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The Scent of Her

springish

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“It was never your fault, Tobias,” Sister Joan tells me.

“But her dad blames - ” I swallow “- he blames me. And her letter - ”

Her expression darkens.

“I just don’t think her parents could cope with the fact that – well, they’re grieving for their only daughter. I think they feel that the blame has to go somewhere and I guess they feel it’s more convenient to blame you than to blame her.”

She sets her glasses aside and watches me as I roll my sleeves upwards. More as a distraction than anything else. She sighs.

“The fact is that Natasha Howard hadn’t been okay for a long time.”

I pause, mid-roll. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, Tobias, that she’d been seeing me for well over a year. You never - ” a pause “ - you never noticed anything?”

I cast my mind back, think to all those times, the strange things she’d say, the faraway look in her eyes she’d sometimes get – but that had just been her, hadn’t it?

“I think – but I just assumed...”

And immediately I am ashamed for not having picked up on any of it.

“She hid it well,” Sister Joan says, as if she can read my mind. “She was very troubled. Long before she met you. And then when she did find you, I think she was afraid of losing you.”

Another lump. “Then it is my fault.”

“Did you ever give her any reason to doubt you?”

“No. I loved her – I liked her a lot. I don’t know. But I never cheated on her, never even thought about it.”

She inclines her head, curling her fingers around her rosary beads in a way I have come to realise is out of habit. “Then think about that.”

I do. I think long and hard about it. But if what she’s saying is true, then –

“I hear her,” I blurt out. I don’t mean to say it. “She speaks to me, says things. Sometimes I reply.”

Her brow furrows and she leans forward in her seat. Obviously, she thinks this is important.

“What does she say?”

I shrug. “Normal things. She tells me she loves me and – and she gets jealous, like she always used to. I see her too. In my dreams. It’s always the same.”

I don’t tell her that sometimes I don’t dream about Natasha. That sometimes I dream about yellows and blues and oranges. I can’t.

“Why do you think this is happening to you?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “Because I’m guilty. Because Natasha knows I’m guilty.”

I love you.

I love you too, Natasha.

“Because you think you’re guilty,” she corrects, shaking her head. “Did it ever occur to you that what you’re experiencing – that maybe it’s a manifestation of your guilt?”

I mull the notion over in my head.

“So you’re saying,” I murmur, “that if I stop feeling guilty, I won’t ever be able to hear her again? Speak to her?”

They just want to take you away from me, Toby.

Smell her, I add silently. The scent of strawberries. The scent of her.

I pause.

I won’t let them. Can’t let them…

“I don’t know if I could handle that either.”

…Can I?

“But you can’t keep going the way you have this past year,” she informs me. I know it too. “Tell me, how do you feel when they happen? When you speak to her, I mean? See her?”

“Like I – sometimes I can’t breathe,” I admit. “Like she’s here and all I can smell, taste, see is her.” I shake my head, embarrassed. “No, that’s crazy.”

She nods encouragingly and gestures for me to continue. “Go on.”

“That’s it. I just – she’s there and I can’t breathe but it’s okay because she’s there. And sometimes it’s so cold.” The words come out in a rush like they’ve been dying to come out or something. I couldn’t have stopped them if I’d tried. “Although today, I -“

“You?”

“Today I was angry. I didn’t feel cold. I was just really angry.”

“Because?”

I chew on my lip, tug at me tie, feeling uncomfortably warm. What is this overwhelming sense of warmth?

“I don’t want to – I can’t - ”

Sensing my discomfort, Sister Joan clears her throat, changes tactics.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to. Have you felt this way before? Not cold, I mean.”

I want to say ‘no’ but…I cast my mind back. That strange first kiss with Catherine. And the Art room - that always made me feel…different. The yellows and blues and oranges.

“I think you being angry – it’s a good thing. It means you must be interacting with something outside of Natasha. That maybe you’re - ”

“Getting over her?” I supply. “I don’t know if I want that.”

“Look,” she says quickly. “Do you want to get your life back on track? Take some time, think about it. Come see me again when you have your answer.”

I nod as I get up to leave.

---

The air is crisp and cold but I am warm and sweat is pouring down my face. It’s been a while since I’ve been on the field and I feel it.

Mike Harrington blows his whistle, signalling for the guys to stop the game. He jogs up to me and pats me on the back.

