Olfactory Memory
By Keily Blair
Helen woke to the lovely, savory smell of bacon and the worst headache she’d ever had.
To add to this bittersweet reality, she had the strong urge to pee. She stumbled out of bed and into her dresser. She felt along the dresser to the end and reached for her bathroom door. Except the knob wasn’t there. She felt around, but her hand met the wall. The headache throbbed, furthering her confusion. Had she overslept? She’d had plenty of headaches before when she overslept. She glanced in the direction of her alarm clock, but there was no light. She reached for the nightstand, but it was bare save for a book.
When was the last time she’d bothered to read? Perhaps when she got her real estate license in her twenties? When she thought the world would be handed to her, and she eagerly gobbled up cakes and steaks without a second thought?
The pain was fading, but the progress was slow. She’d need ibuprofen to kill it. Perhaps she’d gotten out of the bed on the wrong side. She’d never been the type to forget, but she’d also never had a pain this bad before. She thought to call 911, but if the pain was fading, it was probably nothing. She’d simply walk around the bed, go to the bathroom, and then have some of that bacon her mom was cooking.
She shuffled around the bed. The darkness around her was absolute, and she was unable to see anything. Her eyes never adjusted. She felt along the wall until she reached a door. Her hand grasped the knob, and it hit her.
Her mother had been dead for three years, and she lived alone.
She took a deep breath like the therapist always told her: inhale for seven seconds, hold for five, exhale for eight. What was the last thing she remembered doing before bed? She’d opened her fridge for a late-night snack. Cucumber slices with no dressing was her best option. She’d been losing weight rapidly in the last few months, just as the doctor ordered. Her new diet had been working perfectly, and she’d finally begun to like the sight of her own reflection again, though she had a long way to go. So she’d been careful with her snacks. She’d been slicing cucumbers—
Then what?
She opened the door and turned on the light. It was not her bathroom.
The room had no personality at all. Her decorative, ocean-themed shower curtain had been replaced with a solid white curtain. The sink and toilet didn’t resemble her bathroom in any way. She looked to the light switch. The pain gave way to panic. Her hand was ghastly pale, though she’d tanned every day this summer. Her carefully manicured nails were now chewed and crusted with dried blood from where she’d chewed too far. The fingers were long, slender.
Her joints no longer ached, even her ankles which had been trouble for years. She wasn’t out of breath like she had been when she moved around too much. Even her jaw, which had ached from an unfortunate yawning incident that pulled a muscle, felt just fine. She ran her tongue over her smooth teeth, feeling their perfect alignment instead of the usual crooked mess.
She rushed to the mirror hanging over the sink. She bit down on her forearm to stifle a scream, teeth sinking deep into the flesh but not quite breaking the skin. The face in the mirror didn’t belong to her.
The face was of a young girl, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. The girl’s auburn hair had been cropped short. Her blue eyes were bloodshot, wide. Her face was covered in a splotch of freckles, but there were no blemishes or scars though Helen had struggled with acne for years. Her face and body were thin and muscular in direct opposition to Helen’s soft, pudgy limbs. Helen couldn’t remember the last time her stomach had been so flat.
But it wasn’t her. It wasn’t even how she’d looked when she was young, though she shared the girl’s hair and eye color. She’d never been that thin or had such fair skin. She’d never had a moment in her life after puberty where her skin had been clear.
She released her arm, noting the scars lining the flesh. She’d also never had the tendency to self-harm. At least, not with a knife. She’d harmed herself plenty with her dietary choices and binge-eating.
She took several deep breaths. The most logical explanation was that she was in a very painful, realistic dream. The second most logical scenario was that her new medication caused seriously bad hallucinations. The third most logical scenario was that she’d switched bodies with some poor young girl.
A sudden wave of nausea hit her. She promptly vomited into the sink. Nothing but bile.
She shuddered, meeting the gaze of the girl in the mirror. She’d never heard of medication side effects like this, and the pain almost completely assured her that it was no dream. She had to remain calm. It was some sort of fluke or curse or scientific experiment like in the movies. She needed to get home and figure something out. Maybe the girl was waiting for her there, in her body.
“Marissa?”
Helen turned in the direction of the voice. A man dressed in white had opened another door and entered the room she’d woken up in. He wore a smile, but it was tentative, off. He flinched when she stepped toward him, but the smile remained plastered on his face as though he’d glued it on. “Marissa” had to be the girl’s name.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
She was afraid to say more, unsure of the people around this girl. The man nodded and shut the door. The unmistakable sound of a lock clicking into place followed. Whoever Marissa was, she was a prisoner of some kind.
Helen considered her options. The light from the bathroom had most likely attracted the man, so she knew how to bring people to her. She couldn’t remain stuck as the girl forever. She had to find her, help her. Surely a girl with parents who locked her in her room was looking for an ally. She had to be brave.
She clutched a lamp, unplugged it, and turned on the light. Footsteps approached. The door opened.
