Morgan shook her head in sympathy. “It sounds like she’s sick and she can’t help it.”
“I wish more people thought that way.”
“Is that why you didn’t tell me about her? Because you were afraid of what I’d think?”
“It’s not my story to tell,” I countered. “And you’ve got to understand: This—what’s happening now—isn’t who she usually is. The vast majority of the time, she’s just my incredibly gifted and witty and generous sister who cooks a great meal and makes me laugh. I didn’t want you to think of her as my mentally ill or crazy sister. But I knew that no matter what else I said about her, as soon I said bipolar or mentally ill, or prone to psychotic breaks or occasionally suicidal, those labels would have been front and center, because you haven’t met the real her.”
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.