“If it doesn’t, I’ll put a pillow over your head while you’re sleeping,” Greta said. “And then sit on it or whatever.”
“You’re a good friend,” said Sabine seriously.
“I don’t think it’s cancer,” Greta said. “I think it’s Lyme.”
“If I hear that word one more time…，” said Sabine.
They didn’t have Lyme disease in California, so when Greta first started transcribing for Om, she’d assumed everyone was talking about limes. Were these limes from outer space? They seemed to have abducted everyone in town and taken over their brains.
Greta was itching to get back to Big Swiss. In the recent past, if Greta didn’t excuse herself right around now, Sabine would talk both of Greta’s arms off, and then both of her legs, until Greta was twitching on the floor like one of the bees. Sometimes it was necessary to back out of the room slowly while Sabine was still talking, and then do an about-face and run to her room. But Sabine’s gabbing had tapered off once the bees started dropping dead.
“Do me a favor,” Greta said. “Choke down one of those donuts.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Sabine.
* * *
GRETA STEPPED OUTSIDE TO FETCH PI?ON, as well as three logs from the woodpile. The only source of heat in her room was a woodstove with a busted damper. The damper was stuck and would not close. Yes, she’d tried banging it with a hammer. One, two, three times. The flue remained wide open. Consequently, the fire in her room was never mellow and romantic, but rather an angry, raging inferno. The inferno demanded to be fed every three hours, and if Greta didn’t obey, it burned out completely and she had to start from scratch. This made sleeping through the night impossible. It was also dangerous—a chimney fire seemed imminent. Luckily, their only neighbor was a fire station.
Greta wrestled the logs into the stove and brushed the dirt off her filthy kimono. Pi?on jumped onto the bed with his muddy paws. Last week she’d pushed her desk toward the middle of the room, which was a little warmer. Any day now, Sabine would bring down a box of heavy drapes from the attic and nail them over all the windows, and Greta would work in near darkness. Such was the hardscrabble life in the Dutch House in the Big Woods. She liked to think of herself as a Laura Ingalls Wilder type, i.e., feisty and resourceful, but, if anything, she was more like the blind sister.
She donned her headphones and tapped the foot pedal.
OM:?You have a dog?
FEW:?Yes. His name is Silas, and he’s terrifying.
OM:?You’re frightened of your own dog?
FEW:?Me? No. He’s terrifying to other dogs—and their owners.
OM:?What do you love about him?
FEW:?My dog? He likes to hold hands. He dislikes kissing.
OM:?Is that also true of you?
FEW:?Yes.
There had been a silence before she’d said yes, a silence that seemed important to include. Greta hit the pause button and jotted down “ask Om about pauses.” Maybe he wanted to reconsider their inclusion in the transcripts. She was supposed to meet with him in exactly an hour, and he liked it when she showed up with notes.
OM:?Let’s return to the reason you’re here.
FEW:?I want to have children, and I want to have an orgasm during conception. This isn’t scientific, obviously, but I feel that having an orgasm will not only help me get pregnant, it will be good for the baby.
OM:?And you.
FEW:?What?
OM:?It would be good for you, too.
FEW:?Oh. Right.
OM:?So far, I’m getting the sense that you know your body on an intellectual level, and probably on a medical level, but not an emotional one. I’m getting the impression that you’re living life entirely in your head. You seem disconnected from your body.
FEW:?Are you referring to my blue fingers? I have poor circulation.
OM:?I’m referring to what you’ve told me about your aura, and to the way you carry yourself.
FEW:?How do I carry myself?
OM:?A little stiffly, honestly.
FEW:?Well, my body shows physiological signs of arousal all day and night, with little to no stimulation. In fact, my underwear is damp right now and all I’ve been doing is sitting. It’s as if I have no control, as if I’m foaming at the mouth.
Greta’s ears felt suddenly warm and rigid. She paused the audio, slipped off her headphones, and tugged on her lobes. If her ears had erections, she could only imagine what was happening in Om’s pants.
OM:?Arousal and desire are two different things. Personally, I have the opposite problem. I desire sex but sometimes have trouble becoming aroused.
Okay, so perhaps nothing was happening in Om’s pants. Greta pictured his flaccid penis and shuddered.
OM:?When you’re aroused, do you want to have sex?
FEW:?Only if I’m drunk.
OM:?Are you drunk right now?
FEW:?It’s nine fifty a.m.
OM:?I know, I was kidding. Do you masturbate on a regular basis?
FEW:?I find it boring, and nothing happens.
OM:?Masturbation is a skill. It’s totally learnable, like cooking. Have you ever made risotto?
FEW:?I’m terrible in the kitchen.
OM:?I wonder if you would allow me to share my own journey with you.
FEW:?Please don’t.
OM:?May I ask why not?
FEW:?Aren’t therapists not supposed to talk about themselves?
OM:?A little self-disclosure builds rapport, no? I often use my personal journey to treat clients. I’ve gathered many tools in my journey, tools I’m willing to—
FEW:?Can you not use the word “journey” ever again? It makes my skin crawl. I’m not crazy about “tools,” either.
Greta smiled.
OM:?My point is, I can help you integrate your intellect with your sexual—
FEW:?What are you proposing exactly?
OM:?A variety of exercises involving breath, touch, and mindfulness.
FEW:?Touch?
OM:?There’s nothing to fear, I promise. I’ll never ask you to do anything you’re not totally comfortable with. We all have a sexual narrative or anecdote that intrigues us, or that we identify with on some level. Perhaps I can help you discover a narrative that speaks to you. Are you open to that?
FEW:?I guess.
OM:?I also want to address what happened to you. The beating, as you call it.
FEW:?To be honest, I almost never think about it.
OM:?Hmm. I wonder why it was the first thing you mentioned?
FEW:?I wanted to get it out of the way. As a piece of background information. Also, don’t read into this too much, but the guy is getting out of prison next month.
OM:?How long has he been in prison?
FEW:?Eight years.
OM:?Wow. Hold on, I think this is a good time to stop—
“No, no, no—” Greta said.
[END OF RECORDING]
“Dammit,” Greta said.
* * *
OM’S RELATIONSHIP-COACHING STYLE seemed reminiscent of getting hit on at a bar. Not by a yoga teacher, as his name would suggest, but by an unneutered therapy animal. He was short, furry, and attentive, with the most soulful brown eyes Greta had seen in years, eyes that put you instantly at ease, even as he was humping your leg. Greta had experienced this firsthand during their initial interview, which had taken place at an abandoned-church-turned-expensive-cocktail-bar on the edge of town. Om had been wearing a felt fedora that afternoon, along with black eyeliner, a tasteful white linen tunic, and tight denim shorts. A women’s vintage handbag dangled from his arm, and he’d painted his short fingernails a color Greta recognized as Lincoln Park After Dark. He was somewhere in his forties and he seemed unable to stop staring at her face. At forty-five, Greta was aware of the facts, and the fact was that her attractiveness, especially in broad daylight, tended to have a delayed effect: it hit you anywhere from two weeks to two months after you met her, and sometimes not until after you touched her, and then it stayed with you for years—or so she told herself—but Om had immediately asked, “You used to model, correct?”