Greta gasped.
“Do you have a towel?” Big Swiss said. “Maybe we should get rubber sheets.”
Our first “we,” Greta thought.
“Listen,” Greta said. “I realize you’re a pussy doctor and everything, but where did you learn to do that?”
“I did a little reading last night,” Big Swiss said. “The secret is to make contact and then break it, over and over and over, and then kiss it deeply, resting my mouth on it while drawing letters with my tongue. I went through the entire alphabet. What works best on you? The letter I, lowercase, with an extra-long stem and a circled dot. And then, every thirty seconds or so, I let my tongue go slack and still. I wait for all the clouds to pass. I wait for the hard blue sky. It takes about twenty minutes.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Greta said. “What clouds?”
“Your thoughts,” Big Swiss said. “I have to wait until all your thoughts pass, until you’re not able to think of anything but my tongue, until your entire body feels like it’s inside my mouth.”
“You studied for this,” Greta said. “Like an exam?”
“The books belong to my husband. One is called She Comes First.”
“Never heard of it,” Greta said. “Did he catch you reading it?”
“Yes.” Big Swiss smiled at the memory. “He asked me to read a passage aloud.”
“And?”
“I did.”
“Naked?”
“He kept his clothes on.”
“Wasn’t he curious about your sudden interest in clam diving?”
“My husband doesn’t ask many questions.”
“Tell me five things about him.”
“Why?”
“So I know he’s real,” Greta said. “And that you’re not mine.”
“I’m not his, either,” Big Swiss said. “We’re not possessive of each other in that way. I’ve always had my own friends, my own social life. I go to bars and restaurants on weekends, he goes hiking alone. I vacation with my friends every year, sometimes more than once. We give each other a lot of freedom.”
Part of Greta wished she’d call Luke by his name. Another part of her was glad she didn’t. Both parts were in agreement about one thing, however: no one was getting out of this unscathed. Although, as she watched Big Swiss study her gorgeous reflection in the mirror above the mantel, it was difficult to imagine her being truly wrecked by anything.
“You check yourself out a lot,” Greta said. “I probably would, too, if I had your face.”
“Maybe I don’t see what you see,” Big Swiss said. “And you do have my face—our bone structure is similar. Even Luke thinks so.”
“How’s that?”
“I showed him your picture on my phone,” Big Swiss said.
“What picture?”
It was a picture of Greta at the dog park in her groundskeeper getup, lighting a cigarette from another cigarette, looking entirely her age.
“Delete that immediately,” Greta said.
“You’re the vain one, not me,” Big Swiss said. “I’m only checking to see if I exist. I feel like a patch of moving fog most of the time. When I look in the mirror, I’m always startled to see a head and limbs.”
“It’s your aura,” Greta said. “It’s as big as one of those tanker ships on the Hudson.”
Big Swiss blanched as if she’d seen a ghost.
“Sorry,” Greta mumbled.
“You’re inside my head. Again.”
I’m inside your transcript, Greta thought. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep track of what Big Swiss had said in therapy and what she’d said in bed. Sometimes, such as right now, Big Swiss seemed on the verge of putting it together. Greta waited and said nothing.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” Big Swiss finally said.
“Yes, please.”
To live another day, Greta thought. As Rebekah.
11
Two weeks later, a freak storm dumped two feet of snow. It was late March. What was this shit? What was she doing here? Where was Sabine? She’d been evading Greta for over a month. First, she was “working in the city,” then she was in Montreal, Chicago, New Orleans. Her text that morning: “Had to stop in Florida. Home soon, promise.” Greta hoped Sabine had acquired a secret lover, or at least some weight in her face.
Speaking of, Big Swiss kept showing up every weekday. She brought Silas with her most days, along with an overnight bag, though she never stayed longer than a few hours. The bag made a clinking noise when she walked. Initially, Greta was worried it contained gynecological tools or torture devices, but it was full of… condiments. Big Swiss carried the international food aisle with her wherever she went. She seemed to require food every forty-five minutes. Otherwise, she fell asleep. The condiments in question included banana sauce （Filipino ketchup）， sm?rg?skaviar （mayo mixed with fish roe）， Aromat aux herbes （Swiss seasoning）， Maggi Würze （Swiss Worcestershire）， Thomy Delikatess-Senf （German mustard）， and a variety of hot sauces. The vehicles for these condiments were also in the bag: fresh fruit, walnuts, tuna, sardines, sauerkraut, hard-boiled eggs, something called Fitness Bread, dried meats, various hard cheeses. Not surprisingly, Big Swiss was obsessed with Swiss cheese, though not the kind with holes in it, and dairy in general.
She continued to see Om, and Greta continued to transcribe their sessions, but she didn’t talk about Greta in therapy. Not Greta, not Rebekah, not the insane amount of sex the three of them were having. She’d mentioned their first kiss—once. Greta was baffled. Why wouldn’t she mention the torrid affair she was having with an older woman, an affair she seemed to be enjoying, to a sex and relationship coach who, by the way, wasn’t cheap, who charged, in fact, $186 per session? She wasn’t talking about sex at all lately. The last three sessions had been devoted to her parents.
Her parents, by the way, were upper-middle-class intellectuals who preferred to live in poverty. Big Swiss grew up thinking they were bankrupt. She was homeschooled, which Greta knew, but her parents were farmers because they were obsessed with manual labor. No sugar or caffeine was allowed in the house, and they were opposed to daydreaming. Not drugs—daydreaming. As a child, Big Swiss had been constantly jolted out of her daydreaming state. Her parents did this by feeding her intense Turkish food and other Middle Eastern delicacies. They’d forced her to work the land, no matter the weather, and to study deliberately convoluted philosophy. Their only joy and pleasure: “ecstatic and authentic movement,” which some people called dancing. All of this explained why Big Swiss craved intensity in relationships, food, work, and the weather, hated being underwhelmed, remained willfully ignorant of popular culture, and refused to dance with Greta or anyone else.
Om was behaving strangely, too. He listened. He seemed to think before speaking. He let Big Swiss steer the conversation. Part of Greta thought they both must have known about her. But Om couldn’t have known—he would’ve fired Greta. Of course, Greta couldn’t say anything to either of them, and so she was left to wonder. Was she not important enough to bring up in therapy, or was she too important to bring up to Om? Was Big Swiss keeping their affair from him because she feared his response, his ridiculous opinions and suggestions, or did she suspect something? Was this her way of letting Greta know that she knew, and if so, how could she not say anything?