That Smells Off

I stare at the picture of myself. Brown soft hair framing a round face, clear skin. I seldom take selfies. Or stare in the mirror for that matter. It bothers me, somehow ticking me as self -absorbed. The sun bounces off my image, resulting in an sorbet-orange hue. My eyes drift to the page hastily ripped from an old notebook on my way out the door, relaxing on the console.

The list.

Three columns of doom. Two uneven lines divide the paper. A grease splotch on the corner from a package of McNuggets that evaded the last car cleaning session.

My friends' voices clash like cymbals. Humming, “I read it in a book-the one that smells like old bark- this is what you need.” The other gestured with her hands as if building an invisible diagram, “ this has not been tested nor claimed by scientific journals.”

I glance at the list of "symptoms" asking, how did I get myself here in the first place?

Let me explain from the beginning.

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in her mirror in the afternoon, en-framed in vines, “Ugh.” I was at my friend Stacy's house, I mean, Chakra. She has insisted on me calling her that recently. She’s the type of person who shotguns wheat-grass and ginger tonics for breakfast. Along with countless herbal teas and enough superstitions and theories to make Sigmund Freud create a new personality disorder.

She twirls, her skirt long to the point of sweeping the streets, “What’s wrong love?” A term, along with calling people, sunbeam, darling, or sparkle, since an invitation with some earthly group on 11th street and Glum Avenue.

“I got a prescription for thicker glasses today.”

Stacy, or I mean, Chakra hums. She has a way of communicating with an array of noises as if she belonged to a pod of dolphins, or oceans forbid, beluga whales, my forehead is big enough.

She spins, her skirt momentarily clumping between her legs. Chakra straightens it with one hand, while ringing a finger on her other hand down the spines of each book as if reciting a solemn poem of a vow. Chakra snags one free, gently turning its faded dog-eared pages. “Yes, there. Your answer has arrived.”

I check over my shoulder expecting a person.

“Darling, carrot juice. Your body’s asking for it-I can feel it.”

“Carrot juice? That's it.”

She hums drifting past the edges of her skirt sweeping my pants. Spreading her arms to the sun streaking in through a wide open window. “ There is change on the horizon. It brightens the skin, nourishes the eyes, and awakens the parts of your body that are slumbering.”

I listen in dismay, a cure, so simple, will it even work? Being friends with Chakra for over ten years I have been first hand witness to this transformation of hippie meets healer.

I was there when Kelly, over thirty seven weeks pregnant, needed to go into labor, being at risk for preeclampsia. Stacy, or uh, Chakra, gave her a mason jar of raspberry tea Two hours later her water broke. A healthy baby boy was born by noon. At this she said: “Kelly needed her aura cleansed.”

Even with myself, a dirty cough and flu lasted and bedridden me for almost a month endangering my trip to Paris. A successful dose of elderberry and garlic, with red spicy powder, warmed my body and smelled like Italian deli meat for a week.

So, with all these witnesses I decided to give it a try. The next time at the grocery store I brought organic one hundred percent carrot juice. What could go wrong?

Apparently something. Chakra didn’t mention I’d start smelling emotions.

Yeah, you read that right, smelling emotions.

At first I played it off, like any average person would. Two things people fear most: not being loved, followed by not being believed in. And by this I mean coco crazy grippy socks, not believe in.

Getting my tires changed the woman smelt as if she’d been embalmed in cake, despite her hands being bathed in grease. No, I reasoned. It’s just perfume.

I was with a co-worker in the break room when the stringent odor of a garage truck evaded the room. We were on the 13th floor of the office building.

Coming into the lobby of my apartment I overheard the doorman being fired. He’s worked at this complex for more than thirty years. Trying to scuttle unnoticed to the elevator, the acid smell of vinegar seeped from my nose down my throat.

I was able to keep this unknown phenomenon under wraps for a few months. But we all know great secrets can’t be kept secret. Mine happened to be exposed by the one and only.

Me. And of all places.

