Dreamland: A Novel (28 page)

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?”

Pulling out my phone, I saw the voicemail notification. “I didn’t check. And I’m sorry for not calling you. I just couldn’t.”

She ran a hand through her hair and nodded. In the silence that followed, I knew my words had hurt her.

I avoided her gaze, hating myself for yet another reason. “How did you know I’d be here?”

“It was either here or the hospital.” She shrugged. “The hospital was closer to the airport, but I don’t know your aunt’s last name, so I wasn’t sure I could even find you. So here I am. But I still can’t tell if coming was a good idea.” She hugged her arms to her body.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I said, moving closer and pulling her toward me. When I felt her body against my own, the emotions I’d been suppressing since my return suddenly engulfed me. I choked out a ragged sob as Morgan clutched me tight, whispering that everything would be okay. I’m not sure how long we stood that way, but in the comfort of her embrace, my tears finally subsided.

“I’m sorry,” I began, pulling back, only to have Morgan cut me off with a shake of her head.

“Don’t ever apologize for being a human being. Your aunt had a stroke—it’s got to be terrifying.” She stared up at me, searching my eyes. “You still love me, right?”

“More than anything.”

She rose to her toes and kissed me. Reading the lingering anxiety in my expression, she apparently decided to wait until I was ready to share any updates. Instead, she swept her arm toward the fields. “So, this is it, huh? The farm?”

“Yeah.” I smiled as I watched her study the surroundings with open curiosity.

“It doesn’t look like I imagined.”

“What did you imagine?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve never been to a farm, so I walked around a bit while I was waiting for you. I think I saw those prairie schooners you told me about.”

When she pointed, I followed her gaze. “That’s them,” I confirmed. “And behind them is the greenhouse. It’s where we start the tomatoes before they go in the field or where we grow them in the winter.”

“It looks huge.”

“And growing,” I added. “We keep having to expand it.”

“Is all of this yours and your aunt’s?” she asked, spinning around.

“Most of it.”

She nodded, remaining quiet. Then: “How is she?”

I described my latest visit with Aunt Angie and also the unknowns of her condition.

“Well, that’s positive overall, right?” she asked, squinting up at me. “That she’ll be released soon, even if she’s going to need help?”

“It is,” I conceded. “But there’s something I haven’t told you.”

She tilted her head, but her gaze didn’t stray from mine. “You mean about Paige.”

I nodded, wrestling with how to begin. Finally, I took her hand and led her to the barn. As we walked, I could sense Morgan’s curiosity, but I said nothing. Instead, I lifted the latch and opened the barn door, sunlight spilling across the concrete floor that I’d poured years earlier. I flipped an industrial switch, and the overhead lights came on with a buzz, so bright they almost hurt my eyes.

Half of the barn was used for storage of the kind of items I assumed most people kept in garden sheds—a wheelbarrow, lawnmower, buckets, garden implements, things like that. The other half was used by Paige as her work area. At first glance it appeared chaotic, but I’d seen her quickly find anything she needed. Her own opinion was that art studios should always be a bit cluttered.

A cluster of tables in the shape of a U constituted much of Paige’s actual workspace; behind them in the corner was another table. Plastic bins filled with small pieces of colored glass lined the shelves along the back wall. Dozens of larger pieces of glass were stacked upright like books; on other shelves were boxes containing lamp stands she ordered from an artisan in Virginia, who crafted them from original Tiffany designs. Two lampshades, both nearly finished, sat on the main table; one of the other tables was where she cut the glass. Wooden boxes atop a third table housed a mix of glass-cutting tools, markers, copper tape, flux, and solder, along with anything else she might possibly need, everything within easy reach.

I led Morgan that way, watching as her gaze flitted from one spot to the next, trying to figure out the workflow. Surveying the main table, I knew that even someone unfamiliar with the
artisanal craft could see the quality of the workmanship on display. I watched as Morgan leaned closer, examining the lampshades, studying the intricate detail.

“Like I told you, she’s incredibly talented.” I pointed out the plastic molds that the lampshades were being constructed around. “Before she makes the lamp, she has to cast the mold perfectly, so that once the lampshade starts coming together, it retains the precise shape she wants.” Moving toward the adjoining worktable, I tapped one of the pieces of cut glass. “Usually, you’re allowed a tiny bit of leeway when you solder the pieces together, but because she treats the lamps as art—and because people pay top dollar for them—she’ll cut and recut the glass until it’s absolutely perfect. She does the same when she wraps the edges with copper tape, and then again when she solders. Take a look.”

On the table lay dozens of pieces of cut glass, some already finished with copper tape, on a cardboard schematic that showed the design and pattern. Morgan lined up a few pieces of the glass as though putting together a puzzle and smiled when she realized that each piece of glass fit precisely.

