Prisoners of Hope

By Beth Nelson

This book is true but altered stories of young people dealing with the bondage of drugs. I would like for young and old to see that we can all be delivered from bondage, not just drugs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491816646

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© 2013 Beth Nelson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  9/30/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1663-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1664-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013916227

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Table of Contents

Fore-Word

Chapter 1   Mountain Acres

Chapter 2   Juliet Costanza

Chapter 3   Day After Visitors Day

Chapter 4   Justin Bettencourt

Chapter 5   Juliet Costanza

Chapter 6   Althea Montez

Chapter 7   Tom Parnett

Chapter 8   Brandy Haight

Chapter 9   The Walkaway

Chapter 10   Vangie Cortez

Chapter 11   Rhea’s Graduation

Chapter 12   Covenant House

Chapter 13   Revisiting Mountain Acres-Justin

Chapter 14   Tempted to Despair

Chapter 15   Works in Progress

Thanks to Nicholas L’Heureux for cover design; to Angie Nelson and Mark Nelson for editorial and technological assistance. And Kalei Fontaine for Juliet’s art-work.

Fore-Word

This book is a piece of my heart that I pray in some way will manifest a glimmer of His Sonlight, the love of God the Father and the leading of the indwelling Holy Spirit-especially to the beautiful young people who find themselves caught in the bonds of the devil. There is much pain and anger in this world and it seems like our dear young people are left without a moral compass to deal with the pain and abuse and sorrow that buffets them every day and causes them to seek release and highs to alleviate the emptiness and often bitterness. I pray that these true, but somewhat altered stories will help to release those in bondage (and most of us are in bondage to something—or have been—I have a constant battle with my tongue) to realize that God had such a great love for us that He sent His only Son to die that we might be delivered from bondage and walk with joy and peace with Him and with victory—at least part of the time—that when we fall, we get up, confess our sins and go on with Him. 1 John 4: 10-20. 1 John 1:9 If we confess our sins He is faithful and just to forgive our sins and to cleanse us from all iniquity.

Chapter One

Mountain Acres

The two counselors assessed one another across the small pine office desk. Helga Nordstrom, the old-timer, thought once more, This is one of those religious nuts, but she wears it with humor and genuine caring. She recalled what Peter Crown the director had said when she expressed this thought to him, Unless she’s full of *. Only he had said the word. That’s what Ellen Plaistow did to you—you thought in asterisks. You knew she would never say anything inappropriate—intentionally. But the kids would call her the way she was. There was no * them.

Ellen Plaistow, the green recruit, felt that the attractive woman sitting across from her was the consummate counselor. Her hazel eyes were direct and honest—her smile wide and welcoming. Her long thick dark blonde hair was pulled into a knot at the top of her head giving her a neat professional appearance. She was wearing a green and pale gold paisley shirt with cream color slacks. She was the picture of poised efficiency, but Ellen had noticed that when the young adults (aka.teenage addicts) addressed her, it was with affection, respect and sometimes teasing—to which Helga often responded in kind. However, Ellen recognized that Helga Nordstrom personified something that she could never achieve—a balance of caring and authority. What was she doing here?

The new recruit had barely assimilated the neat, but small office with filing cabinets on either side, a large erasable bulletin board with a list of names, numbers (which she was to learn were room numbers) and brief messages accompanying each name, such as the words neatly printed by Tom’s name, No movie Fri. pm. Ellen wondered what Tom had done—or had not done. A comfortable rocking chair with brightly covered cushions had its own niche out of view of the residents. It faced a wall which was filled with maxims such as, One day at a time, or Help, Lord, we feel as powerless as our kids! or Get off your butt and hug a kid!

Sounds like it can be frustrating? Ellen grinned wryly at the open faced woman across from her who smiled contagiously.

Can be—but rewarding too. We are so glad to have you with us. Our first instincts were more than borne out by your references. We have a lot to cover and you have several other staff to meet with as well as an instructional video to watch so you have a busy day.