Target.

A woman pushed past like a bull on steroids though barely thicker than a rake. Out loud I had said, “she smells like anger.” Mika halts in the middle of the lane. If we were in a street with traffic we’d be orange traffic cones.

“Did you just say she smells like anger?”

Now I know this is getting interesting, but let me tell you about Mika.

Mika will vehemently debate anything that can’t be proved with the knowledge of an owl and aggression of a Tasmanian devil. To her philosophy is as existent as woolly mammoths. She only believes in those because of the bones laying around. A bumper sticker on her Toyota Rava stating “2+2=4. That’s it.” Always dressed in white like a runaway from an occult, with a red bandana wrapped on her head pirate style. We met in conceptual physics in college. I mean, she was helping me with homework and all. She’d be a great defense lawyer one day while I’m decoding how I ended up being friends with a spiritual healer and scientific debater.

Back to the exposed secret.

“Umm, I did…”

“You can’t smell emotion,” in a tone that would subject she’s arguing that dirt indeed is brown. “That’s not a thing.”

“Sure,” pressing the cart forward like I hope to do with this conversation. She stops it with her hip. Blocking the display of Christmas pjs. A grandma trying to get a better look at the medium sized ones, mostly like for her hormonal teenage granddaughter.

“You can’t run. What unproven yoga pose does Stacy have you doing?”

“Its, Chakra, Mika.”

Her face is blanker than a sheet of printer paper. “Sorry, Chakra.”

Huffing in submission, “It’s just carrot juice.”

Mika waves her hand nearly smacking an oncoming shopper.

“Excuse you,” he grunts.

“Excuse you,” she spits back. “Carrot juice gives you beta-carotene. Not clairvoyance.”

I manage to maneuver the cart, as the grandma behind us coughs. Mika stays put. “I’m not lying.”

Edging closer, voice low and steady like when she disputed with our Professor about wave-particle duality, “I said you were wrong, not lying. There’s a difference. Now,” readjusting her scarf to flatten black bangs gone wild, “from the beginning, explain it. All facts, no fiction.”

So right there in the middle of the lane in Target in front of the Christmas pjs display. I delineate in factual detail, Chakra’s administration of teas, creams, and carrot juice. I expect her to say something like “No research has been done to prove this.”

Instead she states, “Your skin and hair look healthier.”

I squint. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“Both. But it’s not Chakra. Hormones balance themselves, you know. Science, not magic.”

Two days later my fingers seem to have lost function, as I attempt for the umpteenth time to close my button. As a psychology major, halfway through guided clinical practices, my mid-progress check is today.

I exhale. Carrot juice. Padding down the soft hallway to the fridge. I pour the last bit into a plastic cup, rinsed out from the sink. A glint of my image reflects in the lid of a drying pot lid. “To good health,” holding up the glass.

“Talking to yourself again?” My roommate, Gale, enters polishing off the last of a subway tossing the wrappers and two ink pens into the trash.Without trying to be strange I ask, “Do you smell that?”

“Smell what?”

“Nevermind,” shaking my head, throbbing from the aroma of matches since I woke up.

“Quinn, you’re shivering. Nervous about progress because you've been talking about it all week. It’s like….emotional unsettling,” wiping ink-smeared hands on her linen slacks.

“Maybe a little,” slumping over the counter. “I don’t want it to end but I don’t want it to be over either.”

“The uncertainty of the big wide world,” in one breath.

Another Love by Tom Odell plays from my phone. Just what I need. Mika.

“I got to” scrambling down the hallway. Secluded in my own room, the door shut. “Hello.”

“Took you long enough to answer.”

“Hi, how are you doing,” switching voices. “Good. How about you?”

“Sure. Sure. I don't have time for that. I’ve been reading up on this, prognosis. It’s real.”

She hears me inhale.

“Okay, hold on. It's real in the neurological sense. Your brain is arranging input under certain smells; not channeling cosmic energy.”

“That’s all human behaviors are from the brain arranging impute.”