“Ma—”
Helen brought the lamp down over the person’s head with more force than she meant to—she was still unsure of her own strength in this body. The woman crumpled and fell flat on the ground. Her body propped open the door. Then Helen noticed the gun at the woman’s hip.
She looked out into the hallway. It was stark white. The smell of antiseptic coupled with something almost rotten reached her nose. Doors lined both sides of the hallway. Fluorescent lights hung overhead. It was some sort of hospital.
Helen swallowed back a scream and took deep breaths as the therapist had told her. Stress was bad for her heart, though she wasn’t sure if it was hurting Marissa’s. She thought of her fifty-year-old, ticking clock of a body in a panicked, suicidal young girl’s care, and dread filled her. She had to get out of there. She grasped the gun and headed out into the hallway.
She’d only made it part of the way down the hallway when the alarm went off. Footsteps hurried toward her, and she raced off in the opposite direction. Her young, strong legs propelled her faster than she’d ever run before. It was exhilarating.
She first tried a door labeled “Exit,” but the door held fast. The alarms blared overhead. The halls flashed with red light. Voices rose from the end of the hallway. Helen tried several of the doors, but they were all locked. Finally, she tried a door marked “Director.”
Helen opened the door, slipped inside, and shut it behind her. She locked it.
“Marissa?”
Helen’s eyes shot open. She aimed the gun at the man sitting behind his desk. He raised his hands, though he seemed unsurprised. Helen took in the office for the first time. There were bookshelves crammed with medical texts, the desk with two chairs sitting in front of it, the man in his white lab coat seated at the desk, and a picture of Marissa resting on the desk.
She knew it was Marissa, though the picture had obviously been taken years ago. Something about it was just familiar, like the man—no, Dr. Martin. That was his name.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “How do I know you? You better start talking.”
“Have you ever heard the old philosophy by Descartes?” he asked. “‘Cogito, ergo sum.’ ‘I think, therefore I am.’”
“I don’t have time for your philosophical nonsense,” Helen said. She switched the safety off on the gun, and Dr. Martin finally did hold up his hands.
“Marissa is a special girl,” he said. “May I ask for your name?”
“You’re not in a position to ask questions,” Helen said. The headache crept back in, a dull, throbbing ache.
“You want to know about Marissa, yes?”
Helen clenched her jaw.
“It’s Helen. Helen Stuart.”
Dr. Martin gestured to his computer.
“May I?”
Helen waved the gun as if to say, “Sure, why not?”
He typed for a moment and then turned the computer to her. Her face, her real face, stared back at her. It was the same picture her cardiologist had taken of her for her profile picture at the hospital.
“This is you?” he asked.
When she nodded, numb, he went on.
“You died nearly two hours ago,” he said.
The gun nearly slipped from her hand, but she adjusted her grip. She ground her teeth together to stifle her rage.
“‘I think, therefore I am,’” she said. “I’m here, aren’t I? You’re bluffing.”
“Despite being several levels underground, Marissa still manages to pick up the minds of people on the upper levels,” he said. “Her room has been insulated, and she’s been heavily sedated, but her abilities are stronger than ever. Marissa is psychic, you see. She picks up the thoughts of people who have died and becomes that person for a short time.”
“You’re lying,” Helen said.
Her own voice sounded weak, fragile. She had forgotten her deep breathing. Her breaths came in rapid pants.
“Tell me, did you smell something unusual when you first woke?” he asked. “Something dear to you? A perfume, the smell of freshly cut grass, a particular flower? Olfactory memory is said to be the strongest in humans, and it is one of the only sense-related memories that Marissa picks up on perfectly.”
Yes. The bacon. She remembered how her mother used to cook bacon ever Sunday before church, all while dressed in her Sunday best. The woman would gather her family for breakfast only that one day each week, and it had been Helen’s favorite meal.
“And have you also forgotten some things?” Dr. Martin asked. “The feel of your lover’s hands? The sound of a bird chirping? The color of strawberries?”
She hadn’t noticed before. Her thoughts were in black and white, though some thoughts were present with muted colors. She couldn’t recall sound or touch beyond the idea of the sensations.
“No,” she said.
“Marissa, come back,” he said.
She aimed the gun, but her hands shook.
“No,” she said. “No. No. No.”
“Marissa!”
The gun clattered to the floor, going off once. It missed Dr. Martin completely. Marissa dropped to her knees, head in her hands. She took a deep breath, just like Helen’s therapist had taught her.
“Did I hurt anyone?” she asked.
He ignored her.
“Nurse!” he said.
A nurse entered the room. Another one followed and retrieved the gun. The first nurse put his hands on Marissa’s shoulders.
“We will increase her dosage by 10mg,” Dr. Martin said. “Administer immediately. She has a few weeks left until the procedure. She needs to stay under until then.”
“Father?” Marissa asked.
Her eyes widened. The nurses led the her away. Dr. Martin added Helen’s file to a folder labeled “Marissa” as his daughter’s screams echoed down the hallway.
THE END