Dreamland(77)

Until that moment, I realized, I’d been expecting the worst.

“Thank you,” I said, exhaling.

Suddenly ravenous, I stopped at a drive-thru to pick up some cheeseburgers and fries, wolfing everything down on the short drive to the hotel. Again, I fell asleep almost immediately, too tired even to remove my clothes.





I slept for more than twelve hours and woke feeling almost human again. I showered, had a huge breakfast, and returned to the hospital.

I went directly to my sister’s room but, strangely, found it empty. After a few moments of panic, I learned that she’d been transferred to another floor. When the nurses explained why, I understood, but my heart filled with dread as I made my way there.

When I arrived at the room, she was awake and no longer intubated. Her face was still sunken and gray, and she seemed to be struggling to bring me into focus, as if willing me into existence. Finally, she cracked a weak smile.

“You cut your hair,” she said, her voice so soft I had to strain to make it out.

Though I’d known it was coming, I nonetheless felt something plummet inside me. “Yeah,” I lied.

“Good,” she said through dry, cracked lips. “I was just about to fly home and cut it myself.”

Her old joke, I thought. Though I knew she was trying to be funny, I couldn’t help eyeing the restraints on her wrists. I took a seat beside her and asked how she was feeling.

Instead of answering my question, she frowned, visibly confused. “How did you find me?”

As I searched for an answer to soothe her rising anxiety, she shifted in her bed. “Did he send you?” She scanned my face. “Gary, I mean?” Twisting the sheets in her bony hands, she went on: “I had to plan for months, Colby. You don’t know how bad he got. He hurt Tommie….”

And then she launched into a story that I’d suspected would be coming. As she rambled, her agitation grew, until her shouts and the rattling of her bed rails began to attract the attention of a nurse, who came into the room. The nurse told me over my sister’s strenuous pleas that the psychiatrist wanted to speak with me.

Not any psychiatrist. Paige’s psychiatrist, a man I knew well.

He arrived within twenty minutes and led me to a room where we could have a private conversation. I told him everything I knew. He nodded as I described my inability to reach Paige, the frantic drive home, and the state of the house when I arrived, but he sat up sharply when I told him about my aunt. He hadn’t known she was in the hospital, but now I could see him putting all the pieces together in the same way I had.

He recommended that I avoid visiting Paige for the rest of the day, maybe even the day after that, and told me why. I nodded, understanding and accepting his reasoning. After all, none of this was new.

Afterward, I went to my aunt’s room and finally told her about Paige. Her eyes welled with tears, and I saw the same anguished guilt in her expression that I felt, the same helplessness.

When I finished, she pinched the bridge of her nose, then wiped away her tears.

“Go home,” she said, fixing me with a stern glare. “You look exhausted.”

“But I want to stay,” I protested. “I need to be here.”

She forced a lopsided scowl, only half of her face cooperating.

“Colby, you need to take care of yourself right now.”

She didn’t bother to point out how pressed I would be at the farm for the next few weeks or that I’d be no good to either of them if I collapsed. We both already knew those things.





At the hotel, I repacked my things, feeling like my days in Florida were a distant dream. As I drove home, I could still feel lingering tension in my neck and shoulders, and memories of Paige’s terrified pleas as I left her hospital room only made things worse.

I exited the highway in Washington and eventually reached the gravel road that led to the farm. I scanned both sides of the road, noting the farmworkers in the fields and vehicles parked near the office and the egg-packaging facility. From outward appearances, it seemed as though nothing had happened, yet all I could think was that everything had been irrevocably altered.

When I saw the house in the distance, I swallowed my dread at the thought of having to go inside. But as I turned in to the drive, I made out a petite figure sitting on the porch, a small carry-on suitcase and a tote beside her. I blinked to clear my vision, but it wasn’t until I pulled to a stop and saw her wave at me that I realized it was truly Morgan.

Stunned, I climbed out and approached her. She was dressed in jeans, boots, and a white sleeveless blouse, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders. A hundred memories and sensations rushed to the surface, leaving me dazed. “What are you doing here?”

“I was worried about you,” she said. “You didn’t sound too good on the phone and then I didn’t hear from you after I got home last night, so I booked the earliest flights I could for this morning and called an Uber from the airport.” She stood, shifting nervously from foot to foot. “Are you mad at me?”

“Not at all,” I said, reaching out to touch her arm, my fingertips lingering on her wrist. “How long have you been waiting?”

“Not long. Maybe an hour or so?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“I left a message,” she countered. “Didn’t you get it?”