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.
“She dressed as a flapper for Halloween a couple of years ago,” I mused, spinning the wig around on my hand. “This was part of her costume.”
“Hey, I dressed as a flapper last year!” Morgan chirped, spraying the bathroom sink and countertops with cleanser. “Great minds think alike.”
I had to admit that it was a lot easier to clean with her help. Alone, I would have scrutinized every item, trying to figure out how it fit into the delusion, but Morgan simply kept moving forward until each task was completed. By the end I felt, if not quite whole, reassured that everything would eventually return to normal.
“Is there a decent-sized supermarket nearby?” Morgan said, washing her hands at the kitchen sink.
“There’s the Piggly Wiggly.” I shrugged. “But, really, we can go out if you’d rather rest after all this work…”
“You cooked for me in Florida, so it’s my turn,” she said.
At the Piggly Wiggly, Morgan miraculously managed to find a package of rice noodles in the Asian food section, along with a small bottle of soy sauce. Adding garlic, frozen shrimp, chicken breasts, cabbage, and a few vegetables to the cart, along with a dozen eggs, she triumphantly pulled up to the beverage aisle and threw a six-pack of beer into the bottom of the cart.
Back at the house, she got busy in the kitchen, washing and chopping vegetables and starting a pot of water to boil on the stove. Pulling out a large skillet, she made a shooing motion in my direction. “Leave me alone in here. Go sit on the porch with a beer and relax,” she instructed, in a voice that brooked no disagreement.
Pulling a beer from the six-pack, I grabbed my guitar from the truck and settled into one of the rockers out front. I fiddled around with whatever chords came to me as my mind wandered over the last few days. Every now and then I’d stop to take a sip of beer, feeling the beginnings of a melancholy ballad take shape.
“That’s pretty,” I heard Morgan say from behind me. I turned to see her standing at the screen door, her hair tied back in a ponytail with a rubber band. “Is it new?”
I nodded. “Yeah…but I’m not sure what it is yet. And I’m sure I’ll need help with the lyrics, since you’re so good at those all-important hooks.”
Morgan brightened. “After dinner,” she promised. “Food in fifteen minutes,” she called over her shoulder as she returned to the kitchen.
The smells wafting through the screen door were making my mouth water, and the crackling sound of frying garlic and onions eventually made me lay down my guitar and wander back into the house. Morgan was stir-frying the shrimp, chicken, and vegetable mixture in a heavenly mix of soy sauce, black pepper, and other spices, all the while keeping an eye on the quick-cooking rice noodles.
“You can set the table,” she said, swiping absently at a tendril of hair that had escaped her ponytail.