“Over there,” I said, pointing to the table separate from the rest, “is where she runs the business side of things.” Her laptop computer stood open, along with an overflowing wire inbox, a stack of notepads, a coffee cup filled with pens, and a half-filled water bottle. Beside the work desk stood some mismatched file cabinets piled high with assorted books, ranging from the history of stained glass to coffee-table photo collections of Tiffany lamps. “The cabinets hold copies of all the original Tiffany designs, information on her clients, and specific work details on the lamps she’s already created and sold. I think I told you she’s built a good business, but I probably underplayed that. She’s one of the few people in the country who do this, and she’s far and away the best. You can find her work in some of the most beautiful and
expensive homes in the country and as far away as Europe. Which is kind of crazy when you think about it, since she’s lived most of her life right here on the farm, except for the few years she was married. The local guy she learned from was competent at stained glass, nothing more—he mainly did windows or pieces that hang in windows, and he worked with lead, not solder—so she taught herself all of this. And then figured out how to identify customers, market and promote her work. Without her, I don’t think the farm would have made it. Most of the money we needed for the early changes actually came from her. She gave it to us without a second thought.”

Morgan studied the workshop thoroughly before her eyes swung back to me.

“Why are you showing me this?”

“Because I told you that she was smart and talented and generous. I don’t want you to forget those things. Just like I don’t want you to forget that she’s my best friend in the world, or that we play games or watch movies at night, or that she’s an excellent cook. Or that she was the one who pretty much raised me. I don’t know who I would have become without Paige.”

“I never doubted any of those things,” she said.

I smiled, feeling the weariness of the last few days. “You will.”

“I don’t understand…”

I lowered my gaze, extending my hand again. “Come with me.”

I closed up the barn and led Morgan toward the house, pausing at the front door. “She painted the door red, by the way. I thought it was silly, but she told me that early on in America, a red door meant that visitors were welcome. Like if they were traveling on horseback, it would be a place they could spend the night or get something to eat. That’s what she thinks a home should be.”

I steeled myself before reaching for the knob, then finally opened the door. I gestured for Morgan to step inside, noting that her gaze swept from left to right. I slipped past her, walking toward the kitchen. In the silence, I heard her tentative steps as she followed.

In the air was the odor of burned and spoiled food mixed with the faint residue of fresh paint. In the kitchen, dishes were piled high in the sink and on the stovetop and atop the table. There was a plate of chicken drumsticks, charred on one side, raw on the other; on another plate was raw hamburger, already spoiled. There was a pot of soaking beans on one of the stove burners. There were unfinished meals on the table, next to a container of milk that had turned rancid. In a dirty mason jar with a large dirty spoon beside it, I saw what appeared to be a dead tadpole. All the drawers and cabinet doors stood open. The walls of the kitchen were yellow, but the paint job had been hasty and sloppy, with smears on the cabinets and countertops and splashes on the floor. Kitchen utensils were splayed everywhere, and in front of the sink was a pile of detergents, cleansers, sponges, and other items that had obviously been pulled out in haste. Dead flowers sat in a jelly jar, and I saw Morgan startle at the bloodstains on the counters. On the table, strangely, was a drawing of a house; though in crayon, it was surprisingly good, and it reminded me of the place where Paige had lived in Texas. Picking our way to the pantry, we surveyed the cleared shelves and items stacked on the floor. She said nothing as we walked to the living room—I wordlessly pointed out the emptied closet in the hallway as we passed—but noted with obvious shock the cockeyed cabinet and half-painted wall, rotting apple cores on the rug, toppled stacks of DVDs and books and albums and a pair of Paige’s shoes and other odds and ends heaped everywhere. The television was on
the floor, and as I used the remote to check that it was still working, I saw that it was tuned to the cartoon channel and turned it off. Touring the back porch, we observed that almost everything except a drill and saw had been removed from the shelves and placed on the floor, just like in the pantry.

We eventually climbed the stairs to the second floor where I absently motioned toward the contents of the linen closet heaped in the hallway. In my room, there was a stack of children’s clothing and a smallish pair of sneakers, along with a book I’d saved from childhood called
Go, Dog. Go!
On the nightstand was an Iron Man action figure I’d never seen before. For whatever reason, my pillowcase looked as though it had been dragged through the mud, and Morgan’s eyes widened when she saw a pile of bloody Band-Aids on the floor of my bathroom, along with more dried blood on the counter.

Paige’s room was far worse than mine. As in the kitchen, all the drawers and the closet doors were flung open, and her clothing and personal effects had been strewn everywhere. On the floor of the closet—as though placed for emphasis—was a box containing my sister’s favorite shoes, the Christian Louboutin pumps that her husband, Gary, had once given her for her birthday.

In the bathroom, Morgan gasped at the sight of a bloody T-shirt crumpled on the floor, as well as a wig and an Ace bandage that lay uncoiled on the countertop.

“I can’t stay inside,” I muttered. “It’s too painful.”

Turning on my heel, I hurried down the stairs and out to the front porch again, where I sat in one of the rockers. Morgan followed close behind, lowering herself into the other one. Leaning forward, I clasped my hands in front of me.