Friday Feature: Jennifer Coley

Jennifer Coley is a writer from North Carolina. She is a graduate of East Carolina University, where she obtained a BA in Art History and an MA in Communication. She has self-published under the pseudonym Jaxon Z. Carroll on Amazon. Her work has also been published in midnight & indigo: Twenty-two Speculative Stories by Black Women Writers (Issue 4). She has always had a love for storytelling, and when she is not writing, she is probably thinking about writing.

Nosey

“Name,” I struggled to get out. 

He stared at me and most likely was thinking of how rude I was. I couldn’t have cared less at the moment. I swallowed the bitter liquid that lingered in the back of my throat for the third time. Breathing through my mouth was no longer working as I could now taste it. The foul smell found its way to the tip of my tongue, down my throat, and to my stomach. My stomach did somersaults, and I feared giving the office a view of what I ate for breakfast. I turned my nose away and took three deep breaths. 

“Joseph Wells,” he responded shortly. He crossed his arms over his chest. The gesture fanned the aroma, and the smell rolled out like fog. It hit me with a force that nearly knocked me out of my chair. I gagged, earning another hateful look from him.

“Excuse me,” I rushed out.  I ran from my desk, holding my breath along the way. 

I pushed my colleagues out of the way as they froze in my path, staring at me, adding to the nervousness I had. Relief washed over me as the bathroom door came into view. With a final push, I hauled it to the tiled sanctuary and locked the door behind me. The walls shook from the force, and the slam echoed in my ears. The medicine pink walls and yellow lights were a welcome change from the fluorescent lights that added to my unease. The low, dull hum of the fan did nothing but add to my annoyance. With more force than needed, I flicked the switch, and the fan came to a screeching halt. I forced down deep gulps of air, and slowly the smell started to leave my nose. I squirted the hand soap vigorously into the palm of my hand. I cupped my hands to my face and inhaled the summer-themed soap until my lungs couldn’t expand anymore. I exhaled, my body shaking from the adrenaline pumping through my veins. My tunnel vision started to dissipate, and I regained some of my focus. The threat of fainting receded, and my stomach calmed. I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyeliner and mascara had formed dark rings around my eyes. My foundation was streaked from the incessant sweat. I mentally added waterproof makeup to my weekly shopping list.

“Aisha? Are you in there? Is everything okay?” the worried voice called from the other side. 

The doorknob twisted two times and was then followed by three soft knocks. I unlocked the door with a shaky hand. Bridget peeked her head in carefully. I could see the relief on her face when she didn’t see the scene she conjured up in her mind. She pushed the door open and held out a cold bottle of water and some saltine crackers. My hand shook, and it took a few tries to grip the gifts. I made an audible gulp as I guzzled down half the bottle in seconds. She took back the package of crackers and opened it. She took one out and held it out for me. I froze. The stench was in the fibers of her blouse. Bridget put her hand on my shoulder. Her floral perfume mixed with the man’s odor, and I quickly shoved a cracker in my mouth. I greedily chewed it and hoped it would block the slow-moving bile making its way up my esophagus again.

“Thanks, Bridge,” I closed my eyes and held the bottle to my nose.

“No worries. If you’re feeling better, you might want to come out soon. Mr. Wallace is getting suspicious,” Bridget warned.

“What do you mean?”

“He thinks you’re pregnant. He’s already talking with HR just in case.” 

“Ugh.” 

Mr. Wallace was the least of my worries. I wasn’t too sure I would have a job much longer after HR got the complaint I already knew was coming. “Do you think you could finish up Mr. Wells? I don’t think I can go back out there,” I rushed out. I took a deep breath with the bottle acting as a shield. It didn’t help much, but it was something.

“No problem. I already moved him over to my cubicle. After I’m finished with him, I’ll come back and check on you.” 

“Thanks,” I answered.

“You’re welcome. I wonder how many of the women around here are going to be jealous. I mean, have you ever seen a more perfect man, and he smells amazing. I can’t even,” Bridget whispered over her shoulder as she left. 

I frowned, the memories of the smell coming back. I squirted a palm full of the liquid soap in my hands again and inhaled the cucumber melon until the liquid started to escape through the gaps of my fingers. I washed my hands, cupped my nose, and held my breath as I left the bathroom. The small crowd at the coffee station turned their backs to me while continuing to watch me curiously. Mr. Wallace stood at the counter. He ripped open four packs of sugar but spilled most of it on the counter as he kept his eyes trained on my midsection, looking for any evidence of a baby bump. I hurried back to my cubicle and sprayed an offensive amount of deodorizer in the chair previously occupied by my client. Mr. Wells rolled his eyes and continued chatting with Bridget.

The hummingbird danced between the same two flowers. I laughed as I lost sight of it every few seconds due to its quick, jerky movements. The butterflies were more graceful. They settled on the same flowers, their wings flapping gently every few seconds. The orange and black wings stood out on the yellow flowers and looked more like a painting than something I was witnessing with my eyes. I took several shots and sent the best two to Bridget. I looked up in time to see that the hummingbird had lost interest in those flowers. It quickly darted to the other side of the garden and focused on the coral honeysuckles there. 

“Here we go.” My mother placed the tray of drinks in the center of the table. I wondered if her pink sundress was a conscious choice to match the flowers in Grandma’s garden. The handstitched flowers were nearly as detailed as the flowers next to me and I found myself comparing the two and finding little difference.

