Page 1 of Perfume Girl

Before

THE LOVING FINGERS THAT SWEPTover the petals of the sweet-smelling rose were the same ones that cut through its thorny stem with shears.

I’ll give you another life,I thought, dropping the shears to the ground.

I raised my gaze to the bay window to see if Mummy had stirred. She usually slept in, allowing my nine-year-old mischievous self to take advantage of her absence.

I continued exploring the garden’s gems, finding a sprig of mint. I plucked it from the ground for the sole purpose of turning it into perfume.

The roses wither and fall, but not you. I’ve chosen you and surely that means something, surely that alone soothes the bitterness.

Inhaling its delicate perfume, I carried my little treasure across the garden all the way to the bottom of our property and opened the door to the corner shed, hurrying in and finding my usual place on the tarpaulin to protect my dress’s hem. On my knees, surrounded by tools that hung where my father had left them weeks before he left, I plucked each velvety petal from the blossom and dropped them into the base of my marble mortar. Reaching for the round-ended pestle reserved for grinding herbs from this very garden, I began crushing them with a twist of my wrist.

Although I knew stealing a flower from our garden was wrong, I couldn’t deny myself the poetic pleasure of smelling the sweet licorice scent that filled the air.

Yet nature is selfish.

I batted off a wayward bee, lured by the aroma of my precious elixir, too enticing for an insect driven by its obsession with nectar to resist. When the black and yellow insect persisted, I waved my pestle in the air until it rushed to escape, blurring from sight.

My focus returned to creating a perfume unlike any other. This is what I imagined glamour to be…the pathway to a happy ever after, a pampering self-love in liquid form. I’d surprise my mum with this later and make her smile.

Yesterday, when she’d braved leaving the house and we took the bus into Truro to visit the elegant perfumery near the cathedral, I had watched her sniff scents from the prettiest glass bottles. Her worry lines softened as she forgot herself in that sweet-smelling room, choosing a favorite scent and rubbing her wrists together—a perfume she never bought.

“It’s not quite in our budget,” she told me. “Maybe I’ll get it for Christmas.”

I had wondered who would buy it for her. After all, Daddy was gone and she never spoke to Grandma…and I was far from being able to afford it.

I watched her sadness return as she led me toward the cathedral to speak to a God that never answered her, no matter how much she bruised her knees in prayer. Or so it seemed.

I would find another way—create my own for her.

The petals within my mortar were giving up their perfume and waiting patiently for me to add other ingredients to balance out the bouquet—like a dash of lavender or ginger, or even the spice I would hunt down later.

A beetle crawled up my forearm to take a closer look at all this activity in his usually quiet sanctuary. I brushed him off with care and watched him scurry across the uneven ground back to his hideout.

A minute later I heard a familiar buzzing sound. Though this time the bee sounded angry—

Suddenly I felt a sting and an all-consuming pain in my forearm. I panicked as my throat swelled and dizziness overtook me.

I had a vague sense of being carried out in someone’s arms.

I never did return to the garden or that house. Not even the street.

And though it had been flowers that had ruined my life, I’d remained under their spell. This, after all, was how I held on to the memory of my old life.

The one with Mummy.

My brush with death in that idyllic English countryside changed everything. Three days later, after being released from the hospital, I stepped over the threshold of my first foster home.

I stood at Mrs. Clark’s living room window and peered out at her well-tended garden.

And I began again.

Grinding petals into the base of a pestle, sure if I got the formula right and created a pretty scent, I’d get it to Mummy and somehow, some way, we would go home.

FROM WHEREISAT ONthe white leather sofa in Dazzle and Bazaar’s waiting room, staring through the impressive window overlooking Plaza Street, I could see the downpour had lifted and the sun had broken through the clouds. Unlike England, Orlando’s climate would be warm despite the rain.

Even now, after living on the other side of the pond for years, I marveled at the sunny weather. The invigorating rays brightened my Monday morning.