A Link to the Past
by Laurie Larsen
When I was
twelve years old, my parents pursued a long-time dream to provide a stable
family life to a disadvantaged older child.
In the summer of 1974, we welcomed
a seven-year old boy into our family. My
new brother Scott was a beautiful child. With
sandy blonde hair and blue eyes, he had a physical likeness to me and we
immediately developed a bond. I had
never been a big sister before and I liked my new role.
It wasn't
easy. Scott's background as an
abused and neglected child ensured a troubled future.
He had learning disabilities, behavioral problems and a history of
experiences that seven-year olds shouldn't have to endure, which tainted his
view of the world.
Throughout
Scott's childhood, he tried to come to grips with his past and the hand Life had
dealt him. He tried to fit into our
family and become a child who felt loved, confident about his abilities and his
future. But the atrocities he'd
suffered at the hands of his biological parents were too strong to forget.
Bedtime was
his enemy. He insisted on sleeping
with his light on, as if darkness was a curtain that his enemies could hide
behind, then sneak up on him in his sleepy vulnerability.
As Scott's
short life continued, it became more and more difficult for him to function in
normal society. Punching a teacher, getting kicked out of school, attending a
military academy, petty theft and spending time in jail were all on his plate
before the age of 18.
When Scott
was 18 he decided he needed a fresh start.
He moved to Chicago, got a job at a florist shop, and secured an
apartment which he shared with a co-worker.
In correspondence he sent to me he said that he felt he was finally
getting his life back on track. He
was working towards his G.E.D., considering college later on, and working hard
at his job. He said he knew that
our family loved him, and if he'd recognized that at an earlier age, his present
life would be quite different.
On a cold
evening in January of 1986, Scott's life came to an unspeakable end.
He walked to the bus station to meet his girlfriend who had come to visit
for the weekend. On their stroll
back to his apartment, they noticed a dark figure following them in the shadows. When Scott reached his front door and inserted the key, the
stranger materialized and shot him three times in the back.
Scott's body slumped against the door, his weight pushing it
open and he landed inside his apartment.
He died an hour later at the hospital.
The call
came at two in the morning. I remember coming home after a date and I found it
odd that the lights were on. My
first impulse was the thought that my parents were waiting up for me, which
annoyed me a little since I was an "independent" 24-year old.
The news came like a baseball bat in the stomach.
Driving 2 1/2 hours in the middle of the night to identify your son's
body at the Chicago morgue is something a mother should never have to do.
Now that
eleven birthdays have passed, and eleven anniversaries of his death, the murder
has become one of those events in life that you just have to accept, or go
crazy. The fact that the killer
went to the police, confessed and led them to the murder weapon, not to mention
an eye witness, made us confident that we had an iron-clad case to put him away
for life. A technicality, the
police not reading him his rights, became the loophole the murderer stepped
through, big enough to land him right back on the streets, free to kill again.
This spring
my parents were contacted by a woman from the adoption agency we worked with to
obtain Scott in 1974. Unknown to us
and to Scott himself, Scott's biological mother had numerous other children,
most of whom she also abandoned at some point in their lives.
One sibling, a half-sister named Debra born in 1960, seven years before
Scott, had been doing some research into her family tree and discovered some
information about him. She
contacted the adoption agency, who wanted my parents to share information and
stories of Scott's life with them, which they would pass on to Debra.
Debra was
one of the lucky ones ... her father loyally kept the child who was abandoned by
her mother and gave her a happy, healthy childhood.
She appreciated knowing everything my parents shared about our lives with
Scott. Although she'll never have
the chance to get to know him, she feels a sense of closure in knowing his
story.
What kind of mother can abandon her child? What kind of person makes mistakes over and over again without learning from the consequences? What kind of parent doesn't realize that their selfish actions will ensure a tragic life for their offspring? What kind of parent realizes, but doesn't care?