“Are you better today?” my grandmother asked as she joined us. She had on the same style of capris she wore every day. She had bought every color the store had. Today was moss green and a white t-shirt. Thirty years ago, you couldn’t get this woman to wear anything but skirts and dresses. The rebel she had become.

“A little.”

“How many more sick days do you have left?” my mother asked. “You don’t want to burn through them just in case,” she finished.

“This is the first one I’ve used. I normally can ignore it, but he is different. I don’t understand,” I answered. 

I took a large sip of the sweet tea and winced. The overly sweetened beverage was a shock to my system, and a few grains swirled around in my mouth. I forced down the sip and added some water to my glass. I took a healthy gulp of water to cleanse the sugar from my mouth. My mother, noticing my face, took a sip as well. She poured half of her and Grandma’s tea back in the pitcher and filled it the rest of the way with water. Grandma drank some of the tea and gave her own unsatisfied reaction. She forced down some of the tea and added some from the pitcher once more. She stirred it and took another sip. She smiled, satisfied with the new ratio.

“Has it gotten worse lately, or is it just with him?” Grandma asked before she could get scolded.

“It’s just with him. I mean, it is always annoying, but at least it’s tolerable. With him, it is different. I’ve never smelled it so strong before,” I answered. I took a chance and sipped on the tea. 

“You just have to learn how to work with your gift,” Grandma tried to reassure.

“How? How is smelling a person’s death a gift? I can’t even go to the mall without smelling it. I always know that someone is going to die soon, and I can’t tell them.” I took a bite of the chicken salad sandwich and let it plop back down on my plate.

“It’s never easy. You just have to learn to respect the gift and live with it.” My mother rubbed my back and gave a reassuring smile.

 I felt shame as I thought about Mom’s situation. Her visions led to debilitating seizures that made her a risk in any job or driving. She’s never been alone out of fear of what could happen. Her life confined to the comfort of this town; she hadn’t experienced half of what I had. I guiltily grabbed her hand and nodded in agreement. I thought back to the visits home and the detailed stories of my life in college, something she had desperately wanted. 

Grandma carefully moved the pitcher of tea closer to her and poured more of it into her glass. I chose to ignore her and pretend I didn’t see it. There was no point in telling her, and I didn’t have the energy to use on pointless scolding. Her diabetes diagnosis did not scare her as she knew it wasn’t going to cause her death. She would “sleep her way to Heaven,” as she liked to call it. So far, her mother and her mother’s mother had come to her. Within the next year, she would be joining them. She was full of a mixture of excitement and anticipation. She often exclaimed how she was tired now and her body was ready to rest. The chance to see all her family and friends again is what she looked forward to the most.

It was hoped that it would skip me as it had done every few generations, because I didn’t display any signs in childhood like everyone else. But I was fourteen years old when it first happened. Petey ran up to me. His black and white coat blew back from the speed. His bright, pink tongue hung out of his mouth, and his tail wagged happily as I petted him. At first, it came in small whiffs. I checked his mouth, paws, and fur, but couldn’t find it. For two days, I kept silent, not thinking much of it until the smell got worse. I chalked it up to being a wound and had planned on taking him to the vet when he died unexpectedly a week later. Mom and Granny shrugged it off until I smelled the same smell again at the end of the summer. Grandpa had complained of not feeling well and spent the last weeks of my vacation in bed. The cancer was spreading rapidly, and no one knew he was sick. Not even him. All sense of normalcy died that summer with Petey and Grandpa.

I walked into the office and the smell was still there. I dropped my head, unsure if I could make it through the rest of the day. I settled on making it to lunchtime before making any more decisions. I decided to look for new jobs that would better accommodate my “gift” when I got home with a bowl of ice cream to keep me company. I sat at my desk. The scent surrounded my cubicle in a cloud, and though not as strong as the last time, I had little energy left in me to fight it. Though it was frowned upon, I lit a candle and placed it next to the pencil sharpener. 

“I’ll leave at lunch,” I promised myself as I watched the candle dance in the small pool of melted wax.

“Hey girl,” Bridget said to me.

“Hey.”

“You feel better?”

“A lot. I needed the time home.”

“Good,” Bridget answered with a smile. She took a stick of gum out of her pocket and started to chew it. The cinnamon smell, mixed with Mr. Wells’ scent, was a unique combination that left nothing to be desired.

“Where is Mr. Wells? Did he come early?” I asked. I steadied my breathing and forced myself to focus on Bridget’s words.

“What do you mean?”

“Wasn’t he here?” I asked. 

“You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Apparently, he had a bacterial or staph infection he didn’t know about. He got real sick Friday, and he was admitted that night. He died Sunday,” Bridget explained. 

Like a switch in my mind, it made sense. That was why it was so strong. He was rotting from the inside, unaware of the war going on with his body. The smell was still faint enough to be ignored with some effort, but not enough to be forgotten completely. I rubbed at my nose, my agitation making it rougher than need be. I brought the candle closer to me and inhaled.

“What’s going on with you now?” Bridget asked.

“Nothing. Just wanted to smell this. I can’t get enough of it,” I lied.

“Okay. Later,” Bridget laughed. She walked to her cubicle, but stopped, snapping her fingers. She turned on her heels and came back. “I almost forgot. I had to use your computer this morning. Mine was updating and I had to print something. I know how you feel about people at your desk,” Bridget smiled once again and walked away.

I gasped, the realization finally hitting me. 

“Bridget,” I whispered.

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