Even in her wildest dreams, she couldn’t have planned the path her career had taken. Upon arriving in Nashville, she’d spent time in a recording studio and, with demos in hand, met with the handful of managers she’d mentioned to me, all of whom showed mild to moderate interest. At the casual encouragement of one of those managers （“Why not?”）， she’d posted the video of her performance at my show to her social-media accounts. It had been edited exceptionally well by her friends, intercutting footage from her recording the song at the studio with scenes from Bobby T’s and clips of Morgan dancing on TikTok. Interest in the song sparked among some key influencers—including a few admiring stars with huge followings—erupting into an inferno. Within weeks, it was viewed tens of millions of times online, and she quickly released another video, in which she performed “Dreamland.” Naturally, her social-media following exploded, as well, and she was soon being courted by the most prominent managers and recording labels in the industry. “The new Taylor Swift” was how she was often described, drawing comparisons to female megastars like Olivia Rodrigo, Billie Eilish, and Ariana Grande.
The manager with whom she ultimately signed was admittedly a marketing genius, and he built on the early momentum, immediately packaging Morgan in a way that made her seem like an already established star. She started getting play on the radio, and a formal publicity campaign was launched that took her from city to city, with appearances on talk shows in New York and Los Angeles. Her face appeared regularly in stories about celebrities, and by the time she performed on Saturday Night Live in November—where she was introduced as a global phenom—it seemed to me as though everyone in the world had heard of her. Somehow, between all of that, she managed to find time to begin recording an album. Produced by huge hitmakers, it featured songs written by her as well as collaborations with the hottest hip-hop, pop, and R&B stars in the business.
Originally, she told me, there’d been discussions of her going on tour and opening for one major act or another, but when she released a third song on social media after her appearance on Saturday Night Live and in advance of her debut album drop, the song went to number one on the charts. Now there was talk of others opening for her solo tour next autumn, which was already at thirty cities in North America and counting.
She was caught up in a cyclone, so it wasn’t surprising that we were in touch less frequently. And whenever the ache of missing her became too great, I reminded myself of what I’d said on our last day together.
As for me, I hired an aide to help with my aunt after her release from the hospital; she not only helped Aunt Angie around the house but shuttled her to and from her physical-therapy appointments. The paralysis on her left side had been slow to improve; it wasn’t until Halloween that she was confident enough to finally send the aide on her way. She still limped, her left arm remained weak, and her smile was crooked, but she was back to running the office full-time and even got around the rest of the farm with the help of a four-wheeler. The farm, more than Paige or me, remained the center of her life.
And Paige…
It took her six days to fully stabilize again, after which I eventually pieced together the timeline of her crisis. As I’d suspected, she raced to the hospital when my aunt was admitted, leaving her meds and her phone behind in her haste, which was the reason she hadn’t called me as soon as it happened. And although she swore she kept intending to retrieve her meds from the house, my aunt’s condition was too serious for her to feel comfortable leaving the hospital without any family members present. Within a couple of days, the chemicals in her brain began to cause misfires, affecting her perception; not long after that, the sudden withdrawal of her medication distorted her reality. Among other things, she was convinced that she’d called and spoken to me about my aunt’s condition, not once but two or three times; it wasn’t until I showed her my call log that she accepted that she’d imagined entire conversations. After that, her memories were fuzzy and incomplete until the delusion set in; she remembered walking out of the hospital but didn’t recall smoking weed, even though her blood tests showed a high level of THC.
After her release, she didn’t want to talk about it for a long time. As I’d known she would be, she was deeply ashamed and embarrassed. Nearly a month passed before I was able to get the whole story. It became apparent that she’d incorporated some elements from her previous psychotic episodes into the new delusions, including the bus rides and hitchhiking and the diner where she added ketchup to a cup of hot water. She explained why the house was in shambles and admitted she’d taken the guns that I kept beneath my bed and buried them near the creek. She vaguely remembered buying the Iron Man action figure from a store near the hospital; she’d intended to give it to my aunt to boost her spirits by making a joke about how tough she was. But the hardest parts for her to talk about, the ones that seemed absurd even to her, were the obvious ones: How could she not have recognized her own home? How could she not have recognized Toby, a man she’d known for most of her life, when he’d come to the house? She had no answer to those questions, just as in the past she’d had no answer to why she didn’t recognize me. As far as the rest of her delusions, we’d already lived through most of them, and neither of us felt the need to rehash the painful details.