“Nick!” Again those cries, that word, both familiar and alien-sounding, like the cry of a bird calling from the woods.
I slip inside the gates and run, blinking away rain, swallowing down the taste of salt, and cut right, sloshing through puddles that have materialized on the sloping pathways. A minute later the gate clangs again; the voices pursue me, overlapping now, drumming down on the sound of the rain.
“Nick, please. Nick, wait.”
There: in the distance, through the trees, a flickering light. A flashlight? My chest is tight with a feeling I can’t name, a terror of something to come, like that moment Dara and I hung suspended, gripping hands, while our headlights called up an image of a sharp rock face.
RIP, Dara.
Impossible.
“Dara!” My voice gets swallowed up by the rain. “Dara! Is that you?”
“Nick!”
Closer now—I need to get away, need to show them, need to find Dara. I push into the trees, taking the shortcut, following that phantom light, which seems to pause and then be extinguished at the foot of the Gateway to Heaven, like a candle flame suddenly snuffed out. Leaves lap like thick tongues against my bare arms and face. Mud sucks at my sandals, splatters the back of my calves. A bad storm. A once-in-a-summer storm.
“Nick. Nick. Nick.” Now the word is just a meaningless chant, like the chatter of the rain through the leaves.
“Dara!” I cry. Once again, my voice is absorbed by the air. I push out of the trees onto the walkway that leads to the foot of the Gateway, where the passenger car is still grounded, concealed by a heavy blue tarp. People are shouting, calling to one another.
I turn around. Behind me, a rapid pattern of lights flashes through the trees, and I think then of a lighthouse beam sweeping through the dark sea, of Morse code, of warning signals. But I can’t understand the message.
I turn back to the Gateway. It was here I saw a distant light, I’m sure of it; it was here that Dara came.
“Dara!” I scream as loud as I can, my throat raw from the effort. “Dara!” My chest feels as if it has been filled with stones: hollow and heavy at the same time, and that truth is still knocking there, threatening to drown me, threatening to take me down with it.
Rest in peace, Dara.
“Nick!”
Then I see it: a twitch, a movement beneath the tarp, and relief breaks in my chest. All along this was a test, to see how far I would go, how long I would play.
All along, she’s been here, waiting for me.
I’m running again, breathless with relief, crying now but not because I’m sad—because she’s here and I found her and now the game is over and we can go home, together, at last. In one corner, the tarp has been loosened from its anchors—smart Dara, to have found a place to hide out from the rain—and I climb over the rusted metal siding and slide beneath the tarp into the dark between the cracked old seats. Instantly I’m hit by the smell: of bubble gum and old hamburgers, bad breath and dirty hair.
And then I see her. She scurries backward, as if worried that I’ll hit her. Her flashlight clatters to the ground, and the metal carriage vibrates in response. I freeze, afraid to move, afraid she’ll startle away.
Not Dara. Too small to be Dara. Too young to be Dara.
And even before I pick up the flashlight and click it on, illuminating a covering of Twinkie wrappers and crushed soda cans, of empty Milky Way wrappers and hamburger buns, all the things raccoons were supposed to have been stealing the past few days; even before the light laps the toes of her pink-and-purple slippers and slips up toward her Disney princess pajama bottoms and finally lands on that heart-shaped face, wide-eyed and pale, the stringy mess of blond hair, the pale blue eyes—even before the voices are on top of us and the tarp disappears so that the sky can fall down on us directly—even before then, I know.
“Madeline,” I whisper, and she whimpers or sighs or exhales; I can’t tell which. “Madeline Snow.”
www.theRealTeen.com
Feature: It Happened to Me!
Someone Sold My Topless Pics Online
by: Sarah Snow
as told to Megan Donahue
“All I remember is waking up with no idea about how I’d gotten home . . . and no idea about what had happened to my sister.”