And I suspect you won’t be sitting around much! Does anyone ever sit in the rocker? It looks pristine! Ellen motioned toward the comfortable looking chair.

Helga laughed. Looks are deceiving. Marta our gal of all work just covered those pillows—they were pretty beat up. That’s the ranting and raving chair—or some staff call it the crying and cussing chair. Almost everyone uses it at least once a week—if only to throw the cushions across the room. Working here is very rewarding, but it is very stressful as you’ll find. Each of us needs to take time each day to unwind if possible and regain perspective—to read a book, listen to music, walk around the building—maybe to cry. You’ll soon find your own means of release of tension.

At that moment Helga turned toward the door which was at her right probably ten to twelve feet away where four young people stood gazing through the glass with beseeching smiles upon their faces. The foremost was a tall somewhat overweight young woman with a mass of kinky black hair pulled to the top of her head in a knot. A narrow yellow headband could not restrain the escaping curls which rioted at her ears and nape. There were dimples on either corner of her wide mouth and Ellen recalled her mother telling her when she was around five that there was a special angel who put dimples in special children’s cheeks or chins,. Ellen had asked, Why can’t all girls have them—you said, ‘We’re all special?’

Ellen’s plump mother had hugged her little girl to her with a laugh and said, Because the other girls get blonde curls or a strong determined character or red hair and freckles. Ellen’s mom had red hair and freckles and no dimples—and no one could be more special than her mom—so she could live with that answer. If her mom were looking down from heaven right now she would love Althea Montez—or Thea as Helga described the vibrant young woman gazing at them with her laughing brown eyes. She didn’t look as though she had suffered one dark day in her life, but Helga had whispered that she had lived through unspeakable things.

To Thea’s left was an even taller lanky young man with a bristling shock of black wavy hair surrounding his pale face. Almost coal color laughing eyes accompanied his also smiling mouth. Even behind the glass of the upper part of the door he exuded charm. A short muscular fellow with sandy hair stood to his left. His cerulean blue eyes were remote and there was not even a shadow of a smile on his thin-lipped mouth. An even smaller girl with blonde hair streaked with a variety of colors (Ellen learned later there were twenty) was barely visible. From what Ellen could see she had piercings in her nostril, lower lip and three in her ears. Ellen wondered whether piercings were painful, but had no desire to find out by experience.

These young adults look so—normal—so beautiful, the recruit mused. But what had she expected alcohol and drug abusers to look like? To have horns on their heads or tails sprouting from their backs? These throw away children. Certainly not these vibrant beautiful people.

Helga chuckled sympathetically, her hazel eyes meeting Ellen’s blue ones with humor and understanding. Ellen dropped her own eyes with embarrassment, feeling that her new mentor had read her mind. It’s ok, Ellen, that’s what I thought also when I came here four years ago when this place opened. I thought they’d have two heads or at least appear deformed in some way—but it’s only their souls that are deformed—and much of the time that is done to them rather than by them—and there are mucho deformed souls in so-called respected citizens. In the lounge—where they are right now, they are gender specific at all times except at leisure time—cards or free art. At Ellen’s questioning expression, Helga explained, Boys with boys—girls with girls. Makes things a bit easier with their raging hormones, but difficult to enforce.

Ellen laughed sheepishly. I hope you won’t always be able to read my mind! She wondered once more what she was doing here. She had quit her job that she loved as a residential aide with five wonderful old people (she mentally apologized to the pc police, ‘Excuse me, senior citizens. I’m almost one myself!’) because she was exhausted from working so many hours. She also wanted to be closer to home as the price of gasoline was escalating weekly. Had about hit 4.00 per gallon a short time before. Did you tell me there were six residents at this time?

Ellen had been confident that the Lord would provide her with some senior citizens in her area who needed a care-giver as He had before, but days and weeks dragged by with none materializing and the bills still filled the mailbox each week. When her friend Alyce had said, You ought to apply at Mountain Acres, Ellen had laughed. She had heard of the diversionary rehab which was located at the top of a steep curving dirt road when it had opened just five miles away from her home.

