Sauce

Since the pandemic, instead of hand-washing my dishes, sometimes after dinner or later in the evening, after I pour crystals into the small portal in the door of the dishwasher, I let the thrash and roll of water lull me to sleep, sometimes worrying plastic items might overheat and catch fire, because as an adult adopted person, like the younger adopted person I once was, I am always on guard, anticipating the unexpected, lying in wait for an unwelcome surprise. 

Tonight’s dishwasher chug reminds me of the childhood routines I once counted on. Tonight, my hands smell of the Clorox cleanser I used to scrub the sink clean, just like my mom did nightly after she loaded the dishwasher with dinner dishes and pressed start. The smell of bleach transports me back to dinners with the family that adopted me, the family that made me theirs when I was two weeks old. 

In my Italian-American household, eating is not rushed. The main conversation is with the food. This quiets us. My mom is the conductor of all meals, a gifted cook. The scissors she uses to cut fresh basil to add to the sauce seem to appear as an extension of her wrist. Her sauce smells like basil dancing in tomatoes. When I am near my mom in her kitchen, I forget I was cut off from my original kin. But today, I can recognize the effects separation has had on my body and mind. 

Musk

Reuniting with my maternal half-sister, when I was 37 and she was 25, helped me understand the feeling of “cut-off-ness” in my life, the ever-present fear of loss and separation I felt but couldn’t name. I didn’t know who or what I’d been cut off from but felt something missing. Meeting her has helped me to feel more grounded in my person, more permanent in the world. 

My sister has two cats. One never likes newcomers but came to me right away. My sister’s eyes widened, and she quipped, “You must smell like me.” 

When she learned that I like white musk perfume she said, “That smells good on me and our mom, too.” This confirmed our connection. Though I am still separated from our mom, it felt comforting to know that this is a scent she likes, though she can’t bring herself to speak to me or know me, let alone get close enough to smell me. Growing up, she was referred to as my Other Mother. I was told to never forget her, to always remember her in my prayers. We didn’t know her name or identity. But my sister can confirm she is a real person who likes a scent I like, a scent that favors the three of us. 

Sometimes I roll musk behind my left ear, just to leave a whiff for anyone who comes near. I find the area from behind my ear to my collarbone the landing spot for primal breathing, where my brother’s babies snuggled when I held them. His eldest daughter snuggled into the nape of my neck, always taking in a deep whiff of me. I share no blood connection to her; their dad is my brother through adoption. 

Once, in the parking lot of the Museum of Science in Seattle, after I unbuckled her from her car seat, she burrowed in for a snuggle and deep sniff and said, “You smell the same.” This seemed to comfort her; I know it comforted me. She’s a young adult now, but I’d like to think she still carries a record of my scent in her memories. 

I don’t have babies. I nurture my cat. My orange tabby, the first male cat I’ve had, has two modes: play and cuddle. When I lift him and hold him like a small child the way I held my niece, he snuggles like she did. In my adult life, unlike my younger life as an adoptee, I get to enjoy the smells of nature and nurture. 

Noxzema

When my niece’s dad was small, he had meningitis. The night he stayed in the hospital, I covered my face with Noxzema, a cream my mom used for her nightly routine. I breathed her in, the mom to both of us, but she became our mom in different ways. When my dad glanced in on me this night, I think he breathed in the smell but didn’t say anything. The icy, menthol scent kept me from crying as I lay stiff in my bed, afraid to ruin my Noxzema facial, but more worried my brother might die. I often fear this—the ultimate separation, the recreation of what I endured at birth. 

Seeking comfort as I write this, I touch the soft leopard scarf around my neck, a gift from my maternal half-sister. If I’ve splurged on Tide detergent, a more expensive brand that my mom has always used, a scent that permeated my childhood home, I like to wrap this scarf around my nose and breathe in deeply. 

Spring 

Tide smells spring-like, and although it’s the first day of spring, New York City isn’t matching this smell yet, even though, two days ago, I captured my first daffodil sighting with a photo. Yellow flowers that trumpet a pleasant smell that overlay the acrid smell of dog and human urine. 

Two extremes like the two chapters of my life: ages 1-37, when I only knew the family with whom I shared warm nightly meals and clean clothes, and babies who liked my smell. And while all these elements remained as a constant, at ages 37-53, a welcome introduction of a biological, maternal sister, an event that connected me to not just her, but a whole network of blood relatives from maternal and paternal sides. The footnotes to these life chapters are hard to express, the integration of both narrative threads, the comforts and sensory pleasures and displeasures. Two strands, braided, the constant with the newness of what was cut off but familiar, a dizzying combination. 

Smelling Salts

In movies or Victorian novels when a fainted woman needs reviving, smelling salts are used. I’ve always wondered what smelling salts are. Maybe this type of salt, whatever it is, might help me during reunions whether one and done, or first but not last conversations. There are more blood relatives out there for me to meet. Anyone, new but somehow familiar, could pop up at any time, leaving me, cartoon-like, with stars twirling above my head, but I always get back up, reminding me of a resilient toy from my youth: Weebles who wobble but don’t fall down. 

Emancipation

As an adoptee, the best kind of essence to breathe in is the whole story, not one scent or the other but both, at the same time. This interwoven narrative makes me feel a little bit bad for non-adoptees who are restricted to one kind of family inhalation, no deprivation of self or history or breath. A self once denied but dug up, integrated, and revived makes breathing intoxicating—each rise and fall of my chest represents my emancipation: no longer a secret, no longer suffocated by secrets, I can breathe easily.