteps. I stand up.

  A voice off in the distance asks, “Is he still there?”

  The reply comes back, closer to me now, almost chuckling: “He sure is. Never moved from the spot.”

  CHAPTER 4

  In August 1972, eighteen months after I had been placed in the Andrades’ care, the family made a call to the Department of Social Services, requesting that the state take me from their home as soon as possible. When asked why, Mrs. Andrade, the family matriarch, said that she could not arrange for me to go to kindergarten. The social worker assigned to my case doubted this story, believing that Mrs. Andrade simply “did not want to be bothered [with me] anymore.” There was another boy in the home whom she planned to adopt, and he had become the primary source of her attention.

  When the social worker came to get me, I had no belongings and was dressed in shabby clothing. I also had a long list of untreated medical ailments, including an acute case of impetigo and an equally serious ear infection that had impaired my hearing and speech. I was perilously underweight and my nose had been broken. The Department of Social Services had paid only one visit to the home during the past eighteen months. After seeing my physical condition, the department shut down the Andrade home, removing the other boy chosen over me, and forbidding them from taking any more children. I have no memory of leaving the Andrades, and I doubt they shed any tears over my departure.

  CHAPTER 5

  I do not recall where I went after I left the Andrades, nor can I remember how much time had passed. But one warm summer afternoon when I was five, I found myself in a car with Patti Southworth, my latest social worker. We drove for a while before t
he car pulled up to a curb. She shut off the car, turned to me, and said, “Now, Steve, we are going to visit the Robinson family. I think you are going to like this place.”

  “Will this be a real home with a real daddy?” I asked.

  “We’ll see,” Patti said, stepping out of the vehicle.

  I yearned for a new home, a place where the family actually wanted to keep me. I also wanted to know about my original family, particularly my mother. Where was she? When was she coming to get me? The myriad social workers responsible for my case knew the answer, but they never told me. Several mentioned in my case file that I still felt a strong emotional connection to my family. One observed that, despite my quiet demeanor, I had some “very deep thoughts about my future.”

  I stepped out of the car and gazed up at the largest building I had ever seen. It was white with green trim on the outside. It seemed to stretch up forever. An iron fence surrounded the house, and a screened-in porch wrapped around the first level.

  We walked up a small flight of cement stairs. Patti rapped on the white door and was greeted by a sweet, melodic voice: “Come in.”

  We walked into a very small kitchen and then into a larger room. Standing there to greet us was Betty Robinson, a short, heavyset, caramel-brown-complexioned African American woman with big brown eyes, perfect teeth, and a blinding smile that warmed my soul.

  “What is your name?” Betty asked, bending down so that she was near eye level with me.

  “Steve.”

  “Now, that is a nice name,” she said, stepping back. I said nothing to this, but inside I was glowing.

  “Do you like toys?” Betty asked.

  I nodded my head yes, and Betty, who never seemed to stop smiling, pointed me to a plastic set of cowboys and Indians laid out on the carpet. I bent down and began playing while Patti sat in a chair opposite Betty. They talked in quiet tones. My ears perked up when I heard Patti say, “Still asks a lot about his mother . . . not ready to tell him about that yet.”