Ambrosine:

October 28th, 2017. Diana the Enigma. That's today. Frankly, every time she shows up at my door, ready for the weekend I entitle the day "Diana the Enigma". So far, it's been seven weeks, seven days entitled "Diana the Enigma" and I still haven't figured her out. It gives me a headache. My brain knows something I do not, and thus it hates me. Sometimes I wonder what it's like to have a normal, logical relationship with one's brain and one's senses, but it's one of the few mysteries in this world I'll never know the answer too. 

At least she's very good at pretending to admire me. I've never met anyone as good as her. Being with her makes the gears turn, so it isn't that bad. Though they do get out of control sometimes. Then it starts to smell like peanut butter. And sometimes mangoes. Almost always breakfast. That's when I know that my brain has an answer, because it's done all the calculations, and I just smell the memories. But it happens too much when she's around. I can't focus on the landscapes or what she's saying. Just the nonsense my brain is processing into something sensible. At least I don't have to deal with all the nonsense in the world. I guess I'll call that a win. I do so hate the world at times.

Diana:

Ambrosine never says much in the car. It's when we're at the brunch diner that she talks. When I asked her why, she said that it was because it smelled like breakfast, so she could ignore her brain. 

I pull into the diner and she jumps out of the back seat. I can never get her to leave her bag in the car. It's always slung over her shoulder, giving her a schoolgirl aspect even on the weekend. We sit at our usual table by the window, surrounded by other families, who have been coming here longer than we have. We fit in, just another mother and daughter duo eating lunch like normal, civilized humans.

Today, she was dressed in a quieter outfit. Ambrosine was wearing dark blue jeans and a murky green top with an autumn leaf pattern stitched in the front finished off with her navy blue SYNCHRO sweater. Usually, she likes bright colours, a habit that apparently developed after her mother passed and she wore black until school started up again. I haven't learnt much about it, only that it happened almost a year ago during their Christmas holiday, but after New Year, forever ruining her love of the holidays and the colour black. I don't know why she's not a fan of superheroes either. I know she saw the Wonder Woman movie because her friend paid for everything and she wrote her application paper (apparently Stonewall requires one each year) comparing Doctor Poison with The Phantom of the Opera and did it well enough to get accepted in. I guess I should be proud, about her and the film.

After the rehearsal, I have to take her to the court-mandated therapy session. I don't think it does much good, for she's always worried that whatever she says will be manipulated and used against her dad. Any problems she has can be related to the fact that he raised her for all of her life except part of the past year.

It's easy to see the change from high energy to her more solemn character. She doesn't fidget in her seat, her voice is quiet and flat, almost mournful. It's like two different people.

"There are three more cars than usual," she says as we pull into the parking lot. "I've seen some of them before."

"They're common cars," I say, though it's not entirely true. One is a luxury automotive. 

"I have seen them on the road, yes. But the licence plates also..." she drifts off, the way she often does when she begins to think. Ambrosine blinks slightly more often, her fingers twitching as she does the math. "I know it," she mumbles, frustrated.

We walk into the vicinity.

"Grandmother!" she exclaims in shock. I can't tell if it's the licence plate or the woman standing in front of us. She has straight grey hair and is dressed in a business suit, her hands crossed.

"Ambrosine!" she exclaims with false glee.

"You're not supposed to be here," Ambrosine nearly stumbles backwards. "You're not allowed to be here," she says louder.

"Oh don't be so dramatic!" she exclaims. "Naughty child." But Ambrosine doesn't stop. She unknowingly crashes into me, her hands on her head as she shakes it. 

"Ma'am," said a male social worker from the court, named Jones, though Ambrosine often calls him "Yellow" for it's the colour his name was in when they first met. "We should leave now."

"She needs to grow up. Just look at her, acting out. Poor upbringing, that's what it is." Ambrosine was muttering again, going through all the court mandates, looking for the loophole. Looking for the reason why her grandmother was here. 

"I just don't see it. There's no loophole. You can't be here. Yellow it's against the law!"

"See what acting classes do to a child? She can pretend and lie and cry at will." Ambrosine's grandmother rolls her eyes. "I'll fix this once you see that I'm the rightful guardian."

"Do you smell fish?" Ambrosine asks suddenly. "It smells like fish. Diana, I have another headache," she says mournfully. Suddenly the sets of eyes turn to me. 

