Maddy's Mountain
by Dave Swan
The detective called to tell me they’d stopped the search. I can’t blame them; they covered every inch of every place Maddy might be. He said they’ll keep the file open until she’s found one way or another. But I doubt the cold case squad will come looking for me, or as the internet calls me, “the surviving sister Michele.”
The last place she was seen was the overlook at Miller’s Point. The park camera caught her standing at the railing at midnight, as still as the late-summer air all around. Someone said she looked like she was praying, except she didn’t pray, ever. The camera went dark—nobody knows why—and when it came back Maddy was gone. She wasn’t on the rocks a hundred feet below and hasn’t turned up in the river.
Even so, almost everybody thinks she jumped. A few people, like her roommate Rachel, said she’d been acting sad and wouldn’t talk about why. Her boss at the bookstore said she seemed tired. Yet Ally, the other roommate, insisted she was fine.
The haters claim she must have been taken by a migrant or some other criminal of color. Which is both racist and crazy since hers was the only car in the lot and no kidnapper would walk the mile from the main road. The police scoured the mountain with dogs, infrared, a volunteer search party, everything. The camera at the trailhead showed Maddy heading up there. She just never came down.
The last place she was seen was the overlook at Miller’s Point. The park camera caught her standing at the railing at midnight, as still as the late-summer air all around. Someone said she looked like she was praying, except she didn’t pray, ever. The camera went dark—nobody knows why—and when it came back Maddy was gone. She wasn’t on the rocks a hundred feet below and hasn’t turned up in the river.
Even so, almost everybody thinks she jumped. A few people, like her roommate Rachel, said she’d been acting sad and wouldn’t talk about why. Her boss at the bookstore said she seemed tired. Yet Ally, the other roommate, insisted she was fine.
The haters claim she must have been taken by a migrant or some other criminal of color. Which is both racist and crazy since hers was the only car in the lot and no kidnapper would walk the mile from the main road. The police scoured the mountain with dogs, infrared, a volunteer search party, everything. The camera at the trailhead showed Maddy heading up there. She just never came down.
For a while, I got by on adrenaline and hope. Then came the stares and whispers at Winn Dixie. The fake sympathy at the bookstore where she told me they laughed at her for being quiet and “weird.” The ex-boyfriend who swore it wasn’t her on the video. All the people who said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” meaning they figured she was suicidal and had to absolve themselves for not doing shit.
When some dumbass asked me if she left a note and what it said, I had to remind myself I didn’t need an assault charge. The worst part was Mama, wrecked on Jack and pain pills, staggering down the street crying, “Maddy, honey, Maddy, where are you? Wherrre aaaarrrre youuu?”
It was so awful, I couldn’t sleep. Finally, one night after lying awake for hours, I got dressed and crept up the mountain, a brilliant silver moon lighting my way. Footsore and spent from the climb, I leaned on the rail like she did, listening to the same soft pulse of the river and the owls calling from the trees. Very softly, I said, “Maddy. Maddy, it’s me. Please come back.”
It was seventy degrees, the air was thick and heavy, and I was shivering. With what little breath I could summon, I spoke her name again, and again, and again. Nothing happened—no visions, vibes, or invisible hands—yet something clicked. By the time the park security guard checked the camera, and the cops came, I’d made my way down the slope and was back on the road.
When some dumbass asked me if she left a note and what it said, I had to remind myself I didn’t need an assault charge. The worst part was Mama, wrecked on Jack and pain pills, staggering down the street crying, “Maddy, honey, Maddy, where are you? Wherrre aaaarrrre youuu?”
It was so awful, I couldn’t sleep. Finally, one night after lying awake for hours, I got dressed and crept up the mountain, a brilliant silver moon lighting my way. Footsore and spent from the climb, I leaned on the rail like she did, listening to the same soft pulse of the river and the owls calling from the trees. Very softly, I said, “Maddy. Maddy, it’s me. Please come back.”
It was seventy degrees, the air was thick and heavy, and I was shivering. With what little breath I could summon, I spoke her name again, and again, and again. Nothing happened—no visions, vibes, or invisible hands—yet something clicked. By the time the park security guard checked the camera, and the cops came, I’d made my way down the slope and was back on the road.
The world that was so rough on Maddy didn’t know much about her. Like the fact that she was terrified of the water because she almost drowned when we were kids. Or her way of blending into the background, like stepping behind an invisible door, when other people made her nervous or unhappy. It’s not like she mentally checked out: after Mama dragged us to church, she’d remember the hymns we sang and everything the fool in the pulpit said. But the next Sunday, people would ask, “Was Madeline with you last week?”
I remember us sitting on the floor of an old house way out in the country, listening to our great-grandma Nora, who lived to be 104. All bent over and tiny as a hummingbird, she had us rapt with stories from her own mother. About how folks used to think the woods were full of ghosts they called “haints.” How the air turned cold if you got near the ruin of a settlers’ cabin where a whole family died. Nora had Native blood and said their people had legends of spirits in the hills and under the river, where you could hear their voices on summer days when the wind rippled the water. Only no one could see them unless they let themselves be seen.
All of this happened where the park is now. In my bones, I cannot believe Maddy went there to end her existence. Besides, I paced off the distance from the foot of the cliff to the river’s edge and it was almost seventeen feet, so she couldn’t have jumped that far. What I can believe is that she felt lost in this realm and was searching for a place where a kind, intelligent soul on the spectrum could be safe. It just hurts so badly that she didn’t try to reach me before she slipped away and hasn’t tried since.
More than I have ever desired anything, I want to see Maddy at my door wearing her big retro glasses and sweet smile. I want to hear her say, “Hey Mish,” and feel her long arms holding me close in the shelter of a big-sister hug. When I go up the mountain these days, I get there first thing when they open the gate, to steal some peace and solitude before the crowds come. I’ve gotten used to the climb. Not the silence. But until Maddy comes home or it’s my time to walk on, I’ll keep saying her name.
I remember us sitting on the floor of an old house way out in the country, listening to our great-grandma Nora, who lived to be 104. All bent over and tiny as a hummingbird, she had us rapt with stories from her own mother. About how folks used to think the woods were full of ghosts they called “haints.” How the air turned cold if you got near the ruin of a settlers’ cabin where a whole family died. Nora had Native blood and said their people had legends of spirits in the hills and under the river, where you could hear their voices on summer days when the wind rippled the water. Only no one could see them unless they let themselves be seen.
All of this happened where the park is now. In my bones, I cannot believe Maddy went there to end her existence. Besides, I paced off the distance from the foot of the cliff to the river’s edge and it was almost seventeen feet, so she couldn’t have jumped that far. What I can believe is that she felt lost in this realm and was searching for a place where a kind, intelligent soul on the spectrum could be safe. It just hurts so badly that she didn’t try to reach me before she slipped away and hasn’t tried since.
More than I have ever desired anything, I want to see Maddy at my door wearing her big retro glasses and sweet smile. I want to hear her say, “Hey Mish,” and feel her long arms holding me close in the shelter of a big-sister hug. When I go up the mountain these days, I get there first thing when they open the gate, to steal some peace and solitude before the crowds come. I’ve gotten used to the climb. Not the silence. But until Maddy comes home or it’s my time to walk on, I’ll keep saying her name.
Dave Swan is a former journalist and a lifelong writer. His stories have also appeared in Litro Magazine, the Fictional Café, the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, and elsewhere. He’s a member of the Atlanta Writers Club and helps manage their social media.