Chapter 9
Hua Ruoxuan
Five Dynasties. Netted riches from troubled political waters and began to build the family’s wealth.
Heart note // Strengthen confidence
Base note // Patchouli
“At least March came in like a lion, so it’ll be out like a lamb,” Ana assures me as she flips the page on her Humane Society calendar. “Oh, look, this month is hamsters.”
She grabs the pen she uses to mark in special events and glances at me. “When’s your birthday, by the way?”
“March,” I say.
“So it’s coming?” She’s all fluffy hair and black overalls, cinched tight with a wide elastic belt and rolled up to the knees to show glitter socks.
“It’s today.”
She freezes, horror writing over her features. “I missed-slash-am currently missing your birthday?”
“Did you say the slash out loud in that sentence?”
“How else would you verbally indicate it?” She frowns. “Also, don’t change the topic.”
“It’s not a big deal to me.” A good coping mechanism for years of uncelebrated birthdays is to convince yourself you don’t care.
“That’s cool.” She writes my name in the correct calendar square with a fun bubble script and a few hearts. “To each their own, and all that. How old are you? How do I not know this stuff?”
“There’s no questionnaire,” I say. “I’m thirty-three.”
“Me too! Fun fact, that’s the same age Jesus was when he was crucified.”
I stare at her. “How do you know that?”
“Thirteen years of Catholic school, and my mother pointed it out in order to ask me what I’ve done with my life compared to Christ. She didn’t take it well when I told her he didn’t have kids, either, and the Bible doesn’t mention our Blessed Virgin getting on his case about it.
” She checks the time and flips on the white neon OPEN sign before smiling at me. “Happy birthday, Lucy.”
When was the last time someone said the words to my face? To my astonishment, tears prick my eyes. Luckily, Ana turns to glance out the window, so I can get myself under control. “Oh, gross.”
“What?” I should have known it would be the teenagers, whom Ana has named Elvis and Priscilla. This time they’re leaning with their foreheads together like one of them is about to go off to war. “Shouldn’t they be in school?”
“I love those crazy kids,” Ana says.
“You do?”
“No, but I read a thing about loving-kindness meditation, so I’m trying to reframe my loathing at having seen both their tongues as having hope in young love.”
I have no such desire, so I go to hang up my jacket in the back but stop on the threshold. It looks much different than it did yesterday. “What’s this?”
Ana jumps past me into the room with jazz hands. “Surprise! It’s my new jewelry workspace. I set it up this morning.”
Across from the couch, there’s now a battered worktable and a collection of drills, solder guns, goggles, pliers, and what looks like a crucible under a bright light with a swinging magnifying glass.
Mistaking my silence, she says, “We can do up a schedule if you want me out of your hair when you’re working. ”
I can feel my face going purple that she thinks me so selfish. “Oh my God, no. I’m sorry. I was taking it in. It’s amazing.”
“Thanks. I can’t wait to get started.” She carefully scratches her arm.
On her bicep is her latest tattoo: an American traditional design of a mermaid with a heart.
The bold colors and strong lines match her vibe, and I didn’t say anything when I noticed the mermaid’s features look a little bit like Jayne’s.
The morning is slow, and Ana leaves to run some errands in the late afternoon. The door opens and I look up with my customer-service face. To my surprise, Rafe walks in.
“Hi?” It’s been a day since the blackout, and I think we’re both struggling with what’s next, because a decade of not talking and some soul-baring isn’t something one simply forgets or gets over.
I thought maybe we’d have at least a few days of uncomfortable texts as we tried to feel each other out, but it’s a relief to have Rafe simply arrive, potential awkwardness be damned.
“Happy birthday, Lucy.” He hands over a lovely glossy-leafed jade plant and a small box that reveals a cupcake through its cellophane window. “I know you’re working, but I wanted to bring you these.”
I’m floored he remembered, let alone bought me a gift. “Oh my God,” I say. “I mean, thank you.”
He smiles, the left side of his mouth lifting higher than the right and making my face warm. “Your mom told my mom to remind me that today was your birthday.”
“Oh.” The jade plant is still lovely, and it was good of him to come by, but the leaves look duller when I run my finger along them.
He shrugs. “I didn’t need the reminder, although I appreciated her sharing your address.”
