Page 7 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
I grabbed the trash bag, pushed down the gross contents to compress them enough to tie off the bag, and headed down the hallway to the apartment building’s back door. A row of trash, recycling, and composting receptacles lined the rear wall of the apartment building. I tossed the bag into the nearest bin and wiped my hands on my jeans.
That’s when I smelled it for the first time. Cologne. Woodsy, warm, a bit earthy. The distinctive scent mingled with the fetid garbage odors in a gross, stomach-turning combination, but I bet it was really nice on its own.
After that, I seemed to smell it everywhere I went. In the apartment building hallways, elevators, classrooms. The stacks in the library. The mailroom. A few times, even in my own bedroom.
Cassie, a psych major, told me I was experiencing something called frequency illusion.
“It’s not an illusion, Cass,” I insisted one day after the scent wafted from her car. “You can’t smell that?”
She took a big sniff, then shrugged. “Sorry.”
I couldn’t believe she didn’t smell it. “Is there even such a thing as an olfactory illusion?” I wondered.
I wasn’t imagining it. Was I?
“Illusion makes it sound like it’s not real,” she explained. “But it’s not the thing that’s the illusion. It’s the frequency. Another name for it is Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon. Basically, you’re holding the smell in your mind and that draws your attention to it. You notice it when someone else wouldn’t.”
I frowned. “It’s still weird.”
“Yeah, well, you’re weird. So that tracks.”
We both laughed, and I more or less forgot about it. For a while.
Six weeks later, Cassie was dead. And the smell was stronger than ever.
Five
Tristan
* * *
I’m in line at the deli, trying to decide between turkey and Swiss on rye or onion soup for lunch when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out. Emily’s texting.
I frown down at the notification as I shuffle forward in the queue. She rarely tries to reach me during the work day. Usually, she’s caught up in the flow of her writing. Or at least she used to be. But even now, wrestling with writer’s block, she doesn’t interrupt me at work. In an emergency, she’ll call. And if she wants to share something she’s read or remind me to pick something up at the store, she schedules a text or email to hit my phone right around six PM, when I’m typically leaving for the day. Emily’s considerate that way.
So, the text pricks at me. But it’s my turn to order. I opt for the sandwich and a bag of jalapeño chips, grab a bottled water from the cooler, and pay the cashier without engaging in our usual Sixers basketball chitchat. Then I join the cluster of people gathered near the pickup counter waiting for takeout orders.
I unlock the messaging app with the print on my index finger and read:
There was someone in Lashina and Ty’s yard.
Something? A deer? Rabbit maybe?
SomeONE. Watching our house.
My pulse quickens and the moisture dissipates from my mouth. I try to work up enough saliva to swallow, but my throat’s a desert. I twist open the water and take a long swig of cold liquid. I scan the cramped sandwich shop in search of a quiet corner. There is none.
I thumb out a reply:
Are you okay? Are they gone?
I want to tell her to call the police. But that call could set off a cascade of consequences that will complicate my plans. I twitch my lips as worry and practicality battle it out. Her response gives pragmatism the advantage:
I’m fine. Just rattled. Yeah, he’s gone. TBH, I didn’t actually see anyone.
You heard him?
Not exactly. I thought I saw movement behind the hedge row. Went to check it out.
