He smells like my father

I met him two days ago. I found him at my dad’s funeral. He smelled like my father. He was dressed in my father’s same earth tone brown suit and had the same saunter. I couldn’t help but stare. When he approached I nearly gasped. He had my father’s eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. He smiled ever so slightly as I shook his hand. “How did you know my father?” I asked. “Oh, your father was a great man. I’ve known him for… a very long time.” I didn’t really know what to do with that but he was right. My father was a great man. That’s why this whole thing is so hard. After the funeral he stayed behind and we talked. We spoke for hours. I wanted to know more about him. He knew everything about my father. The way he used to smoke despite his wife’s wishes, how he was a poor cook but at least tried, how they used to fight from time to time but always made up in the end. When we were done, the other mourners had gone. I asked him to dinner. I wanted to know more. Over dinner he told me about me. How I loved reading when I was younger. How I was a bit of a loner and picked on as a young girl. How I used to fight a lot when I was little, though I got better at avoiding that as I grew older. “You’ve known my father for a very long time,” I said. “Yes.” He smiled. “I have.” I wanted to know more but he insisted that he tell me at his place. He had “drawings” he wanted to show me. I agreed. I think the drinks had gone to my head by that point and the way he smelled wasn’t helping any. We went back to his place. It was in a sweet highrise. He had a big balcony. He pointed out various sights from the balcony and told stories about my father. Some of the stories I had heard before, but others I hadn’t. I felt myself growing more and more drowsy. The alcohol had taken its toll. I felt as though I might fall any minute. I found myself leaning against him. “You know, I never really met your father,” he said. “Then why would you tell all these lies?” I asked. “I assure you, they are not lies.” I stumbled. He held me in his arms. “Let me take you to bed,” he said. I don’t think he intended for that to sound like it did. Earlier at the funeral I had asked him if he was single. He said he was. He held me close. I could smell him. His scent was almost exactly that of my father’s. “I bet you’d like to pretend,” I said. “I mean, pretend you’re my father.” He smiled. I didn’t know quite what was going on but I think it was clear I wasn’t in a great state. I needed a place to sleep. I woke up the next morning. I was lying in his bed, naked. I didn’t remember anything from the night before. “Did we…,” I started. “Yes, we did,” he said. I cursed myself silently. I could feel my stomach in my throat. Maybe it was all those drinks, maybe it was that I was vulnerable, but for some reason I was in his bed. I got dressed and went out for breakfast. I met him at his office later that day. He had a short meeting then we were going to go for a walk. When I got there he was talking to a fellow with a full beard. They left out the back. I waited. Something didn’t feel right. It smelled off. The office door was open. His desk creaked under the weight of his monitor. There were no papers, not even a pen. He was either a tidy man or he was lying. I looked around. There was almost nothing in the room. A blank office, a clean desk. That’s when I found it. It was a photo. A young woman, beautiful. Very pretty, in an 80s sort of way. She had feathered hair and a short leather jacket with patches. She was sitting on the ground, cross-legged, in what looked like a forest clearing. There was writing on the back. “You were a good friend. I miss you.” I heard the sound of elevator doors opening. He was back. I had to go. I didn’t want him to know I had gone through his stuff. So I did the only thing I could think of. I stole the picture. “What do you do here?” I asked as we walked out. “You seem awfully busy.” “I’m a… financial advisor,” he said. This didn’t sit well. Something felt very wrong. “What do you think of this city?” he asked. “It’s very different now. Quite a lot has changed.” “Yes. There’s more people. More buildings,” I said. “I used to live in a house with your father. Not far from here. We had a good time. Just us two.” “How could you have lived with him? That was decades ago.” “Yes, it was.” We got back to his place. He showed me “his drawings”. They were photos. Photos of me. Photos of my father. Photos of others. I didn’t know any of the other people. “What is all this?” “These are people I’ve known,” he said. “People I’ve helped.” I asked him questions but he just changed the subject. He wanted to know about my father. About my childhood. He asked me about my mother. “Did your mother ever talk about the war?” “What do you mean?” “The… second world war.” “No, my mother was born in the 70s.” He scowled. For a moment I thought he was going to get mad. He didn’t. He kept smiling. I didn’t think it at the time, but that was the moment I should have left. I should have run. But I stayed. I stayed at his place for the rest of the evening. And that night, I stayed with him. I woke up the next morning. I felt sick. Something didn’t feel right. I went out for breakfast. I was still queasy. I kept thinking about what he said at his place. “These are people I’ve helped.” For some reason, it stuck. I didn’t know why until I saw it. The picture from his desk. The girl with the feathered hair. I had stuck it in my pocket and forgotten about it. There she was. On the front page of the paper. The headline was brief. “Human remains found. Missing persons case solved after decades.” The girl was in her 20s when she was reported missing. She had been gone for 40 years. The police had found her remains in an old house on the outskirts of town. The police had gotten a tip. They were looking for “other victims.” I read it slowly. The description of the girl was perfect. Same hair. Same jacket. How could he have known her? I must have sat at that table for over an hour. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even know exactly where I was. I knew I had to get away from him. I couldn’t tell the police without knowing more. I knew one thing. I had to get in his apartment. I tried my key but it didn’t work. “Can I help you?” The woman at the door asked. “Yeah… I locked myself out. No big deal.” “Yeah, well, that happens. We have a spare in the basement. You can get it from the landlord.” She was young, probably a student. I could tell. “You know my…,” I started. “You must have seen him.” “I don’t think so. I rent from the landlord.” I shook my head. “I mean, I’ve been staying with him. We’re…” I stopped myself. “Oh, sorry,” she said after a minute. “It’s okay.” “When did you… lose the key?” she asked. “Uh… this morning.” “Then that’s weird.” “What do you mean?” “I’ve lived here for over a year. I’ve never seen him before.” “How is that possible?” I asked. “He moved in after I did… at the end of my first year. His name is on the mailbox. That’s how I know. I don’t know what he looks like. He’s quiet. So quiet.” I was stunned. Was this some kind of joke? “Thanks for the help,” I said. “I’ll go get that key.” I went down to the basement. “I need the key for… apartment X. I’m his daughter.” “Sure thing. Just a sec.” The landlord left. I looked at a nearby box. It said “groceries for apartment X”. There was a receipt inside, from a grocery store. It had a date on it. One that was more than 20 years old. The landlord came back. I took the key. “He’s a quiet man. I never see him. But he always pays his rent on time.” I went back to his place. I opened the door. The apartment was empty. There was no bed. No table. No chairs. There were no “drawings”. Not even a computer. Not even a desk. I had to get out. I had to go. I went back to my place. I locked the door. I looked at the photo. The girl. The house. The forest clearing. I think I know where my father is.

He smells like my father

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