I may not have my nose, but I’m discovering there are other ways to tell if someone is uncomfortable, like the drift in the eyes, or the way bare toes can grip at the floorboards. “And anyway, you should be more worried about your nose than my bookmark.” She throws her hands at me. “You’re barely fifteen. Barely even used it. Do you realize you mightneversmell again. You’d be utterly . . .”
“What?” My throat has gone dry, but I push out the word. “Useless?”
I’m seven years old again, wandering the warehouse of spider plants. Does my mother love me? I didn’t know the answer then, and I was afraid to ask.
Mother lifts her nose a fraction and squints at a spot on the wall. Her silence punctures me like a dart to the heart.
The rumble of car engines fades, and the lovebirds leave us to our strange jungle.
The rounded windows of the turret squeeze around me more tightly than I remember. No longer does the cramped space strike me as a space capsule, but a time capsule, where nothing inside ever changes.
At least for Mother.
She doesn’t say a word as I leave her room, compounding the ache in my heart.
I hike to the farthest reaches of our property, where the plants grow wild and rabbits hop through mushroom rings wide as Hula-Hoops. A cluster of Italian cypresses solemnly commune. I flop down on the ground and stare up at their elfin-hat treetops, rising at least thirty feet.
My dream of going to high school was hatched in this very spot, a dream that I could live more than the odd, hermetical life of an aromateur. Never did I imagine those dreams would cost me so dearly.
Useless.
My mother doesn’t love me. I am like one of her garden tools, and now that I am broken, she no longer has a need for me. For her, an aromateur only becomes great by forsaking all personal attachments, not just romantic ones. Even one’s own flesh and blood.
I pick up a pinecone, and begin to count all the spiral patterns whirling in one direction—thirteen, and then the other—eight. Both Fibonacci numbers. A bitter laugh stalls in my throat.Well, now I have all the time to study as much math as I want. But that isn’t what I want. Suddenly, I’m sniffing, then snuffling, and then the spider thread of my resolve breaks, and I’m weeping into my sleeves.
I will live with Aunt Bryony. Mother can find someone else. My presence will just remind her of my failure, or her failure as she might see it, to safeguard my nose. I nearly laugh out loud. I thought Iwaschoosing my nose, lying to Court about not liking him. But love fell into my path, and I tried, but I couldn’t get out of the way fast enough.
I hike back to the house, passing the workshop. Mother’s form is framed by the window. The sight of her, already back to work, puts a hot stone in my sandal. She’s still young; she could have another daughter if she wanted. Maybe the next one will be a keeper.
The sun has already set. I’m still so keyed up, I hardly feel the drop in temperature. I stomp into the house, and dial Aunt Bryony’s number. She’s probably still in the air, but I’ll leave her a message. Then I’ll start packing.
The phone rings, and then I hear a click. But instead of going to voicemail, someone answers. “Hello?”
“Aunt Bryony?”
“Hi, dear.”
“I really need to speak with you.”
“In person or on the phone?”
“Er, aren’t you in Hawaii?”
“I’m at the bottom of Parrot Hill. I didn’t want your mother to smell me before I could decide whether I wanted to come back.”
She never left. “I’ll see you in five minutes then.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
“WHETHER A PLANT FEELS PAIN WHEN CUT IS
OPEN TO DEBATE.WHAT IS NOT, IS THAT PRUNING IS
NECESSARY IF THE PLANT IS TO THRIVE.”
—Champa, Aromateur, 1778
AS SOON ASAunt Bryony hauls herself out of the car, I hug her close. “You didn’t leave.”
