Chapter 5 - She Understands
A Whiff of Life and Death
Dear Diary,
Another day without Mom. I am grateful for Murray. Although I don't believe he remembers his mother, I feel certain that he understands something about my plight. He rarely leaves my side.
Also, ever since my last pitch at Henri (which was a miserable failure), I've been hiding in my office. I know that my presentation was lousy, but it was two months' worth of work. I feel like it was all for nothing. I don't know what to do now.
In need of inspiration
(Jim's Journal)
I reach in my pocket to find the bottle of #2 and gather my courage. I rub my index finger over the smooth contours of its corners and over the rough surface of the little cork that holds the beloved scent of Mother.
I think of girls in my past who had rejected me and whom I repulsed. My fear and shame exude from my body and fill the air around me. Shame smells bitter and salty like sea air before a storm. I look at her, studying her face and her eyes. She needs me, this much is clear. She is desperate. Perhaps I truly am the only person who can help her.
"Ok," I say before I'd actually decided to say it. I want to take it back. Perhaps she didn't hear it, but it is too late. She says nothing, but her face changes. The crease between her eyebrows melts away, and her tightly formed lips soften and ease into a smile.
"Wait here, while I check on my own mother and get your mother's profile," I say. "Please make yourself comfortable," I continue, gesturing to the living room. "It will only take a few moments."
I find Mother is sleeping, which she is doing more and more. I change her bedclothes and fluff her pillows. She awakens.
"Mother, don't be startled, but there is a visitor downstairs. I'll be rid of her soon, I promise."
I place the back of my hand on her forehead to check for fever. I don't know why I do it exactly, but it is a gesture of concern that gives us both comfort. Mother asks who she is.
"She's just a girl I met at the library. She needs my help with a science project," I say. I fold the top sheet down of the quilt. She asks if I think she will be unkind like other girls from my past. "I don't know, Mother. I just don't know. I think she truly needs my help. But I'm afraid."
I return downstairs and retrieve my notes and Mrs. Bellman's profile. Before I return, I pull out a blank profile and label it #374.
Profile #374
Gender: female
Age: mid-thirties
Height: 5′ 0"
Weight: app. 105 lbs.
Hair color: brown
Eye color: hazel
Smell Components: TBD
When I return with the file, I find Marie browsing the family photos in the living room.
"Is this your mother and father?" she asks pointing to an old photograph.
"Yes," I say, "from before I was born. Didn't they make a fetching couple?" I hand her the profile.
Profile #368
Gender: female
Age: mid-seventies
Location: The Gardens (nursing facility)
Height: 5′ 3"
Weight: app. 90 lbs.
Hair color: white
Eye color: blue (but rarely open)
Smell Components:
Rose Water - 11.14.10 - initial visit. Sang "Moonglow"
Asper-crème - 11.14.10 - also initial visit. Nurse rubs
on her hands daily
Ivory Soap - 12.13.10 - particularly strong component today, must have received a full bath instead of sponge. Sang "How Great Thou Art"
Jergens Original Scent Dry Skin Moisturizer Lotion - 12.21.10 - particularly dry month, presence of this scent is variable. Sang "The Days of Wine and Roses"
UPS (Unique Personal Scent). Musty, sweet, hint of old paper - 1.5.10 – As she was mostly unconscious, I felt comfortable take a closer DST (Direct Sniff Test).
Notes: Profile #368 is a favorite subject for me because she is rarely conscious and rarely speaks. I am fascinated, however, by her subtle responses to certain songs, particularly "The Days of Wine and Roses." This is also Mother's favorite song. #368's legs often twitch when I sing it, and her lips form into words (or eating or kisses; not sure which). On my last visit, she died holding her daughter's hand.
When I come out, I hand her the sheet of paper with my notes on her mother. She scrutinizes it for a moment. I say, "Please take this with you and identify which components were parts of your mother's scent before she got sick. You will need to search your memory for all the smells that were a part of her life before I began to study her. It is crucial that you are precise with your smell collecting if you want the results to be satisfactory. Had I taken the opportunity when I had it, this would be a much easier process."
"Opportunity? What do you mean?" she says, perhaps concerned.
"On January 3rd, you left your sweater unattended in the library, but you returned before I had a chance to sniff it."
"Wait. What?" she says, a sharp crease forming between her eyebrows.
"I've sniffed hundreds of unattended clothing items at the library, and elsewhere. It is merely a part of my work, which I believe to have great merit."
"Jim, this is an invasion of privacy. It's creepy." Her face scrunches up in a look of disgust as if she'd just tasted a spoiled bit of shrimp.
"Others would agree with you, but I heartily disagree. I'm completely harmless. You have nothing to fear from me or from my work. It is purely scientific."
She raises her eyebrows and pooches her lips out in a gesture of apprehensive surrender. "Purely scientific? It seems awfully personal to you. What exactly is this work you keep referring to?"
"Perhaps it is personal, as you suggest." I tune my thoughts, searching them for the words which I have never explicitly expressed to another. "All of life has a smell, Marie. This very moment between us has a smell. The person who can capture that element of life, can conjure it whenever they want it—whenever they need it."
Her facial features soften, and she says, "But why do you need it?"
I look from her face to the sheet of paper in her hands. She does the same, and in that moment, when our eyes meet again, something extraordinary happens: she understands.
