“What do you mean, ‘no more aromateurs’? One day, you’ll have a daughter or two.” She gives a tiny shrug and grins. “Or three.”
I clamp my lip. I don’t think I could ever inflict such a lonely life on anyone else.
Mother is hawking her eyes into mine, so I say, “Even if I did have kids, one family can’t carry an entire species.”
“Species,” she says the words as if it tasted sour. “Aromateurs have existed for thousands of years. We’re like the hostas; we’ll never quite die out.” She brushes past me with her dress and begins to roll it up. “I wore this when I was pregnant with you,” she says brightly, indicating the discussion is over. “All it needs is a belt.” After stuffing the roll into the suitcase, back into the closet she goes. Mother prides herself on her frugality. When the dress finally rots off her body, she’ll use it as a rag, and after that she’ll use it to line the chicken coop.
I trace my finger around the intertwining flowers that run the length of her quilt. Unlike their real-life counterparts, Mother’s flower, a dahlia, twines tightly around my aunt’s blue bryony.
She reemerges from the closet and tosses her belt into the suitcase, then starts rolling her underwear into neat bundles. “I’ll be gone until next Monday. While I’m away, you’ll need to finish Ms. Salzmann’s elixir. It’s done and all you’ll need to do is agitate and clarify. Fix her Wednesday before you go to school. On Thursday, Dr. Lipinsky’s coming in for a sniff analysis. Four p.m. Both senior specials.”
Of course, I already knew about both appointments. “Okay, no problem.”
Mother pauses in her underwear rolling to squint at me. Her nose wiggles, and I realize I’ve started to smell boggy again. I lower my eyes and meekly ask, “Is there anything else I can do?”
She sits beside me, and the mattress dips, rolling me toward her. “Just do the things you’re supposed to do and we’ll be fine.”
“Right. Okay.”
She pats my arm. “You could be a great aromateur, Mim. As great as your grandmother Narcissa.”
Mother loves to tell me this, but today, it sounds like a warning.
“What makes you so sure?”
“When I was pregnant, your nose became combined with mine; I could smell things happening twenty miles away. Like that fire in Pheasant Hill.”
“You never told me that.”
“If you want to become great like her, you’ll need to focus. Too many things going on in there right now.” She taps my head. “Algebra, jumping jacks, blah, blah, blah. I know there’s something else in there, too, something you’re not telling me.”
I freeze and force my mind to go blank.
Still focused on me, she begins coiling a leather belt while I impersonate a second suitcase. The belt buckle falls out of the middle and the whole thing unwinds, distracting her momentarily. She lets out a gasp of annoyance. “So what is it?”
“I, uh, really, uh—”
“You really what?”
I see an opportunity, like a single red bloom in a field of golden poppies. Keeping my thoughts carefully neutral, I say, “I smelled this scent on someone the other day and I didn’t know what it was. It’s been bothering me.”
Her eyes narrow, reminding me of a cat that’s unsure if it sees a mouse. “Go on.”
“It had a dominant of miso soup, osha beats, a lick of buffalo weed, not too spicy, with a silvery finish. Do you know what it is?”
She goes back to rolling her belt. “There must be two hundred botanicals that fit that description.”
“I know.” I didn’t really think she could tell me. Words can only take us so far in describing a scent. The English language is notoriously lacking in scent terminology. Of course, aromateurs have evolved their own terminology, but that can only narrow the field, not pinpoint. At least Mother’s off the trail. I lead her further away. “What do you do if you can’t match a scent?” From her open crossword book, I pick up her favorite bookmark and pretend to study the laminated pressed violets.
“Never happens anymore. It used to, when I was younger.”
“So whatdidyou do when it happened? When you were younger. It would be nice to know how to become . . . great.”
“Don’t worry, Dr. Lipinsky’s easy. I met him once before. He’s mostly fruits.” She smiles. “It’s wonderful to see you finallytaking such an interest.”
I let the matter drop now that I’m safe. “I better let you finish packing.” I pass her the bookmark and haul myself up from the bed.
“Mim?”
