Dreamland(82)

Morgan gazed out over the distant fields, no doubt thinking about everything I’d told her, and for a long time neither of us said anything. “Paige has had such a hard life,” she whispered.

“No question,” I agreed. “She was dealt a really unfair hand.”

“It’s not easy for you, either,” Morgan observed, turning back to me.

“Not always.”

She gently squeezed my shoulder. “You’re a good brother.”

“She’s a great sister.”

Dropping her hand to cover mine, she seemed to come to a resolution of sorts. “Do you know what I think we should do? If it’s all right with you, I mean.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“I’d like to help you clean up the house. You shouldn’t have to do that by yourself. And after that, I’ll make you dinner.”

“It doesn’t look like there’s much food in the house.”

“We can go grocery shopping,” she responded, undeterred. “I’m not a great cook, but my grandma taught me at least one foolproof dish, and I think I can pull that off.”

“You won’t find much in the way of specialized ingredients around here,” I cautioned.

“As long as I can find rice noodles and soy sauce, I can improvise the rest,” she said with a shrug. “And wait until you try my grandma’s pancit bihon. Fried noodles are the ultimate comfort food, trust me.”

“Okay,” I said, forcing a smile, though it was the last thing I felt like doing.

Rising, we headed inside, but I found myself stopping just beyond the threshold, too daunted by the chaos to even know where to begin. However, in take-charge fashion, Morgan merely stepped around me and made straight for the kitchen. Kneeling before the pile in front of the sink, she called out, “All this goes underneath, right? Is there anything particular I should know? Like dish soap on the left or whatever?”

When I shook my head, she started putting things away. Her initiative prodded me into action, and I cleared the table, scraping food into the garbage. I dumped the beans and half-burned chicken and spoiled meat, as well, along with a dozen wads of used plastic wrap and the mason jar and jelly jar and anything else I could find to discard. When I hauled the bag out to the garbage can, I opened the lid and saw all the food that Paige had thrown away. I simply put the bag in and closed the lid, wondering again what she’d been thinking. By the time I returned, the pile on the floor had been cleared, with the dishrags in a pile. Morgan had also gathered up all the scattered kitchen utensils and placed them in the sink. She was already filling the basin with water.

“I couldn’t find the dishwasher.”

“That’s because there isn’t one.”

She smiled. “In that case, do you want to wash or dry?”

“Either.”

“I’ll wash,” she said, and little by little we worked through all of it. I noticed that she knew not to use soap on the cast-iron skillet, running it under hot water and scrubbing until it was clean instead. She asked if there was any vegetable oil.

“There was,” I answered, “but Paige threw it away.”

Knowing enough not to ask why, she handed the skillet to me to dry before soaping a dishrag and wiping down the counters and stovetop. Oddly, I noticed the oven was as clean as I’d seen it in years. Spotting an old backpack of mine in the corner, I opened it to find half a dozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches mashed together, along with a couple of apples. Dumping the contents into the garbage, I tossed the backpack into the pile of dishrags on the floor and brought everything to the back porch, depositing the load in the washer. The sight of empty shelves outside only spurred more questions.

Next was the pantry, which didn’t take long to reorganize. Morgan would hand me something and I’d put it where it belonged; we repeated the routine on the back porch. Restoring everything in the closet went fairly quickly, too, and in the living room Morgan helped me move the cabinet back in place before I put the television, antiquated DVD player, and streaming devices where they belonged and reconnected everything. Morgan threw the apple cores into the garbage and handed me albums and books and DVDs in neat stacks while I put them away. The half-painted wall still looked ridiculous, as did the messy paint job in the kitchen, but for now the downstairs was serviceable.

“If you’re wondering why she painted, I have no idea. She just painted these walls maybe a month ago. She loves Hermès orange and swore the kitchen would look fabulous. Same thing with the wall here.”

“I’m sure she had her reasons,” Morgan said, which was the nicest possible thing she could have said.

Upstairs, we refolded and put away the items from the linen closet, cleaned my bathroom, and I scooped up the children’s clothes and my pillowcase, leaving the pile at the top of the stairs for the time being. In Paige’s bedroom, I hesitated, somehow reluctant to intrude in my sister’s personal space. Morgan had no compunction, however; she immediately started sorting through piles of clothing and folding them. “I’ll fold and you put away,” she instructed. “And maybe hang whatever’s on a hanger back in the closet, okay?”

I wasn’t sure where all of it belonged, but I did my best. In the bathroom, I scooped up the bloody shirt, knowing that it would end up in the garbage, and carefully inspected the wig, trying to imagine why Paige would have felt the need to wear one.