Ebook and Paperback now available on Amazon.com
Maze Crawler is a riveting and emotional journey through the shadowy bureaucratic underground of the American foster care, educational, mental health and criminal justice systems. Told from the perspective of a mother who will do anything to help her son, Maze Crawler reveals the secrets of a system designed to fail those who need help the most.
What readers are saying about Maze Crawler
A powerful book we can all relate to in one way or another as we each go through the maze we call life. Pam D.
No other book has moved me the way Maze Crawler did. A powerful story of a mother’s unconditional love and unfailing efforts to help her adopted son find help for his emotional and psychological difficulties. A true story like no other. Terry
A beautifully written story that moved me to laughter and tears. A must read for those seeking help for their sons and daughters, students or family members with mental health issues. Amy R.
Excerpts from Maze Crawler
1
I fell into an uneasy doze until a strange sound burned into the depth of my dreams, forcing me to the edge of consciousness. I threw off the covers and sat up, shaking my head to clear it. The strange sound had ceased and the unfamiliar dimensions of the apartment came into focus. I must have had a bad dream, I thought, and swung my cold feet back onto the bed when a scream sent me running for the bedroom.
Cheryl was sitting up in bed, the blankets pulled to her chin, her large dark eyes round and unblinking in the light from the hall. She lifted her hand and pointed to the bed where Mark was thrashing and screaming, uttering piercing cries as if he were fighting something and being wounded by it. I knelt by the side of the bed, but he was kicking and punching so wildly I couldn’t come near him. I finally succeeded in capturing one of his fists in my hands.
“Mark. Mark. Wake up now. You’re having a bad dream. Can you hear me? Mark. It’s just a dream. Wake up now.”
I held his hand and gradually he relaxed, his body soaked with sweat, his mouth open as if gasping for air. I smoothed back his hair and dried his face with the edge of the blanket. He turned on his side, away from me, and I continued to stare at the back of his head for a long time. What was happening inside my little boy that kept him in such a constant state of anxiety? What impulses prompted him to beat against the walls that would hold him in safety? Anger, fear, blind panic, a memory of abuse or abandonment. What? Something was not as it should be within his being, but what? Rising from my knees on the cold floor, exhausted and emotionally spent, I silently promised my son that we would search out the answers together, that I would do everything I could to help him live a normal healthy life.
2
By the time we arrived home, Mark was wound up and five minutes in the small apartment was all I could take of his bouncing off walls. I marched him into the bathroom, filled the tub with warm water, threw in a few bathtub toys and lifted him in. I handed him his little tugboat and watched as the water had its magical, soothing effect. In a few minutes, he was playing calmly and I told him he could stay in the tub a little while longer while I checked on dinner. The bath routine usually gave me time to prepare dinner in peace. I’d call Mark every minute or two to check on him or pop in and out of the bathroom to see if he was okay.
But tonight something was wrong. Mark was too quiet and, when I called his name, he didn’t answer. I raced into the bathroom, slipped on the damp floor and banged my knees into the porcelain tub. Mark was lying face up in the bottom of the tub, the water lapping at his nose and mouth. The skin around his lips was blue, but I could still see his chest rise and fall with each breath. Praying madly, I pulled him out and with one hand, reached for a towel. I wrapped him up and held him close to me, gently shaking him and calling his name. I watched his face as he struggled up from a deep sleep. His eyelids fluttered open. I said a quick prayer of thanksgiving and was about to yell at him for falling asleep in the tub when I saw that his eyes, filled with fear, were fixed on my face.
“Do you love Mark?” he asked. “Is Mark a bad boy?
“I love Mark very much,” I said. “Sometimes Mark does things that upset people, but that doesn’t make him a bad boy.”
His thin arms came around my neck and he pulled my head down for a rare kiss. I held him, rocking back and forth on the damp bathroom floor till the fear in his eyes was replaced by a confidence that everything was alright.
