The Forgotten

“The house was originally built in 1856. It used to be a plantation and regularly traded goods at the harbour in New Orleans. Once we acquired it we did extensive renovations and additions to suit the needs of the program that’s been developed for here.” The man with the suit and tie droned on; I felt like slitting my wrists.

“There are currently three wings to it.” He continued, apparently enjoying the fact that the twelve people that were trailing along behind him had to listen to his monologue. “The west wing,” he gestured with his left hand toward what looked like a living room. A large steel fire door was visible on the far wall. “Houses the gym and a suite for one individual.”

He continued on like that for a half an hour, talking about the three safe rooms, basically padded rooms for “secure isolation”, and the two mechanical restraint rooms, which each housed one vicious looking bed with five point restraints. The main part of the house, which suit-man called “The Hub”, had rooms for three individuals, the ones that required the most care, as the staff office was also there. The east wing housed another large suite for one individual and the basement had another two bedrooms, for individuals that didn't require as much supervision. The basement also had a large common area, as well as laundry facilities, the food storage room and a couple of offices for the program manager, assistant program manager, and the behaviour therapists.

I glanced over to our program manager now, we had two, but he was supposedly the lead manager. He was shortish, maybe 5’8”, and a little on the chubby side, he had drab, brown hair and scared looking brown eyes. He also looked like a kid, maybe 24 or 25 years old. I sighed, maybe I was too old to be getting into a new career now. I was only 40, that wasn’t too old, was it?

I had just completed a two year physical rehabilitation program after being nearly killed in an IED attack in Afghanistan. I am a Marine, and proud of it. For twenty years, I served in uniform, and I had retired as Gunnery Sergeant Joshua Stone, though everyone, even my parents and big brother, call me Gunny.

I was originally born in Pigeon, Michigan, a small town by most people’s standards but big enough to carry the manufacturing plants that my father owned, which provided most of the prefab parts used in the car manufacturing industry in Detroit. I grew up knowing that I would never want for money, but my father, bless his soul, ensured that my older brother, Mike, and I earned every little thing that we got. By the time I was fifteen I was paying rent and earning an allowance, I had a job, working at the plant, and I had chores to do at home. Unless I was sick, if I didn’t do my chores, I didn’t get paid.

So what, you may ask, caused a Marine Gunnery Sergeant from a small northern Michigan town to end up in the Big Easy? The answer is really quite simple, I love jazz and I love food. New Orleans has the best of both, so here I am.

When I was released from the hospital and given my Honourable Discharge papers I wasted no time in moving to the home of Dixieland Jazz. I bought an old home from the early 1800s on White Street just south of Esplanade Avenue in Bayou St. John, right in the middle of New Orleans. I was continuing my rehabilitation there at River Oaks hospital, and the work that was needed on the house helped with that. With the help of my father, who said he would give me the money as long as I got a job, I was able to buy it outright, with no mortgage.

During my time in the service I got my degree in psychology, and during my rehabilitation I worked on my Masters in Psychology. I was never sure what I would do with those degrees, but I enjoyed the classes. During that time I also met another vet, who volunteered at the hospital where I was rehabilitating. He was a former Marine Captain, and he invited me out to a “men’s group” that he was running out of his house. I laugh about it now, but I was pretty mad at him that he hadn’t told me that it was a Bible study.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t have come!” Craig Dorman said to me as I left the house.

“I probably wouldn’t have!” I shot back at him.

“And now?”

I thought for a moment, all of the men in the group were vets from as far back as Vietnam and as new as Afghanistan. We all shared a common bond, and I implicitly trusted them, merely because of that bond. Opening up a couple times about my own combat experiences had made me feel better, and the Bible stuff wasn’t too “Bible Thumpy”.

“When’s the next meeting?” I said with a crooked grin.

After my physical rehab was over, I was attending the Truth Church in the French Quarter twice a week and meeting with my friend, Craig Dorman once a week at the men’s group. It was after church one day that Craig mentioned Grace Homes, a Christian non-profit that managed group homes for people with developmental and psychiatric challenges. He had worked for them for a couple years and he mentioned that they were opening a new home north of New Orleans by the shores of Lake Pontchartrain. He said the job would be perfect for me. He also mentioned that he would be working there part time, as he tried to finish his masters in theology.

So now I stood on the back deck of what would soon be known as Matthew 1, the first fully functional Intensive Treatment Home run by Grace Homes. The backyard was huge, and surrounded by a six foot high stone wall, topped with a four foot high chain link fence.

I pointed at the wall and fence combo. “Is that to keep clients in, or intruders out?”, I joked.

“A little of both,” the suit that had been leading the tour chuckled. I never did get his name and I never saw him again after that day. “This project is very important to Grace Homes, and no expense has been spared to ensure the safety of the clients, or the community.”

“So some of the clients will be dangerous?” Sue Vaughan asked. The only reason I recognized her is because she was one of only two female full time staff working directly on the floor with the clients.

“There will be six clients here.” Sonya Lippert said. She was one of the behaviour therapists. I remembered her from a staff meet and greet luncheon that was held the day before. “We have them classified from moderately dangerous to extremely dangerous,” she added, as if she were mentioning the sunny day.

Only full time staffs were required to attend the tour, but Craig had made the time to come up with me from the city. He leaned in close and smiled. “At least they won’t be shooting at us,” he whispered.

“Hoo Rah, Cap.” I smiled back.

Roger Trainor cleared his throat. “I just have a couple words. Then you can explore the house again and familiarize yourself with it.” He looked at everyone and smiled shyly. “Tina Booth is my Assistant Program Manager, she’ll be handling any staff training, scheduling and other human resources issues that may arise. I’ll be dealing with all aspects of budgeting, including house and client financial issues. I'll also be approving all treatment plans that come from the behaviour therapists. Treatment plans will be handled by our two behaviour therapists, Sonya Lippert and Thomas Borderman. All treatment plans have to be signed off by me, so you can be assured that if you see a treatment memo by them, I’ve signed off that it meets all the criteria of Grace Homes protocols.”

“Quick question.” I said, raising my hand.

Roger looked at me, confused for a moment, and then realized that I was waiting for permission to speak.

“Go ahead, Josh.” I was impressed he remembered my name.

“If this program is the first of its kind, then how can there be accurate protocols for it?”

Roger nodded. “Good question,” he said with a smile. “Grace Home’s head office has been working on this program for six years or so, deciding where to build, and what kind of modifications would need to be done. Staffing and treatment protocols had to be created virtually from scratch. A whole lot of doctors and behavioural experts were brought in to give advice and recommendations to the committee that made those protocols. Trust me; there is no lack of planning in this program.”

The response seemed to have been recited from a script, I nodded politely. Roger smiled and invited us to explore the house. Craig and I wandered out into the main wing living room.

“What’s up, Gunny?” Craig asked.

“Know what the one thing that’s true of any plan?” I said.

Craig nodded. “It never survives first contact.”