“Yes. I’ll plant them tonight.”
Briskly, she begins to roll up the sweater. “No. There’s a problem with them. I’m sending them back.”
“What kind of problem?”
She stops rolling the sweater and raises her chin. “You tell me.”
A test. I begin to rise, intending to go to the kitchen, but she holds out a hand to stop me. “From here. I’ve babied you way too long.”
I sink back into the bed. Why does she always make it so hard? The Creamsicles barely whisper here on the second floor, let alone reveal to me their defect.
“Close your eyes. It’s easier to unlayer.”
Mother moves about the room, noisily opening and closing drawers. I can’t help wondering if she’s putting as many obstacles as she can in my path. Even her own scent impedes my progress, especially the heart note of tuberose, that overbearing floral reminiscent of a throbbing headache on a hot summer day. My nose rummages for the bitter telltale signs of mold—one of the main reasons for rejection—but I don’t find any more than normal levels coming from that direction.
Mother stops moving around. “Come on, Mim, don’t try so hard. You look like you’re going to pop a vein.”
More smells tiptoe by: ink, a roll of postage stamps, cornflower water, old lace curtains.
A band of sweat forms around my forehead. Finally, the barest thread of something sour—formic acid—seems to chase on the heels of the Creamsicle scent. Before I catch it, it ducks back into hiding. “It’s an insect.”
“Yes, yes, go on.”
I wait for it to resurface so I can get a clearer picture.
“Mites?” I open my eyes, and stars float around the room.
Mother, in the closet doorframe holding a denim dress, shakes her head. It stings me to smell the blue hydrangea of her disappointment. “Not mites. Aphids. You need to let go. If you try to force your way through the scents, they’ll resist you.”
I huff out my frustration. “What happens when there are no more aromateurs? Don’t you think we should spend our time figuring out that problem instead of smelling aphids?” I don’t think I could run the business all by myself, should something ever happen to Mother. Grandmother Narcissa was as vivacious as verbena, but still couldn’t avoid getting hit by the taxi in Senegal.
“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.”