normal circumstances, I’d have Jenny here to help me navigate this kind of digital research. Today, I was hunting and pecking search engines on my own. Not that I had to look far. The North River Institute was the top result.
Most of the press featured glowing testimonials from parents. I had to scroll a few pages before I found a disparaging word, a couple malcontents in a chat room. Then again, it’s hard to lodge a complaint when they don’t let you out. The real grievances didn’t come till several pages later, allegations of physical and sexual abuse buried way beyond the electronic breakers.
The institute pitched itself as an alternative to incarceration, bullet points cramming in as many loaded keywords as possible (Therapeutic, Reparenting, Intensive). In between the testimonials and touted success rates, including an 80 percent “satisfaction with life” for those who completed the program, whatever the hell that meant, the phrase “behavior modification” caught my attention.
I may’ve been suckered in by party lines if not for personal history. My brother Chris was as far gone an addict as they come. In the end, he didn’t care about his life circling the drain, and I didn’t have much sympathy for his lame, failed attempts at sobriety. After so long in the wasteland, my brother had quit quitting before he walked through hospital doors. But early on I’d tried to get him cleaned up, and he’d at least gone through the motions. In those days there was a certain kind of facility that scared even me.
One of the counselors gave it to me straight in private. “They will tear you down to build you back up.” He explained the strict regiments and controversial techniques critics called brainwashing. “But, frankly,” he said, “some of these brains could use a little washing. Reformed addicts who know the game police these houses. They will call you out on the BS and aren’t afraid to put a man in his place.”
I remembered driving through the gates to check Chris into one of these facilities, taking a look at the jacked-up, ex-con trustees and tatted enforcers, arms crossed and glowering in the doorway, and I turned the truck around.
Maybe I should’ve let those guys have a run at Chris. Maybe he’d still be alive if I had. I just knew my brother, how he responded to that kind of pressure. Like a sow bug. Slightest bit of pressure and he’d curl in a ball. Besides, I didn’t know then what I know now. I’d thought I was protecting him. Dealing with adult addicts isn’t thesame as teenagers. Right? And North River wasn’t a rehab, not in the strict, official sense. As I read through the courthouse copies, I saw more often than not, drugs were involved. The blog girl, a rare exception. There were almost always multiple infractions. An initial charge, for say shoplifting or truancy, would then be augmented with possession, distribution, public intoxication, proximity to a school, some drug-related case that made rehab a feasible and reasonable option.
Donna Olisky hadn’t contacted me since last Friday. At first I’d been grateful to be let off the hook. Now that dots weren’t connecting, I wasn’t so sure. Despite DeSouza’s expressly forbidding contact with the Oliskys, I had to know the real reason for the change of heart. Why would a mother go from worried parent to willing participant in the sentencing of her son to somewhere like North River? There had to be a more logical explanation. Unable to reach Donna at home, I checked the clock on the microwave, and tried her at work. A friendly “Welcome to We Copy!” quickly turned sour when I mentioned my name.
“How can I help you, Mr. Porter?”
The return of “Mr. Porter” felt stiff and needlessly formal, but whatever; I forged ahead. “I’m just checking in, Mrs. Olisky.”
“About what?”
I wanted to say, What the hell do you think? But instead, I took the high road. “How is Brian? I wasn’t able to speak with him
Most of the press featured glowing testimonials from parents. I had to scroll a few pages before I found a disparaging word, a couple malcontents in a chat room. Then again, it’s hard to lodge a complaint when they don’t let you out. The real grievances didn’t come till several pages later, allegations of physical and sexual abuse buried way beyond the electronic breakers.
The institute pitched itself as an alternative to incarceration, bullet points cramming in as many loaded keywords as possible (Therapeutic, Reparenting, Intensive). In between the testimonials and touted success rates, including an 80 percent “satisfaction with life” for those who completed the program, whatever the hell that meant, the phrase “behavior modification” caught my attention.
I may’ve been suckered in by party lines if not for personal history. My brother Chris was as far gone an addict as they come. In the end, he didn’t care about his life circling the drain, and I didn’t have much sympathy for his lame, failed attempts at sobriety. After so long in the wasteland, my brother had quit quitting before he walked through hospital doors. But early on I’d tried to get him cleaned up, and he’d at least gone through the motions. In those days there was a certain kind of facility that scared even me.
One of the counselors gave it to me straight in private. “They will tear you down to build you back up.” He explained the strict regiments and controversial techniques critics called brainwashing. “But, frankly,” he said, “some of these brains could use a little washing. Reformed addicts who know the game police these houses. They will call you out on the BS and aren’t afraid to put a man in his place.”
I remembered driving through the gates to check Chris into one of these facilities, taking a look at the jacked-up, ex-con trustees and tatted enforcers, arms crossed and glowering in the doorway, and I turned the truck around.
Maybe I should’ve let those guys have a run at Chris. Maybe he’d still be alive if I had. I just knew my brother, how he responded to that kind of pressure. Like a sow bug. Slightest bit of pressure and he’d curl in a ball. Besides, I didn’t know then what I know now. I’d thought I was protecting him. Dealing with adult addicts isn’t thesame as teenagers. Right? And North River wasn’t a rehab, not in the strict, official sense. As I read through the courthouse copies, I saw more often than not, drugs were involved. The blog girl, a rare exception. There were almost always multiple infractions. An initial charge, for say shoplifting or truancy, would then be augmented with possession, distribution, public intoxication, proximity to a school, some drug-related case that made rehab a feasible and reasonable option.
Donna Olisky hadn’t contacted me since last Friday. At first I’d been grateful to be let off the hook. Now that dots weren’t connecting, I wasn’t so sure. Despite DeSouza’s expressly forbidding contact with the Oliskys, I had to know the real reason for the change of heart. Why would a mother go from worried parent to willing participant in the sentencing of her son to somewhere like North River? There had to be a more logical explanation. Unable to reach Donna at home, I checked the clock on the microwave, and tried her at work. A friendly “Welcome to We Copy!” quickly turned sour when I mentioned my name.
“How can I help you, Mr. Porter?”
The return of “Mr. Porter” felt stiff and needlessly formal, but whatever; I forged ahead. “I’m just checking in, Mrs. Olisky.”
“About what?”
I wanted to say, What the hell do you think? But instead, I took the high road. “How is Brian? I wasn’t able to speak with him
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