Is he serious? He’s not smiling. Bribery would never have occurred to me, mostly because it’s never been an option. But I’d feel weird using his money, even though it is for his mother. Plus, if the bribery didn’t work, they’d toss us out for sure, maybe even call the cops. “Thanks, but no. My way is less risky. The squirrels do it all the time.”
Conversation stalls the rest of the way to the garden, and it’s hard to know exactly what he’s thinking. Thoughts, unlike feelings, cannot be smelled. On the other hand, the soap bubble notes don’t dissipate as Court concentrates on the driving and I concentrate on what’s going on outside the car, instead of who’s in it. I don’t do a very good job.
FOURTEEN
“EVERY SMELL IS A KEY, UNLOCKING MEMORIES HIDDEN IN
THE CHAMBERS OF THE SOUL.”
—Irisa, Aromateur, 1801
RUTH MEYER WAS the only daughter of a toothpick manufacturer, who believed that the souls of all the trees her father felled were conspiring to kill her. As penance, she built the largest botanical garden this side of the Mississippi. At the time of her death, she owned a hundred acres of prime real estate in the heart of San Francisco, not to mention the cleanest gums in the state.
As the town oddball with the big garden, sometimes I worry that I’m destined for a lonely existence similar to Ruth’s. She probably talked to her plants, too.
We park, and I empty out my messenger bag so I have room for the contraband. Then we make our way to the stone entrance of the Meyer Botanical Garden, past yellow school buses parked side by side like bakery loaves.
I notice a thin black case clipped onto Court’s belt. Must be his EpiPen. “I guess gardens aren’t your thing. You don’t have to come in. I do tend to attract bees.”
“As long as you don’t mind sticking me, I don’t mind being stuck by them,” he jokes.
We pass the ticket office and go right to the gated entrance where I show my lifetime pass, which allows entry for me and a guest. The man studies it long enough to make me worry that he senses my evil designs. I sniff, but the winds are blowing his scents into the garden.
Finally, he hands back my pass. “You should get a new picture.”
I laugh nervously. “Right, I’ll do that.” The picture on the pass was taken when I was eleven. “Have a nice day.”
Once inside, I take in the millions of scents around me. I filter out all the animal odors and focus on the plants, which resonate at higher frequencies in my nose.
Court opens a brochure with a garden map, spreading it out before him like a tourist. The garden is divided into seven pie-shaped sections, one for each continent, with specialty gardens sprinkled throughout. The Children’s Garden sits in the middle of the pizza, boasting a grassy field for running around, trees for climbing, and edible plants. I point at a small patch at the top of the Children’s Garden labeled Ancient Plants. “This one. Follow me.”
We travel down a gravelly path shaded by flowering dogwood that has a powdery fragrance, like a baby’s nursery. Court, still looking at the brochure, whistles. “Mesozoic epoch? So my mom smells like dinosaurs?”
I chuckle. “Not quite. The plants here are like living fossils. They’re resilient to pollutants, meaning they contain the truest core of scent. We all have a touch of the ancients in us.”
I don’t tell him that much of what we know about plants, especially the Ancients, is due to the effort of aromateurs, who believed that plants should be studied for themselves, not just for medicinal uses. It would sound like bragging. The textbooks say that Theophrastus, a student of Aristotle, founded what we call botany, but aromateurs had been categorizing plants for thousands of years before he was even born.
The amused animal cracker smell drifts from Court. “I had no idea plants could be so . . . cool.”
A zing of nervous energy travels through me at the possibility that he could be talking about me, and not the plants. I laugh nervously and walk faster. The banksia gives way to bitter cherry trees. The leaves could substitute for two of Alice’s notes. I stare up at the branches. Just out of arm’s reach.
Court glances back at me. He stretches up for a branch. I jerk my thumb up. Higher. He lifts his heels and touches a slim branch, heavy with dark leaves. I nod.
He checks that nobody’s watching then plucks off a handful. I stuff them into my bag.
“Why do I feel guilty about that?” he whispers.
“I heard it gets easier.”
As we travel farther into the garden, we see more people, mostly senior citizens and kids on field trips. I let my nose guide us to Australia where I harvest kangaroo paw.
We cross a bridge lined on either side with planters of purple coneflowers. I stick my nose in the planters then quickly jerk away from its cloying grape scent.
Court notices my reaction, and carefully sniffs at the coneflowers. “Something wrong with them?”
“No, they just remind me of this time when I was five and ate through a whole quart of Mother’s preserves. She was so mad, she cracked a spoon on the counter.”