Donna needed Emma’s help in covering up for her “evening walks.” During these excursions, which were presented to Emma’s dad as “mother-daughter stargazing,” Donna and Noah had sex in a field near their homes and Emma lay in the grass nearby wanting to disappear. She was too scared of her mother’s wrath to run home.
Donna had once had shining, brassy hair. She was curvy and proudly so—she favored sweaters with deep V-necks and even rested her fingers around her cleavage when she spoke, using her long, fluttering fingernails to draw attention to her breasts. Her waist was kept trim with Jane Fonda workout tapes. Even in her later years, her creamy skin seemed to glow and she wore bright pink gloss on her lips, putting it on in the morning before she made coffee, reapplying it until she was in bed for the night (she kept it on the bedside table). Donna wore eye makeup (shadow and liner), heavy mascara, big (if not expensive) jewelry. She bought (and misplaced) golden hoop earrings of various sizes and never removed a circular locket with a photo of her long-dead father inside.
“Shall we do a little stargazing, sweetheart?” Donna would say, entering the living room smelling of Chanel No. 5.
Emma would be watching TV with her father and sisters. She prayed inside her mind for someone to protest her leaving, for anyone to notice her misery, her inner screaming.
“Emma? Darling?”
“OK,” Emma would say.
“My little nature girl!” Donna would coo. They would exit the house hand in hand. Donna would drop Emma’s fingers as soon as they were out of sight.
Some nights, in the grass, Emma would pray for God to make her disappear for real. She wished, it’s true, to die, if only to end the anguish of the summer nights she was forced to lie still and hear her mother betraying her beloved dad.
God just left her in the field. A part of her was still there, feeling those itchy blades of grass under her legs.
Now, Emma was always surrounded by her family—their house was noisy, messy, filled with sports equipment, the smell of food cooking, laundry, and laughter. But it was the same Montana night outside, the same brittle sky that had proven to be empty of salvation.
—
For a time, Emma thought she could make perfume. She’d always been fascinated by the way fragrances could change her mood: from the sick-but-thrilling panic she still felt when she smelled her mother’s favorite, Chanel No. 5, to the way she could close her eyes and name the calming source notes of motherhood—citrus (like the Lemon Pledge she used to polish); Moroccan oud for its deep, dark earthiness; the mint note of Irish Spring soap. She took online perfumery classes, keeping notes on her French teacher’s lectures, buying scarves at the Goodwill to tie jauntily around her hair like Mathilde did, closing her eyes to create “perfume briefs”and later the scents she’d imagined for a line she would start called “Peacock Perfumery.”
Even after it became clear that she couldn’t make a living in Missoula selling perfume and she joined a work-from-home company called Sweet Nothings instead, she thought about the world through the lens of fragrance, storing memories and labeling emotions by scent.
With her perfumes, Emma could speak without saying a word.
Emma’s Sweet Nothings Team Leader, Cassidy Rose, smelled like candy, a saccharine sweetness. When Emma had joined the company, Cassidy Rose’s fragrance made Emma feel alive, successful. Now, any fragrances with raspberry notes made Emma feel ill.
Because, thanks to Cassidy Rose, Emma had lost every cent of her family’s savings. Rich would not be able to retire from his job at Hellgate High School and start a company making wooden furniture. Emma had burned through every dollar in their bank account buying Sweet Nothings lingerie, lotions, lube, and other sex toy products and amassed a debt of almost twenty-five thousand dollars. She was keeping this heartbreaking secret from her husband as every day—every hour—her debt grew more alarming. Failure smelled fermented: faintly rancid, cloying, deepening to a metallic scent of doom.
4
Sylvie
The Monday after Sylvie’s engagement was glorious and ordinary—a dawn walk with her rescue greyhound, Wilhelmina (“Willie,” for short), along Hibiscus Street, a stop for coffee, settling Willie in the shady yard with a fresh bowl of water, parking in the teachers’ lot at Coconut Grove Elementary School. The only thing out of place was a massive diamond ring—formerly Simon’s mother’s ring—encircling Sylvie’s finger.
Sylvie was five-three, and wore her long auburn hair twisted up and held with a clip, chopsticks, or—in a pinch—a pencil. She had light blue eyes, almost-invisible lashes, and unruly brows. Her nose was long and thin, elegant, and her chin was a little bit pointy. Sylvie could do with a department-store makeup consult or a YouTube tutorial. She kept meaning to make time to investigate eye and lip liners, but ended up reading instead. Long walks with her dog kept her from the ravages of the Russell Stover chocolate samplers she loved and bought herself at Publix.
Since Sylvie had discovered her body as a source of pleasure (thanks to Simon) her color was rosier, her eyes aflame, as if continually surprised by her happiness and her thoughts of Simon—his mouth, his strong shoulders and thighs, the way he encircled her waist in his hands, thumbs slowly moving across the bare skin of her stomach, her breath quickening.
Before entering the library, Sylvie twirled her engagement ring to hide the stone. At lunch, she secured the diamond with her thumb as she entered the teachers’ lounge.
Phillip, the assistant principal, greeted Sylvie by hoisting his ham-on-wheat. Florence stood by the kettle, pouring hot water into her Cup Noodles, making sure not to splash her sensible blouse. Sylvie had thought about calling Florence when she texted her sisters about Simon’s proposal, but something had held her back. She wanted to savor the secret, and also to postpone the questions she knew would come about her whiplash engagement.
The microwave beeped, and Beck, who taught third grade and seemed to be growing a goatee, removed a bag of popcorn. He ripped it open and the disgusting, mouthwatering smell of synthetic butter filled the room.
Sylvie mustered her courage. “I have a weekend update,” she said.
“Please tell me it’s about Simon,” said Florence. “When are we meeting this sexy beast?”
Phillip pouted. “I’ve been on Scruff foryearsand I havenevermatched with a Brit.” He reached his hand into Beck’s popcorn bag and Beck slapped it. “Please, just a handful?” said Phillip. “My diets are making me insane.”
Sylvie couldn’t fathom why Phillip was on a diet. He was tall and willowy; his pressed clothes fit his skinny frame perfectly. When he wore short sleeves and chino shorts, his arms were ropy and his calves breathtakingly defined: On the weekends, he ran for hours along the Miami coast wearing a red cap and mirrored, wraparound sunglasses.
Beck tilted the bag toward Phillip.
“Well,” said Sylvie. “Well…Simon asked me to marry him.”