"Ah Miss Prince. Nice to meet you. I hope you've been taking good care of my granddaughter?"

"Does anyone smell fish?"

"Or I guess not. It seems you're too lenient as well," she huffs strongly. "This is all so silly just let her some with me and all these shenanigans will stop. I mean she isn't even dressed in black. her poor mother, my dear daughter, has not even been dead a year and this disrespectful child dresses in colour. Lack of discipline." I don't like this woman. How is everyone just standing there, watching her upset Ambrosine like this?

Her physiatrist finally cuts in. "I've been against this from the start Melinda," he says, using her proper name, "but this draws the line. It's hard enough trying to convince the child to trust me when she knows I must breach the patient confidentiality and spill all to the court-"

"I'm not fourteen and technically not entitled to it, but I don't trust you and there have been many cases where it was breached by the court because of...mmgh," she mumbles, a vacant, unorganized thought in her mind stumbling out unchecked. "It still smells like fish. Why does it smell like fish? I'm not doing math!" She's beyond frustrated now. "Plus Mr. Phycologist you get facts wrong."

"Ambrosine that's enough out of you!" Melinda exclaims.

"You're not allowed to be here!" she yells and runs out of the room, her hands over her head. In any other circumstance, I would have followed, but I feel the need to stay here.

Jones is the next to speak. "Melinda, this is enough. Your games are jeopardizing the girl's health and future. You must leave the premises immediately and repercussions will follow."

"I thought we had an agreement."

"The agreement is off." Melinda leaves in a storm of fury.

Jones and I go outside to find Ambrosine sitting on the steps with her hands over her ears and nose. 

I sit down beside her. 

"It still smells like fish." She says, her eyes watery. She leans into me, pressing her head hard against me as if it might help the smell stop.

"We should call her dad," Jones says after a moment. "I think he'll know what to do." I just nod. He takes out his cellphone and dials. He explains the situation then hands to phone to me.

"Hi," I say.

"Hi," the voice replies, "she's smelling fish?" He asks.

"Yes," I say, "do you know what's happening?"

"Yes," he talks slow, this must be hard for him. "There's a possibility she has a form of synaesthesia. She was too young at the time, and it can't be properly diagnosed yet, but the signs were there. Some doctors think the... event... acted like a catalyst, speeding the development up," he explains in rush to get the information out. 

"What should I do?"

"Try and figure out what smells like fish or if there's a colour involved. Ask her what smells like fish. Make her focus on it." I do as he says. 

She says nothing for a moment, then faintly squeaks: "Pie."

"Pie? Fish pie?" I say. 

"No p-i. The number," she and her father say at the same time.

"Great so what about pie?" He dad asks and I repeat.

"It's... it's irrational and circles," she says dazily. "I don't know."

"Give her the phone," Jones says finally. "I'll take all the legal repercussions." I do as he says. 

She takes the phone tenderly. "Dad?" 

I use my super hearing. "Yeah, I'm here sweet. Now I know you're head hurt, a lot, but I need you to think. Why Pi, why fish?"

"I don't like my brain daddy," she sobs. "I think it hates me too."

"It doesn't hate you, angel, it's just faster than you. Come on, figure it out. It's telling you something."

"It's irrational," she says. "Irrational... Pi's an irrational number.... fish is an irrational smell. How can something that good smell so bad? And how does sushi taste so bad and smell so good?"

"You're on the right track. Think about when you last ate fish."

"With Claire, in Canada. Jocelyn was there too, and there was something on the television. But I wasn't interested. I calculated the mirrors. I couldn't figure out how they hung, so I found their dimensions. Claire was so proud."

"There. Feeling better?"

"Yes. I love you, daddy."

"You too, kiddo. Bye." 

"Bye." She hangs up the phone. "Thank-you Jones." She says as she hands him back the phone."I still don't get it," she says to no one in particular.

"You'll figure it out one day," Jones tells her. She nods.

It is decided that there's no use in a therapy session today. Too much drama for her brain to handle right now. I take her back to my place. We have a quiet supper with no fish. Then, later, after she finishes her homework, we sit on the couch and watch an episode of Once Upon a Time. She leans into my shoulder as she eats some chips and slowly falls asleep.