Heresy by Chapel Factory

I recently discovered Scent Split and I’ve been going a bit overboard in ordering samples. I love the power of scent for evoking memories, associations, nostalgia, etc. But I haven’t always challenged myself to describe what I smell and what it means to me.

When I first smelled Heresy, I felt immediate and strong associations that changed when I smelled it from the decanter, after it dried on paper, and it’s dry down on my skin.

I wrote down my associations and tied them together as if in a waking dream:

Mom drops me off at church. I’m a teenager. She doesn’t feel like coming in. She’s tired, she doesn’t look good, she doesn’t have energy to do her hair or put on makeup.

I tell her that shouldn’t matter, that Jesus doesn’t care.

She looks at me, guiltily. 

Stepping out of the warm car, into the biting cold, the deep slush squishes into the sides of my flats. I think about how I’m going to be feeling my wet toes the whole service. 

Mom always tells me to wear socks.

Or different shoes.

These are my nicest shoes, I don’t want people to think we’re poor.

I try to hop through the slush to the soaked entryway carpet. It’s red. As I step onto it, gray water emerges from the fibers but not quite enough to reach into my shoes. 

I reach for the cold metal door handle, the warm air inside the church is sucking the door closed. An usher sees me and pushes it open for me. It’s nice to be seen.

I thank him, I wonder if it sounds as genuine as it feels.

He nods at me with a smile.

I glance at his gold name tag, Gary. 

After all this time here, I still struggle to know the names of the ushers. And some of the elders. Sometimes they do both roles. They’re all older white men, most of them bald, most of them with facial hair. Most wear glasses. They all stand the same, up straight, hands folded in front of them with offering baskets or brochures in their hands.

The room is warm, bordering on hot. I smell all the mixtures of soaps, colognes, perfumes, and hairsprays of people dolled up for Sunday.

I’m aware that I’m a teenage girl alone.

There are other teenagers in groups nearby, but I know their parents are around somewhere. I look down at my feet and head toward the chapel.

This carpet is red, too. But it has yellow and green patterns that remind me of trees. I trace them with my eyes, I want to look contemplative, lost in thought. Devout.

Too devout to attempt to socialize. 

I rush to a pew, near the back. The long cushion is red and velvety, the wood is yellowish. Maybe oak? Our table and chairs at home are oak. They’re kind of yellow. 

I sit down, gingerly, I hate the feeling of velvet. I try not to move so I don’t feel it rub against the fabric of my pants. I imagine instant static, like the kind that would make my hair stand on end. I reach up to touch it, just to be sure. It feels frizzy, but it’s not standing on end. I should have flat ironed it. 

I see the black fake leather hymnal in the slot in front of me, the paper is gold edged. I pull it out and thumb through it. 

The background music is something modern, not a hymn. It's turned down low enough that I can’t make out specific words. The melody seems familiar. Maybe I’ve heard it on the Christian radio station.

I feel like I should know it. 

People filter in, it must be getting close to the start time. I want to pull my cellphone out of my purse to check the time, but I don’t want anyone to think I’m distracted or bored. Maybe they’ll think I’m putting it on silent. I know it's silent already.

A few people filter into my pew, the church isn’t full, but there’s bodies in every row. 

The pastor does some general introductions, I’m not really paying attention, I’m already anxious to leave. I want it to be over, I want to go home. I don’t belong here. I feel guilty and force myself to focus just in time for the pastor to release us into “fellowship”. The music gets louder. I know this one.  

My stomach tightens, my throat constricts. Everyone is standing up again, wandering around greeting each other.

.The men side-hug women and girls. Shake hands with the boys and other men. 

The women front-hug each other, smile and nod at the boys and men. 

I look around my pew, I don’t know who to acknowledge. I know I have to engage with at least two people to not seem like a weirdo.

I see someone in my periphery. It’s Gary. His mustache is mostly gray and very thick. He looks like the diabetes guy. Or the old guy in Office Space, the one who tried to kill himself but ended up making a lot of money. 

He’s bald, wears tinted glasses. He’s wearing a dark green dress shirt and slacks with suspenders that are stretched tight over his large belly. 

It’s one of those older man bellies that looks like it’s hard, like a turtle shell. Not the ones that look squishy. 

He smiles warmly, he comes up to me and shakes my hand. He asks me how I am, he sounds like he means it. I tell him I’m ok. He puts his arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze.

He smells like aftershave, the one in the dark green bottle my grandpa wore. I don’t know if it actually smelled like it, but it seems like it would. It’s spicy, a little sweet, kind of like cinnamon bark. His shirt smells like laundry detergent. A woman moves past us, she’s wearing something that smells like flowers, just like the pattern of her dress. I get a whiff of tobacco, I wonder if she’s a smoker. 

He says “God bless you” and then moves on. The scent lingers on my shirt. 

Now I’m sitting around a smoky campfire. I’m much older. The cool wet scent of the forest  mixes with the fire, I’m sitting on a damp stone. I can tell there’s very dry wood and some green branches. The fire’s at war with itself. I hear the snap of water getting boiled out of the young limbs. 

There’s a man standing just beyond the light of the flames. I can barely see a silhouette. I want him to take a step forward so I can see him in the orange light. I don’t know him, but he’s familiar.

He takes the step, I don’t see his face - but I see the white glint of a priest’s collar around his neck. He’s not sinister, but he’s not safe either. He fades away.

Now I’m 5 years old, it’s the mid-90’s. I’m at one of those low tables for children, in a classroom or a daycare. It’s well lit, the table is made of laminate but there’s a fake wood pattern. More of a white oak imitation. I reach for a box of crayons. They’re the scented ones. Not the ones that smell like fruit or food, the ones that smell like things. 

I open the box, I smell that specific crayon wax and banged up cardboard. It’s not a new set. I shake them out, I grab the one that smells like a cedar chest. And the one that smells like dirt. My favorites. What I color doesn’t matter, I just want to smell them on the paper for as long as I can.