There had been a great deal of controversy and quite a few letters to the editor from people who did not want, druggies and people who break into old people’s trailers to steal things to get money for drugs, as neighbors. They did not want the comparatively bucolic town disturbed by, riff-raff who might be noisy and detract from the class of the neighborhood.

What do I know about alcoholics or drug abusers? she asked her friend. Besides I’m too old. Ellen had quickly put the suggestion aside. She was almost seventy (a well-preserved lively and disciplined seventy, of course), a pastor’s daughter who had never heard profanity—nor had she seen smoking or drinking until she was in her thirties. She would have nothing in common with these young people.

However, as time had passed with no job offer and she was still addressing the Lord several times daily saying, Lord, You have a place for me to be. Please show me where it is before my phone is shut off, she recalled her friend’s comment, Ellen, you don’t have to have experienced drug and alcohol, you only have to have a caring heart and common sense. You have such a big heart of love and compassion. Many of them have never known this kind of unconditional love. You ought to apply.

So, since there were no job opportunities within walking distance—which is what she really wanted—she had applied—almost as a lark—certainly not expecting to be hired. Meeting the friendly eyes of Helga Nordstrom, Ellen recalled the instant rapport she had felt with the friendly counselor and her co-worker, Andy Magellan, who was a tall dark haired woman with rosy cheeks and dimples, who had interviewed her just three days before. Their questions had been to the point with sincerity and humor. Her instinct was that they would be friendly and helpful to work with.

She had not met any of the residents at that time as they had all been in clinical group session at which they could not be disturbed. They had informed her that it was a small community right now—only six—but that there were often fifteen to seventeen young people and that there would be a larger community in April and May.

Helga’s crisp words penetrated Ellen’s wandering thoughts. She was turning the pages of what appeared to be the Mountain Acres policy manual. Yes, Juliet is on a day pass with her parents. She will probably be leaving in a week or two. Have you met with Marta and Valerie yet to discuss confidentiality and terms of employment?

Once more Ellen flushed with embarrassment, sure that Helga had known she was wool-gathering as her mother would have called her inattention. With Marta, yes. I’m only working Fridays, Saturdays and Mondays for awhile—until I get rested up from my last job. I had so much responsibility and long hours alone quite a bit—my choice—I loved it, but I’m getting old, she grinned deprecatingly. I haven’t met with Valerie yet and Marta was stressing how important confidentiality is.

The tall dark haired young man rapped sharply on the window, mouthing the words, Can’t you give us some bread and peanut butter, Helga? We’re hungry. You don’t want us to pass out during * volley ball or group, do you?

Helga pushed her chair away from the desk and stood up slowly, addressing Ellen at the same time, Addicts are the ultimate con artists. They have spent their entire addictive time in drama and getting what they want from the people around them. She picked up a large bowl of fruit from the recessed shelf behind Ellen. They have a snack at ten-thirty am, at break during school hours in the a.m. and at four-thirty p.m. we give them fruit to hold them until dinner at five-thirty. Occasionally we have fellows and girls with eating disorders—anorexia or bulimia—or a combination of the two. We think Juliet may purge after lunch, but are not sure.

As she crossed the floor to the door she said, Residents are never allowed in the office. The door is kept locked when no-one is on the unit. They can have things from their, ‘boxes,’ which Ellen learned were the pink plastic basins which came home from the hospital with discharged patients, in the am until 9:00 o’clock and after 1:30 pm. They will use every con in the book to get things from you—especially as you are new.

While Helga was unlocking the door and allowing the residents to choose fruit, Ellen appraised the snacks on the recessed shelf—several large plastic canisters of cereal

(she soon learned that toasted oats and raisin bran were the favorites as their shapes could be used in so many creative ways—blown with small thin pieces of paper inserted in the toasted o’s—no sharp items such as toothpicks were allowed as they could be used as weapons or instruments of self-abuse), long loaves of wheat and white bread and individual packets of peanut butter and jelly. In the cupboard underneath were a variety of juices,