Plowing on, “Your brain is wired closely to those individuals who see colors with certain memories or tastes. Your brain is connecting smells with emotions experienced on a day-to-day basis. This is data. Not…whatever Chakra is saying.”

Mika paused, paper riffling, she abstains from typing any of her notes or research. “By the way, did you stop drinking the carrot juice?”

“Drinking my last cup.”

“Good. Don’t drink anymore.”

“I thought the carrot juice wasn’t the problem. It's my brain.”

“It’s proven. It is your brain.”

“Chakra invited me to have brunch this weekend. Do you want to come?”

“The last time we had brunch,” by the broken flow of her voice I can see her wildly gesturing her hands, “I had a baby goat climbing on me.”

“They were cute though.”

“That hasn’t been proven, but I’ll come. I hope you’ll do well.”

“Thanks. Thanks alot.” Mika hangs up before I can say good-bye.

In the parking lot of Saint Dymphna Mental Institute, my palms are excessively sweaty. The steering wheel has a layer of moisture. My gut is likely an origami paper and my intestines tangles fish nets.

Masking my wobbly as best as possible without tipping in these new heels, I open the finger printed glass doors. The lobby is large, on a normal day, I wouldn't have noticed the plants are greener. The chairs seem inches apart and the ceiling lower.

“Quinn Quota.”

“Hey,” breathy.

“You're early.”

“I am.”

The receptionist, Mary-ann, is fit, and mentally sharp, able to see problems from a mile's distance.

“You have fifteen minutes. Have a moment and take a breath.”

A tense laugh escapes. “Okay.”

Applying Chakra’s thousands of breathing methods and techniques, in time of trouble, have worked. Only when I remember, which is infrequent.

In my mental state of clarity I smell coffee. Most likely a station in the staff room. Vinegar stings my nostrils.

“Denny.” Mary-Ann calls, but the glass doors have already closed. She mumbles something, rising from her desk and striding with purpose down the hall.

I had read about Dr. Dugan's accomplishments. He was essentially a myth. Like fairies and unicorns and green men with pots of gold at the end of a rainbow. Every intern whispered about him with respect, often with the names of Freud, Skinner, and Piaget. He’s won the State Clinical Excellence Award three times. No one else has done it twice. Half of his research is required reading in three quarters of psychology undergrad programs across the country.

I heard stories about him diagnosing patients before taking a seat, prophesying relapse three weeks ahead, and his recommendations were golden tickets to the elite internships. So, when I got the email stating I’d be doing clinical rotations in Saint Dymphna Mental Institute with him as my supervisor, I was elated.

Scared, but elated.

The first time we met I was a wreck. He was involved in a conversation where we locked eyes and he stared into mine with the intensity of a hungry predator. “You're afraid. I can smell it on you.”

And in the situation- it wasn’t funny. I almost peed myself.

“I’m kidding,” stretching out a hand. “Welcome.”

Two weeks into the rotation a big disagreement resulted in two students leaving the program.

On a bad day he’s late or doesn’t answer questions. At his worst. He’s thrown a water bottle at someone’s head. It broke through the wall, leaving a three inch hole. He demanded a post be taped over it, three feet off the ground.

On a good day, he's simply the best professor, mentor, and counselor. He’ll stay for hours off the clock answering questions, pondering theories and explaining ideas. I stay for the good days, which thankfully or more often than not.

Now I face what the other two have left. And from Denny's exit-it must be a bad day. Returning to her desk, Mary-Ann says, “Quinn. Dr. Dugan is ready for you.”

I stand up, my stomach drops below sea level and the long narrow corridor seems like I’m on my way to execution.

The door opens. His tall commanding demeanor fills half the doorway. “You're late.” He barks.

I consult my watch. Eleven o’clock.

“One minute and fifty two seconds late. Sit.”

I do so. Comfort evades me, though I sink into the cushion. All the smells from past encounters assault me instead. A struggle ensues to listen and keep down breakfast over the next ten minutes.

