December? What does that matter? I wait for her to go on, but she doesn’t. This is harder than extracting information from a baby. “Sniff-matching who?” I start whistling.Maybe I’ll have a seizure projecting all this calm and I won’t have to PUF anybody because I’ll be dead.
“Bryony’s, though of course, I knew her scentprint by heart.”
Even though Mother and Bryony are identical, their scentprints are not, just like their fingerprints.
“The PUF would’ve strengthened her innate scent notes,overpowering any contamination by Michael’s notes,” Mother’s voice twists when she says his name. She gets up from the farm table and rummages through a bucket of daffodil bulbs. “The effect is nearly always immediate, like neutralizing mist.”
I let out a slow, even breath. So that’s how it’s done, sniff-matching the person contaminated, in this case, Alice, then fixing her with her own elixir.
Mother cuts her gaze to me, and I quickly ask, “What happened after Aunt Bryony refused to be PUF’d?”
She shrugs. “I went home. She sent me a letter, but I threw it away.”
“Why?”
“If it was something important, she could have told me in person. She never came, of course.” She holds up a misshapen bulb and her nose wrinkles.
The phone rings. Mother chucks the bulb into the recycle bin, then slaps the dirt off her hands before answering. “Sweetbriar Perfumes . . . Oh, hello, Mr. Frederics.”
I don’t move a muscle when I hear the name.
“Yes, everything went well, I think.” She looks at me, and I smile and nod. I hope she’s distracted by Mr. Frederics in her ear and doesn’t smell the panicked zingers of habañero pepper flying off me.
“Oh, it could happen as early as tomorrow, but I always say give it a week. Everyone is different.” Mother’s fingers roll at the hem of her denim shirt as she listens. “You bet, anytime.” Shehangs up the phone and beams at me. “The man is just so thrilled. You see, now, this is why we make the sacrifices we make. People need us. We are the keepers of their hopes, their dreams.”
She unties her apron and hangs it on a hook. Her nose twitches, and I go still. She’s smelling me. “It’s remarkable how similar you and Bryony are in the top notes, not just the zinnia.” She pauses, knowing the zinnia comment stings me. It’s a pleasing fragrance, peppery and flowery, but it tends to wander before settling squarely in the nose. She’s not-so-subtly reminding me not to be a flake, like her sister. “There’s the ginger, and the zinfandel with the stubborn liftoff, just like that bottle we sampled in Croatia last summer. Thankfully you’re different enough in the heart notes, or I’d worry.”
I can’t help worrying about whatshe’sworrying about—that I’d betray her, like Aunt Bryony. While the top notes make the first impression, heart notes are the soul of a fragrance, the thing that transforms random smells into scent. It’s no accident that Mother’s primary heart note is tuberose, a scent exceptional enough to be used for both weddings and funerals, and for which only a single blossom is enough to fill a temple with fragrance. A little of Mother goes a long way. But it’s the interplay of the heart notes with the top and base notes that give the scent character. So even if I did have the same heart notes as Aunt Bryony, that doesn’t mean we’d make the same choices.
“I’m going to soak the lentils. Don’t forget to turn off the computer.”
The blue door swings shut after her.
I should feel relieved that she’s gone, but my limbs have gone cold and heavy. If Mother and I should ever have a falling out, would I receive the same treatment as my aunt? One moment, Mother and Aunt Bryony are as close as two daffodils on a double-headed stalk, and the next, each is a single-head species. If Mother ever cut me off, I would have to start anew, somewhere far away so we don’t compete or, worse, eke out a living assisting the police in drug busts like a dog, or hunting expensive truffles like a pig.
Grimly, I replace the index cards in the drawer. Nothing against canines or ungulates, but that would be a humiliating way to live.
SEVEN
“THE GIFT OF FLOWERS OPENS MANY DOORS.”
—Hasenu-da, Aromateur, 1888
KALI’S HEARTY VOICEwakes me out of a fitful sleep. Sitting up in bed, I peer through my window into the garden. Kali’s leaning against the well edge, strapping aerating shoes over the red Vans she got at Twice Loved. The aerating shoes resemble sandals but with nail-like spikes on the bottom. A T-shirt, and a bright lavalava—a rectangle of fabric knotted to form a skirt—drapes her solid figure, topped by a plantation-style straw hat, her gardening uniform. Mother stands next to her, along with a third person whose identity I can’t make out through the rockrose bushes.
I lift the window and sniff. Mr. Frederics.
I jump out of bed. He just called yesterday. Something must have happened. Maybe he had tried to bust a move on Ms. DiCarlo and she slammed him to the mat. Or maybe Alice had begun making overtures. Mother will be onto me like Velcro.
I’m in trouble.
I wiggle into a sundress and shoes, then hurry outside. The three stand in a paved area shaded by palm trees, hung with containers of petunias and blue star jumpers.
Kali smoothly unfolds herself from the bench.“Talofa.”
Mr. Frederics tugs a wrinkle out of his spinach-hued sweater vest. “Good morning, Mim.” He doesn’t smell mad, but maybe he’s good at hiding his feelings.
“Good morning.”