My best friend, Kennedy, and I were hanging out at the mall one Saturday when this guy came up to us, telling us we were both really pretty and asking whether we were models. At first I thought he was just hitting on us. He was maybe twenty-four and pretty cute. He said his name was Andre.
Then he said he owned a bar in East Norwalk called Beamer’s and asked whether we wanted to make money just for showing up at parties. [Editor’s note: Andrew “Andre” Markenson was the manager of Beamer’s up until his recent arrest; the legitimate owners, Fresh Entertainment LLC, were quick to disclaim any knowledge of and to condemn Mr. Markenson’s activities.] At first it sounded sketchy, but he told us that there would be other girls there and we wouldn’t have to do anything besides pass out shots and act friendly and collect tips. He seemed so nice and just, you know, normal. It was easy to trust him.
The first parties were just like he said. All we had to do was dress cute and walk around handing out drinks and be nice to the guys who showed up, and after a few hours we’d walk out with as much as two hundred bucks. We couldn’t believe it.
There were always other girls working, usually four or five on a shift. I didn’t know a lot about them, except I think they must have been in high school, too. But Andre had been careful about telling us we had to be eighteen, even though he never asked for proof, so I always figured he kind of knew we were underage but was just going to pretend as long as we pretended, too.
I do remember this girl, Dara Warren. She stuck out to me because she died in a car crash only a few days after one of the parties. Then the weird thing is that her sister, Nicole, is the one who found Maddie [Editor’s note: Madeline Snow, whose disappearance on July 19 launched a major, county-wide investigation] after she ran away. Crazy, right?
Anyway, Andre always seemed really nice and would tell us all about his life, how he also produced music videos and was a talent scout for TV shows and stuff, even though now I know those were all lies. He sometimes picked a girl to make food runs with him and would come back with burgers and fries for all the girls. He had a really nice car. And he would always give us compliments, tell us we were pretty enough to be models or actresses. Now I know he was just trying to earn our trust.
In April and May and into June there were no parties. I don’t know why. Maybe because of cops or something? At the time, he just told us he was busy with some other projects and hinted he was going to be helping cast for a TV show soon. That was a lie, too.
But at the time I didn’t have any reason to disbelieve him.
Then in late June, the Blackouts started up again. [Editor’s note: “Blackout” was the name given to the private bimonthly parties, for which guests had to pay a sizable membership fee to be admitted.] The night everything happened, my grandma got sick and my mom and dad had to drive to Tennessee to see her in the hospital, so I was in charge of babysitting Maddie, even though I’d already said I’d be at work. I needed the money because I was supposed to be getting a new car and also, I know it’s stupid to say now, but I kind of missed it. The parties were fun and easy and we felt special, you know? Because we’d been chosen.
Maddie had to be in bed by nine, so finally Kennedy and I decided just to bring her along. The parties were usually over by midnight anyway, and we figured she’d just sleep in the backseat. Usually she sleeps through everything—even, like, hurricanes.
Not that night, though.
Andre was being especially nice to me that night. He gave me a shot of this special sweet liquor that tasted kind of like chocolate. Kennedy got mad because I was driving, and I know it was dumb, but I figured one drink wouldn’t hurt. But then things started to get . . . weird.
I can’t expla
in it, but I was dizzy and things kept happening and I wouldn’t remember them. It was like I was watching a movie but half the footage was missing. Kennedy left early because she was in a bad mood and some guy said something rude to her. But I didn’t know that yet. I just wanted to lie down.
Andre told me he had a private office and there was a couch there, and I could nap for as long as I wanted.
That’s the last thing I remember until the next morning. I woke up puking. My car was parked halfway on my neighbor’s lawn. My neighbor, Mrs. Hardwell, was so pissed. I couldn’t believe I’d driven home, and I was freaking out. I couldn’t remember anything. It was like someone had cut out a part of my brain.