I didn’t want him to know how badly I was shaken, how worried I was about what had just happened. I knew he hadn’t done it on purpose. I knew he could not help so many of the irresponsible actions that formed my everyday fears. But with each day that passed he was becoming more wild, more irresponsible, his behavior less controllable even with the medication. He was neither mean nor malicious, but he was troubled. Surely, somewhere there were answers to his problems, solutions that would help him overcome his difficulties and ease my constant anxiety. Maybe the reason I wasn’t getting the right answers was because I was asking the wrong questions. I just didn’t know who to turn to for help.
3
When I reached home, it was a little after three. Feeling energetic, I ran up the stairs to Mark’s room to tell him about the group I would be forming. The door was partly ajar. I peeked in. Mark was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, a black candle lit before him and he was chanting, strange syllables I could not make out. Unaware of my presence, he continued his ritual and in the half-light of the darkened room, I saw the crucifix above his bed was turned upside down.
I walked into the room calmly ignoring the rage and fear that threatened to paralyze me. At the head of the bed, I righted the crucifix and snapped open the shades. Sunlight flooded the room like a benediction. I knocked the candle over with my foot, stamping out the flame, then kicked it under the bed. Mark looked at me, his eyes furious and filled with a malevolence that started me shivering again.
He jumped to his feet and rushed towards me. I was nearest the door. I ran out, slamming and locking it behind me. I couldn’t remember if his bedroom window was bolted. If he climbed out of it, he could reenter the house by the door. I ran downstairs and locked all the doors from the inside, then sat down on the couch and tried to regain my breath. I was shaking so hard I could not sit. I couldn’t think what to do. Should I call the police? Should I call an ambulance and have them take him to a hospital? Sweat dripped into my eyes mixing with my tears. I wrung my hands until they were raw and cracked. When I could trust myself to speak, I called Doug at work and told him what had happened. From his silence, I could tell he was stunned. He promised to leave work immediately. I told him I did not know where Mark was and that I was afraid to look. I was afraid he would come back and try to hurt me. Doug told me to stay in the house until he came home.
I did not see Mark again for two days though I lived in constant fear of his return. Sunday morning I left the house for the first time. I wanted to go to church and Cheryl had agreed to accompany me. Glancing in my rear view mirror while backing out, I saw him turn up the driveway to the house. He was filthy, his hair in strings around his face, his clothes stained and torn. He looked gaunt, as if he hadn’t eaten for days and his eyes were blood-rimmed and rolling slightly. My first thought was that no one but God could help him now. I jumped out of the car, grabbed him by the arm and hauled him into the front seat. Cheryl jumped into the back.
“What’re you doing?” he said. “I want to go home.”
“After church.”
“I’m not going to church. I can’t go to church. I’ll die if I go there. The Master will punish me. He’ll torture me if I go there.” Mark’s voice rose on a high pitched wail.
“What Master, Mark ? Who are you talking about?”
“The Master of the Gates of Hell. Satan.” He was screaming now, his eyes wild and his hands clutching at the door handle. I parked the car, jumped out and ran around to the passenger door. I had no idea what I was dealing with. All I knew was that I needed a miracle to free my son from whatever torment he was writhing in. I grabbed him by one arm and signaled Cheryl to hold on to the other. In his weakened state, he struggled, but we were able to overpower him and drag him into St. Andrew’s. I chose the last pew, afraid that Mark would make a scene before I could get him to the communion rail. He sat next to me and I could feel him twitching uncontrollably. His eyes were rolled back and his breathing turned hoarse and shallow. I held him in my arms as long as I could, but when he began to wretch, his body heaving convulsively, I ran him out the door. He became violently sick on the lawn. Alone with my son in the shadow of the cross, I prayed to Mary to give me the strength to accept what my child was suffering just as she had accepted the suffering of her own son. With Cheryl’s help I carried Mark’s frail, convulsive body to the car and drove home.
Maze Crawler 