“I’m glad you finally came around, Viteri.”

To everyone else, he announces that tryouts are over. They all groan with relief, sling their bags over their shoulders and head to the locker rooms for a quick shower.

“Fuck. Mikey’s one tough bastard,” I hear one of the guys complain.

“You’re telling me!”

Mike ignores them.

“I don’t know why I did.” I take a swig from my water bottle and swipe at my mouth with the back of my hand.

“Well I’m glad you did.” He slings an arm across my shoulder and it feels restrictive but, then, it had always been that way.

“Yeah,” Marco jogs past, having overheard, and whips his shirt over his head. “I was fucking relieved when I saw you. There are some serious newbies who think they can make the cut. Like Pete over there.” He laughs as he jerks a thumb over his shoulder at Pete, who sprints after him.

“Glad you tried out. I have to give you something later,” Pete pants as he passes, shouting something about ‘being the best drop-kicker on the team' and 'beating the shit out of him.'

“Probably sexual favours,” Mike sniggers, in his usual juvenile style. Seeing the look on my face, he sobers. “Anyway.” He clears his throat, leading me toward the locker rooms. “I wanted to apologise.”

At my blank stare, he elaborates.

“About what I said about Natasha. I shouldn’t have said it.”

I shrug.

"We were friends. I knew she was messed up but she really seemed better when she was with you. I didn't know she would - " his shoulders rise and he looks at a loss for words " - you know."

"It's okay." It isn't his fault. It's mine. But then I think back to my conversation with Sister Joan.

“So we’re good?”

I can tell he genuinely wants to make peace. Mike isn’t a bad sort.

“Yeah,” I say, and he clasps my arm before sauntering into the locker room with the rest of the team. I follow him inside.

“So what made you try out?” Pete appears to my left, bouncing a soccer ball on his knee, a towel draped around his neck.

“I dunno. Really, I don’t.”

“Well, like I said, I’ve gotta give you something. The Catherine chick gave it to me today in Math," he explains.

I freeze.

"She got another detention for it but I don't think she cares."

Thankfully, he’s rummaging through his bag and doesn’t notice my reaction.

“Here.” He hands me another envelope. This time it’s one of the regular-sized ones. It doesn’t have anything written on the front.

“She like you or something?” He cocks his head to the side.

I shrug. I seem to be doing that a lot lately.

“Hey, what’s Viteri got over there?” Marco calls out, noticing our exchange. “A love note?”

The other guys hoot.

“Pete, man, didn’t know you swung that way!”

“Shove off.” Pete flips him the finger.

Pretty soon it turns into an argument over who’s scored the most over the year and, in a strange way, I realise I kind of miss this. The team.

“Wait, wait,” one of the other guys says over the din. “You went out with Tina Zhi in January? I went out with Tina Zhi in January. Fucking skank.”

There’s a rising of voices and then Marco let’s out a ‘whoop’ and crash-tackles him to the floor. The other guys cheer and join in the fray, in the team’s usual show of machismo. Pete shakes his head and tries to break it up. He winds up being caught in the scuffle himself.

His soccer ball rolls across the floor as he gets smothered beneath a pile of sweaty bodies.

I look down at the letter.

I remember the way I had snarled at Catherine. I haven’t been to the Art room since, except during class. And there, I try to ignore her. She hasn’t made an effort to talk to me either.

I recall my conversation with Sister Joan again.

Should I open it?

I love you.

My fingers dig under the seal and I pry the envelope open.

It’s a letter.

A simple letter, maybe a few lines. The last letter I had read – I shake my head.

I love you.

‘Dear Tobias,’ it reads.

‘I’m sorry about your girlfriend and, most of all, I’m sorry about harassing you. Sometimes I can get a little weird. Gosh, you must think I’m a loser, huh? It’s okay. I just wanted to apologise for bothering you. I wish you the best for the rest of the year, really I do. Catherine.’

I stare at the words, marveling at how simple it is. How uncomplicated it is.

Somewhere to my left, Mike swears at the guys and Marco cracks a joke that makes the rest of the team laugh. It buzzes around me.

I sense Pete approaching and quickly fold the letter back into the envelope.

It’s warm in my hands. Probably because it’s been in Pete’s bag this whole time, with his foul gym socks, but maybe…

Maybe it’s just Catherine too.

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