When I realized Maddie was gone, I just wanted to die. I was so scared, and I knew it was all my fault. That’s why I lied about where we’d gone. In retrospect, I know I should have gone to my parents and the police right away, but I was so confused and ashamed and I thought I could find a way to fix it.
I know now what happened was that Maddie woke up and followed me to the lighthouse, which is where Andre had his “office.” It wasn’t an office at all, just a place he photographed girls so he could sell their pictures online. The police think I must have been drugged, because I don’t remember anything.
I guess Maddie got scared and thought I was dead! She’s just a little kid. She thought when she saw me lying there without moving that Andre had killed me. She must have cried out, because he turned around and saw her. She was terrified he would kill her, too, so she ran. She was so scared he would come after her she hid for days, stealing food and water and only coming out for a few minutes at a time, usually at night. Thank God we got her home safely.
At first I didn’t think I’d ever forgive myself, but after speaking for a long time to other girls who have been through similar situations
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EMAIL FROM DR. MICHAEL HUENG TO DR. LEONARD LICHME, DATED AUGUST 7
Dear Dr. Lichme,
I understand that earlier this year you saw Nicole Warren for a short time. She was recently admitted to my care at East Shoreline Memorial, and I wanted to reach out to you now both to discuss my initial impressions of her mental state and because she will no doubt need continuing treatment post-release, whenever that will be.
Nicole is physically in good health, and seems both quiet and cooperative, albeit very confused. She seems to have suffered from some major dissociative disorder, which I am still trying to diagnose exactly (provisionally, and although I know the designations are by this point controversial, I’d say it seems to share elements with both MPD/DID and Depersonalization Disorder, no doubt stemming from the major trauma of the accident and her sister’s death; additionally, there seem to be indications of a kind of psychogenic fugue state, although not all of the standard characteristics have presented). At some point post-accident—I believe when she returned to Somerville after several months away and was forced to confront evidence of her sister’s absence—she began at intervals to inhabit the mind of her deceased sister, patching together a narrative based on various shared memories and her intimate knowledge of her sister’s behavior, personality, physicality, and preferences. As time progressed, her delusions intensified and encompassed visual and auditory hallucinations.
As of now, though she has accepted that her sister is dead, she has little to no recovered memories of the experiences she had while inhabiting her sister’s psyche, though I am hoping that changes with time, counseling, and the right combination of medication.
Please give me a call at any time to discuss.
Thanks,
Michael Hueng
O: 555-6734
East Shoreline Memorial Hospital
66-87 Washington Blvd.
Main Heights
This communication may contain confidential and/or privileged information. If you are not the intended recipient (or have received this communication in error) please notify the sender immediately and destroy this communication. Any unauthorized copying, disclosure, or distribution of the material in this communication is strictly forbidden.
EMAIL FROM JOHN PARKER TO NICK WARREN, DATED AUGUST 18
Heya, Nick,
How are you doing? Maybe that’s a stupid question. Maybe this is a stupid email to be writing—I’m not even sure whether you’re getting email. I tried calling your phone, but it was off.
I’m leaving for orientation in less than a week. Crazy! Hopefully I won’t get eaten alive in the subway by any giant rats. Or attacked by nuclear-resistant cockroaches. Or mauled by facial-hair-sporting hipsters.
Anyway. Your mom told my mom you might be gone for a few weeks or more. I hate that I’m not going to have a chance to see you. I hope you’re feeling better. Shit. That sounds stupid, too.
God, Nick . . . . I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.
I guess I just wanted to say hi, and I’m thinking about you. A lot.
—P
EMAIL FROM JOHN PARKER TO NICK WARREN, DATED AUGUST 23
Hey—
Not sure if you got my last email. Tomorrow’s the big day. I’m heading to New York. I’m excited, I guess, but I really wish I could have seen you or at least spoken to you before I left. Did your mom tell you to call me? She said she was going to visit, and I asked her to pass along the message, but I’m not sure if she did. I kept calling my own phone to make sure it was working, ha.
