One to Take (One to Hold 8)

As I recount those weeks at the ranch, she stands and goes behind me, using her shears to shape up my hair. I tell her about the doctor’s visits and the happy times, and then the horrible way it all ended.

“I don’t understand,” she says, setting down the scissors and picking up the blow drier. “Stuart didn’t say anything? He just let you leave?”

“I didn’t ask for permission. He was gone, so I packed my stuff and bought a plane ticket.”

“So you’re not broken up? You never talked about it?”

“I left my engagement ring behind.”

Our eyes meet, and she nods. Then she turns on the dryer, and for several minutes we don’t speak as she pulls the waves out of my hair with a round brush. When she’s finished, she hands me a mirror.

Gazing at my new look, I decide it feels right for who I am now. It’s straight and falls just below my chin. In my black tee and jeans, I don’t look like a lost boho-goth chick. I look like a focused career woman in control of her life. It’s not true, but it’s a first step.

My friend studies my reaction. “What now?”

“Now we go shopping,” I say with a nod. “I need new clothes.”

Her slim brows clutch, but she picks up the keys. “I’ll drive.”

We spend the rest of the day at the mall. I buy slim-cut khaki pants and a short-sleeved cotton blouse. I pick up another pair of jeans that are tapered at the ankles and tan heels. A few off-brand polos, a black cardigan, and a boxy purse complete the look. At my apartment are canvas sneakers and black ankle boots I can continue to wear.

“Everything else can be bagged up and donated to Goodwill,” I say, pulling floral tunics and handkerchief skirts off hangers and tossing them into a pile in the center of my bedroom floor.

“You’ve been through a lot.” Kenny sits on the bed eating my leftover Pad Thai. I didn’t eat another bite after last night’s painful discovery. “Maybe you should wait a month or so before you trash it all?”

?

?I don’t feel comfortable in these clothes anymore. They’re not who I am.”

“Are you still going to find that recipe for Matcha tea smoothies for me?” She picks up the brown journal I left on the floor and opens it.

I’m not paying attention to what she’s doing as I evaluate a black bodysuit. “I’ll keep this. I can wear it with jeans under a blazer.

“Mare?” My best friend’s voice is shaky. “What is this book?”

Realizing what she’s holding, I jump forward and snatch my grandmother’s journal out of her hand. “What are you DOING?”

She blinks fast, and the carton of food is placed on my dresser. “I’m sorry! I thought it was one of your recipe books! I didn’t mean to—”

“You had no right!” My hands tremble as I turn my back to her and throw the journal in that box as hard as I can.

“Is this why…” Her voice is tentative. “Is this why you wanted to cut your hair? Is this why you’re giving all your stuff away?”

“You need to leave. NOW!”

“Mariska!” A swirl of warmth, and she throws her arms around mine, holding me tight. “I’m your best friend. I’m not going anywhere! You’ve got to tell me what this is about!”

My shoulders collapse as my whole body shakes. Dropping down onto the bed, I put my forehead in my hands. “I don’t know,” I cry, breaking down.

I can’t shout at Kenny. I can’t throw her out. I need help.

“I don’t know anything,” I shudder, wiping my face, feeling more lost than ever. “I found that journal and a medical chart in Yaya’s things. I’ve never heard this story before.”

Kenny goes to the box and takes out the book, carrying it to the bed where she sits facing me. “You’ve never seen this?”

“It’s been here all the time, but I guess I never dug that deep.”

Her eyes move to the book again, and she hesitates several moments before continuing. “I’ve heard of things like this—viruses causing symptoms that mimic mental illness.”