I smell fire but no one else does.

Will I be the hero who saves the family from imminent death?

My husband and I are sitting in the den watching TV when I smell something burning. “Do you smell that?” I ask him. He sincerely considers this, then says, “No, I don’t smell anything. What does it smell like?” “Something burning,” I say.

We live in Inland Southern California, close to large swaths of open space notorious for wildfires as well as close to a mostly-dry river bottom filled with homeless encampments which often catch fire, not to mention arson, which has become increasingly common. We are used to the sudden smell of fire. It’s unmistakable. This isn’t it.

No one is in the kitchen downstairs. There is no fire nearby according to the Watch Duty app. It’s warm out, so highly unlikely anyone in the neighborhood has a fire in the fireplace. We live next door to an apartment building where sometimes people stand outside to smoke. This is what I decide it is.

One day I smell it near the laundry room. Again, no one else could smell it. Later, however, we all could smell it on our clothes. We called a technician who informed us that the lint had built up over time and stoked a tiny smoldering fire near the dryer’s enclosed heat source; thankfully, limited airflow meant that the fire was contained.

I thought that was that, but no.

Months pass and I continue to be the only that smells that weird burning smell. I begin noticing it in different rooms around the house, including at my desk. The dryer is still okay, and I don’t see anyone outside smoking. Maybe we have a short somewhere? I check all the outlets, unplugging things, turning things off. Still, I can smell it.

Later, we are in a bookstore in another city. I smell it. Finally, a clue.

On a hunch, I google “hallucinatory smells” and up pops the term phantosmia:

Phantosmia (pronounced “fan–TAAZ–mee–uh”) is a condition that causes you to detect smells that aren’t actually present in your environment (phantom smells). These odors may be pleasant or unpleasant, occasional or constant.

—Cleveland Clinic

So here is a possible answer. What other explanation could there be for me smelling the same thing regardless of where I am? It comes and goes, especially if there are strong competing odors: food cooking, cleaning supplies, jasmine blooming.

There is a long list of potential causes of these hallucinatory smells—everything from Parkinson’s disease to brain tumors to dental problems to nasal polyps. I decide to attack from below. I make an appointment with my primary care physician to get an ENT referral, and I also make a dentist appointment.

I am long overdue.

Like a lot of people, I’m not a fan of going to the dentist. For my kids’ sake, I have done a decent job of modeling good habits but I am not blessed with perfect teeth: fillings, crowns, root canals; periodontal disease. During the pandemic, it seemed risky to keep up with my appointments, but I tried. Then one appointment coincided with my getting sick and I had to cancel. I never got around to rescheduling because I was working a lot and it seemed a low priority.

My first appointment back, they took comprehensive x-rays, including cone beam computed tomography (CBCT). I admit I am fascinated by these images.

And there it was: a dental infection affecting an old crown and root canal. Bacteria had snuck in beneath the crown and infected the bone beneath the tooth. There was no salvaging it. The tooth had to come out.

So here I sit with a hole in my mouth eating soft foods for a week. I am giving myself permission to be a slug. I don’t think I smell that smell anymore?

But I am still keeping my appointment with the ENT.

The bright side of all this is that it’s given me a new word—phantosmia—and an interesting way to work these details into my novel.

The main character smells fire. The question is, it is real or is it just in his head?