Anyway, please write. Or call. Or . . . send a carrier pigeon. Whatever.
Random, but . . . remember when we were kids and I’d tie a red flag to the oak tree when I wanted you and Dara to meet me at the fort? I don’t know why, but that popped into my head the other day. Funny how when you’re a kid, weird things have their own kind of logic. Like, things are so much more complicated but also simpler. I’m rambling, I know.
I’m going to miss FanLand. I’m going to miss Somerville. Most of all, I’m going to miss you.
xP
East Shoreline Memorial Hospital
66-87 Washington Blvd.
Main Heights
PATIENT RELEASE AUTHORIZATION FORM (Q-55)
Patient legal name: Nicole S. Warren
Patient ID: 45-110882
Consulting Psychiatrist: Dr. Michael Hueng
Consulting Physician: Dr. Claire Winnyck
Intake date: July 30
Current date: August 28
GENERAL NOTES:
Patient has made significant improvement over the past thirty days. Patient initially presented with features of a major dissociative disorder indicative of PTSD or RTD (recurrent trauma disorder). Patient seemed anxious and unwilling to participate in group activities and solo sessions.
Dr. Hueng suggested 100 mg Zoloft/daily and Ambien to facilitate sleep. Within a few days patient was markedly improved, displaying renewed appetite and a willingness to engage with patients and counselors.
Patient seems to understand why she was admitted and eager to get better. Patient is no longer suffering from delusions.
PROPOSED COURSE OF ONGOING TREATMENT:
100 mg Zoloft/once daily for management of depression and anxiety
Ongoing therapy, individual and family, with psychiatrist Dr. Leonard Lichme
RECOMMENDATION:
Release
EMAIL FROM NICK WARREN TO JOHN PARKER, DATED SEPTEMBER 1
Hey, Parker,
Sorry I wasn’t able to write or call. I wasn’t really feeling up to it for a while. Doing better now, though. I’m home.
By now you’re in New York. I hope you’re having an amazing time.
—Nick
P.S. Of course I remember the red flag. Sometimes I still look for it.
AFTER
September 2
Dear Dara,
I’m home now. They finally let me out of the loony bin. It wasn’t that bad, actually, except for when Mom and Dad visited and stared at me like they were afraid if they tried to touch me I might shatter into dust. We had to do a family
session and say a lot of affirmations, like I hear you and respect what you’re saying and I see how angry it must make you when I . . . etc. Aunt Jackie would have loved it.
The doctors were pretty nice, and I got to sleep a lot, and we did arts and crafts projects like we were five years old again. I had no idea how many things you could do with popsicle sticks.
Anyway. Dr. Lichme said that whenever I wanted to talk to you, I should write you a letter. So that’s what I’m doing now. Except that every time I sit down to write, I don’t even know where to begin. There’s so much I want to say. There’s so much I want to ask, too, even though I know you won’t answer.
So I’ll settle for the basics.
I’m sorry, Dara. I’m so, so sorry.
I miss you. Please come back.
Love,
Nick
September 26
“There.” Aunt Jackie thumps a palm against the last cardboard box—overstuffed, straining against the tape like fat against a too-tight belt, and marked in thick black letters Goodwill. She straightens up, brushing a stray bit of hair from her face with the inside of her wrist. “That looks better, doesn’t it?”
Dara’s room—Dara’s old room—is unrecognizable. It’s been years since I’ve seen the floor, now clean-swept and scented with Pine-Sol, beneath the carpet of litter and clothing obscuring it. The old rug is gone, bundled to the curb along with bags filled with stained and ripped jean shorts, broken sandals, faded underwear, and padded bras. The bedspread—a leopard print Dara bought with her own money after my mom refused to get it for her—has been replaced with a pretty floral pattern Aunt Jackie found in the linen closet. Even Dara’s clothes are packed away, most of them for donation; dozens of empty hangers swing, creaking, in her closet, as though pushed by a phantom hand.