“She did what?” So she knows we’ve seen each other, although I decided not to mention it to her. I didn’t want to know what she thought.
“Your mother has always been very detail-oriented.”
That’s a polite way to say controlling. I take the Funfetti cupcake and divide it to share. Rafe makes a slow turn to examine the shop. “You were more emo when you were younger,” he notes.
“That part of the store isn’t mine.” I point at the counter. “That is.”
“That feels more like you,” he says before biting into his cupcake half. “You had a sketch of your perfect store when you were eighteen, and it looked a lot like this.”
“I did?”
“In that black notebook you used to carry around. The one with the sticker of a fox on the front.”
“Oh, my scent notebook. I wonder what happened to it.” It’s easy to talk to him when we’re reminiscing, and I relax.
Only a bit, though, because I can’t help but wonder what it means that he remembers such a small detail of our shared past. Even at such a distance, it feels good to have been seen. Rafe always did that for me.
I show him my workspace in the back and he laughs. “God, this is like going down memory lane.”
I know what he means. “You used to come by the lab on Wednesdays after soccer.”
He winces. “Your mom installed an industrial fan after that time I brought McDonald’s for you. I felt bad.”
I grin at him. Mom was furious and made me wash down the entire lab to get out the smell. “The Big Mac was worth it.”
He picks up a vial with a questioning look, and I hand him a blotter.
It’s a gourmand of praline with marzipan and lychee, given depth by patchouli.
He used to test all my creations, and it’s a pleasure to share my perfumes with Rafe again.
I used to wait, barely breathing, for the hum he always gave when he found something he liked, and the same happens now as he sniffs a few more of my works in progress.
“This is incredible,” he says. “Your mother said you wanted time to be on your own, and I can tell how you’ve changed over the years. These seem more complex? Maybe layered? I’m not sure of the right word.”
“Thanks,” I say, unable to control my smile. Unlike my mother, Rafe has always been complimentary of my perfumes.
He glances at his watch. “I’d better go. I have an event with some clients.”
“Oh, of course.” I try not to sound disappointed that he fit me in between commitments. After all, he came by the store. That means something.
He looks at my perfumer’s organ. “Do you think you’d like to grab dinner soon? You can show me a place you like in the city, or we can try one new to both of us.”
Is this a date or a catch-up between two old friends?
It occurs to me that I’d prefer it to be the former.
I could ask where he wants to go with this, but I lack the courage.
It’s too soon, and I’m unsure of him, and myself.
Despite our history, this is new. Also, he did make a point of stressing he only wants to be friends.
“Sure,” I say. No matter which it is, I need to get to know him again before we can move forward.
We decide on a few days from now, and then Rafe leaves, pausing to wave through the window from the street.
I swipe my finger along the last bit of icing on my plate, smiling at my new plant and feeling good for the first time in ages despite my earlier moli failure.
It’s like rediscovering Rafe has taken some of the sting out of it.
He was always the sugar to get down the medicine, and it seems he still is.
I should have known this buoyant feeling wouldn’t last, because when I get home, a package waits for me in the mail room.
The second I’m in my apartment, I throw it on the sagging couch like a hot potato at a child’s birthday party.
I know what it contains, because every March for the last twenty-eight years, my mother has created a birthday perfume for me.
When I was younger, I used to make requests.
Make it smell like the sky, Mommy. Cats, cats, cats!
I want a unicorn. The last was an effervescent cotton candy that somehow was exactly how seven-year-old me had imagined a unicorn would smell.
In what is rapidly becoming the closet of monsters from my childhood nightmares—the werewolves and ghosts transformed into more adult fears about duty and obligation—sits a plastic tub holding twelve identical bottles to the one I know is wrapped up and lying on that couch.
They’re labeled Luling21 to Luling32 and I’ve lugged them through multiple cities and living arrangements.
I could have shipped them with my other perfume stuff, but despite never uncapping the bottles, the idea they could be lost in transit devastates me.
I grab a glass of wine before I reassess and take a shot of tequila. It’s medicinal, like field surgery in some old war.
When the phone rings, it disturbs the hush of my dark apartment and startles me so much I drop the shot glass into the sink. The phone rings twice more before I manage to pick it up.
“Happy birthday, Luling.” Despite our distance and the push and pull of our relationship, my mother’s voice settles deep into my bones, then travels up to form a lump in my throat.