Memories of my foster brother

His name is Charles Dashner, but I always called him Chucky.

Chucky and I grew up together. He slept in the top bunk (and actually fell off it once, I remember). We played baseball in the back yard. He tried to cover up for the time he threw the ball to me and it cracked me in the eye, giving me a heck of a shiner. We argued over who would get the chocolate cake and who would get the strawberry cake for our birthday parties. He was two years older than I was, and he protected me.

Chucky was my brother, my foster brother. One day, he was gone.

To me, it was that quick.

I may have only been 5 years old when the big, bad people in the black car came to take Chucky away. My parents sent me to my room so I wouldn't see it happening, but I sure remember the short time in my life when I had a brother.

Since then, I've been an only child - adopted at that.

I've always admired the fact that my parents were longtime foster parents, stopping finally after Chucky went to ... well, wherever it was they took him. In fact, I also had a foster sister - Michelle - who was taken away earlier and who I can't remember a single thing about. That hurts too - but not as much as when I remember Chucky.

I was in our family's living room when these people came to our front door. It happened very quickly. My mom and dad started talking to them, and my mom turned to tell me to go to my room and she'd call me to come out a little later.

When I came out, Chucky was in those strangers' car, my mom was crying and all I could do was wave, not sure what was happening.

We saw Chucky just once more. Later that summer when I went to register for kindergarten, there was Chucky sitting in the main office.

I walked up to him and we hugged.

I don't remember if I said anything. I don't remember if I cried or if we talked. I don't remember anything else but seeing him sitting alone in that office.

Thirty-five or so years later I have, sitting on my desk, a list of Charles Dashners who live in and around Upstate New York. I want so badly to start calling - maybe I'll find him. Maybe I'll have that brother again that at times I so longed for.

But the papers just sit there. They've been there for months. I've looked at them a few times, but have never been able to strike up the courage to call.

What if I find him?

What will I say?

What happens next? Does he even consider me a brother? I have no idea how many other homes he was in growing up.

So the fear wins out.

For the time being I'll just remember those few events in my early life when I had a brother.

I called him Chucky.

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Henry Miller is assistant managing editor for The Monitor. You can reach him at hmiller@themonitor.com or (956) 683-4431.