The Scent Keeper(91)
And I had one left.
THE BOTTLE
In the back of my dresser, I found my father’s last bottle. I pulled it out and held it in my hands, the scent-paper rolled up inside, the green-wax seal starting to crack with age. The last bit of us.
Come find me, I heard it whisper.
How many times had I held that bottle over the past six years, longing to go back to our life again? How many times had I stopped myself, kept the seal unbroken?
I remembered my father, burning that first faded scent-paper, sending it back to the sky—the way the fragrance had come out of the smoke like a gift we had not thought to ask for and knew we would not get again. How precious that had made it. How much, just for that moment, we paid attention. Perhaps that had been the lesson all along, the message the scent-papers had been whispering as they lay in those drawers in the walls. I wondered what would have happened if we’d listened to them then. If we’d let them out, let them live.
Still, I hesitated now. If I opened the bottle in my hand, the scent inside would mingle with this place. Both would change, become part of one another.
But then I understood that that, too, was what I wanted.
* * *
Carefully, I broke the seal, listening to the swish of glass against glass as I pulled out the stopper, the rustle as the scent-paper unfurled in my hand.
I walked to the kitchen, and lifted down the white ceramic bowl that Victoria and I used for salads. I put the paper inside, lit a match, and touched it to one of the corners. It began to glow, then burn.
Victoria came into the kitchen.
“I smelled smoke,” she said, and I pointed to the bowl. She caught sight of the scent-paper, and she let out a laugh brittle with irony.
“That’s about all those are good for anymore.”
“Just wait,” I said. She raised an eyebrow but stayed where she was.
In the white bowl, the paper caught fire, burning like a desperate flower, blooming and dying at the same time. Its scents came on tendrils of smoke, wrapping themselves around me.
We missed you.
I inhaled, and Victoria’s kitchen disappeared around me. It was early morning in the cabin, winter; I could smell the woodstove working to keep the frost at bay. My father had fed the sourdough starter, and the tang of it played off the warm scent of coffee grounds. I could smell my own warmth in the air, rising from the blankets I’d tossed aside.
I remembered that morning. It was the first time I ever saw the machine. I must have been three, maybe four years old. I’d woken up and seen my father, standing in the middle of the room, a box in his hands, bright and shiny and magical. I remembered racing across the floor, my bare feet tingling from the chill.
What is it, Papa? It’s wonderful. I want to know.
And he’d put the shiny box aside and lifted me up high and said, You are the most wonderful thing in the world, little lark.
* * *
The last of the paper crumbled to ash. I stood there, trying to remember what had happened next—but I couldn’t. Did my father show me the machine, or did we go outside and chop wood?
You’d think I’d remember, but I didn’t. What I remembered was how it felt to be held in his arms. To be loved that way, before everything else happened.
And in that moment, I felt whole.
“Oh,” I heard Victoria say, and when I turned to her, her eyes were filled with tears.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Scent Keeper began with an image in my mind of a young girl in a cabin made of drawers—but it was real people and places that helped bring her to life. So here are my thank-yous, although they could never be inclusive enough.
I was lucky to have an extraordinary support system while writing this book. The Seattle7Writers take what could be a lonely discipline and give it a true feeling of camaraderie. My writing group members—Marjorie Osterhout, Thea Cooper, Jennie Shortridge, Randy Sue Coburn, and Tara Austen Weaver—have been a lifeline throughout this process. Your insights and wordsmithing genius mean everything to me.
Early readers are an author’s safety net. Deedee Rechtin, Nina Meierding, Holly Smith, Caitlin Vincent, and Ben, Paul, Michael, and Gloria Bauermeister all helped Emmeline find her voice. Sasha Kay was my go-to source for all things Canadian. The amazing team at Writers House—Amy Berkower, Genevieve Gagne-Hawes, and Alice Martin—stuck with me through five different versions. Leslie Gelbman at St. Martin’s Press believed in this book and offered it a true home. And then there is Rylan Bauermeister, my book whisperer, who gave me an editorial path through a very deep forest. I owe you all cookies for life.
While I was writing, I was lucky enough to have a residency at Hedgebrook on Whidbey Island. There, Emmeline tackled some of her most difficult moments and came through strong. Thank you, Amy, Vito, Kathy, Denise, and Julie—for all you do to bring women’s words into the world.
The islands in The Scent Keeper had their origin in the remote Broughton Archipelago in British Columbia. Many thanks to Bruce and Josée McMorran of the Paddler’s Inn for their introduction to this extraordinary place, and to Nikki von Schyndel, who opened my eyes and taught me how to forage for food. The dolphins are for you. And while Henry and Colette are fictional characters, the brightly colored cottages at Gordie and Marilyn Graham’s Telegraph Cove Resort provided inspiration for Secret Cove.