“...In summary, by professional criteria, and my over thirty years of experience- you're an outlier. And it's not the good kind either. In all my years I’ve never come across a student as unprepared as you.”

Dr. Dugan’s forearms rest on his plush oak desk. Calm, and composed. “By a significant statistical margin- you're the worst student I’ve had walk through those doors.”

And apparently it’s true. I am unprepared as my body goes forward, my mouth opens and…

My day and night were wrested from me as the moment in Dr. Dugan's office replayed like a cursed cassette record. By brunch the next morning I was ready to beg if I had to, for intervention. My science or the sense of space. I didn’t care.

Pleading, “Chakra I need a fix to this. I can’t go around vomiting on people.”

A mumble slash bird tweeting sound escapes parted lips.

“Correct. In a clinical setting that is generally frowned upon. Did you at least,” Mika leans over, motioning with her hand like a waterfall.

I shake my head. Peering at Mika’s leather messenger bag slouched on one of the brass table legs. The book spine reads: The Deja eu Enigma: A Journey Through the Anomalies of the Mind, Body, and Time by Marei D. Jones and Larry Flaxman.

“You projectile barfed!” Too loud for my ease of the nearby tables at the cafe. Yes, I, Quinn Quota, projectile vomited on my supervisor.

“Shh,” peeking at the closest table, another group of young women. Mika’s more interesting in my experience than her favorite subject, time transference.

Chakra exhales- releasing the tension of a galaxy universe. “I feel the shape, darling. The fog has cleared.” Chakra enlarges her plan.

“That’s not a plan,” Mika hand sweeps across the table, “that’s a ritual.”

With the smile of one being complimented. “Rituals contain more poetry than plans, love. This one will work.

“Data works.”

“For me,” clutching a leather bound book, “this is data. I’ve seen healing.”

I interrupt. “I see we’re talking about convictions here but, how are we going to get rid of this?”

“I sense we will.” Chakra zones out at the bushes, delicately adorned with spider webs and blooming roses. “Though, one star is out of place.”

“While you figure that star out,” Mika presses her palms firmly on the table. “I need proof of what smell goes to what emo-”

Chakra half yells jumping up, executing some belly dance roll with the flexibility of a cat. “Mika, you're a genius,” returning to her seat.

“I’m not a genius, just logical.”

“We need,” ripping out a scrap of paper from her notebook, “a list of all your symptoms.”

“Imagined symptoms."

“Whether they're imagined or not, they’re affecting her,” Chakra emphasizes with the softness of a petal. “And that makes them real enough. Will you have a list by Tuesday evening?”

I shrug. “Yeah. Tuesday evening.”

That brings me here, the drive to Chakra’s favorite brunch spot is downtown, trafficked, and bustling with other hippie long skirt tree hugging folks. I check each side of my face in the rear-view mirror. Sure, my eyes are brighter, my hair shiner, my skin clearer. But….

I read off the list once more as if that’ll change the circumstances.

Scent - Emotion - Context

Cake - hidden sadness - tire shop woman

Garbage truck - stress - break room

Vinegar - fear/ panic/ dread - fired doorman

Burnt matches - anxiety (also dread) - myself (unfortunately)

Sorbet-orange - self-consciousness- the mirror (goodness I hate those things)

Acidic sting - shock - also the doorman

Coffee - alert/tension - Saint Dymphna staff room

Anger - sharp/ rushed - Target woman

Wet cardboard - nervous - Dr. Dugan’s office

I take the scrap of paper, mash it into a ball. This could be the cause of one of three things: neurological, mystic, or I need more sleep. Maybe all three.

I lean over the console and cram the ball of paper into the bottom of the glove compartment on the passenger side along with other discarded stained papers and receipts.

For now, this strangeness has to wait. I can pretend to be normal for one more day. But something in me knows, it’s already moving. And time, inconveniently, doesn’t stop for anyone.

Meanwhile, I smell wet cardboard.