“I’m not sure I have it in me,” Greta said. “I’ll probably just kill myself.”
A strong breeze came in through the window, unsettling the papers on Om’s desk. The Kleenex waved frantically at Greta from its box. Bon voyage. Greta grabbed one and blotted her eyes.
“I feel a little relieved, to be honest,” Greta said. “I couldn’t maintain the charade much longer. Believe it or not, I usually avoid conflict.”
“Have you told Sabine?”
“No,” Greta said.
“Not that I want you to—ever—but I’m curious to hear how you’d narrate this to a third party. Where would you start?”
That was easy. She’d start with the trauma rant in Big Swiss’s first session. By that point, Greta had transcribed sixty-eight sessions for Om and was beginning to think that if everyone was traumatized, maybe nobody was, including her. And then she heard Big Swiss ranting about the trauma people, and comparing them to Trump people, and chastising them for using their trauma as an alibi for whatever, and Greta felt like Big Swiss was speaking directly to her, because Greta had been quietly crutching around on her own shitty history for over thirty years, and maybe it was time to put down the crutches. Maybe Big Swiss had something to teach her about living. About taking responsibility. About eradicating self-pity and perhaps replacing it with something productive.
But how would she narrate this to Om?
“It was a dark and stormy night,” Greta began. “At the dog park. My poor dog was being choked by a pit bull, and Big Swiss stepped in and saved his life.”
“Big Swiss?”
“Flavia,” Greta said.
Om snorted. “Then what?”
“I knew who she was—that voice—and when she asked for my name, I panicked and gave a fake one. Then she wanted to hang out, to be dog park friends, and I was too fascinated by her to say no.”
“Well, Greta, you’re not alone. Everyone knows who Flavia is. What happened to her—it was a big story around here. People still talk about it. And now they talk about you, too. You and her together.” Om coughed. “You’ve been seen in bars. You’ve been seen in cars. You’ve been seen on boats. You’ve been seen in… bathrooms.”
You’ve been seen at Swoon, Greta sang to herself. You’ve been seen at Half Moon. You’ve been spotted at Rev, again at Deb’s, on the patio at Red Dot, in the Stewart’s parking lot, in the bathroom of Spotty Dog— “You could’ve been more discreet, at the very least,” Om said.
“We were, until recently, and it hasn’t been all fun and games, trust me. Do you know how many bathrooms I’ve cried in? Thirteen. I’m coming apart at the seams, Om, acting out like a teenager. I nearly punched a guy for looking at her ankles, and I’m not even the jealous type. I’ve never felt so… activated.”
“Well, if you’re hysterical, it’s historical,” Om said, softening. “Your wounds are getting some much-needed air. You’ve been covering them up for years, probably out of necessity, but wounds need air to heal.”
“How long have you known I’m Rebekah?”
“Couple weeks,” Om said. “Look, I’m angry and upset, don’t get me wrong, but I feel partly to blame. Hiring you was a gamble, I knew that, but you seemed perfect because you were new to town and you didn’t know anyone except Sabine. I’ve known Sabine for years, by the way. If she trusted you enough to live under her roof, I figured you were solid. But I should’ve known better. This town is too tiny.”
“Who’ll transcribe your sessions now?”
“I have enough material,” Om said cryptically. “But I need to ask: are you really suicidal, Greta? Be honest.”
“A little,” Greta said.
“Do you have anyone to talk to?”
“Sabine,” Greta said. “Pi?on.”
“I hope I don’t regret this, but—well, here’s my offer: two or three sessions with me, after which I’ll refer you to someone else. Deal?”
“Why?”
“I’d like to help, if I can. I don’t trust you right now, but I do care about you.”
“Thing is, you were my only client, so… I can’t afford you.”
“I’d like you to transcribe your own sessions, Greta. That’s your payment to me.”
Dear god in heaven. Talk about eating shit. Was there anything worse than your own recorded voice playing in your ear? In both ears? About feelings? Your own feelings? If she were only a little suicidal now, this would probably push her over the edge.
“Fine,” Greta said.
16
“Greta.” Her name had never sounded more guttural, more like the wrong note in a musical performance, more like loose gravel, than it did in Big Swiss’s mouth.
“Greta.”
Greta pulled the comforter over her head and wondered if the stink bugs felt threatened by the voice on the other side of the door. The linens smelled powerfully of their farts. Luckily, cilantro was Greta’s favorite herb.
“Greta,” Big Swiss said again. “Come out of there, please.”
Greta held her breath like a coward. Big Swiss had arrived unannounced and let herself into the house, and then into Greta’s room, and now she was standing outside the antechamber. Although sleeping in the antechamber was unnecessary at this point—the brick walls had finally absorbed enough sun—Greta had been hiding in there for days, passing out and waking up at odd hours, lost, confused.
“I let Pi?on out,” Big Swiss said. “He’s running around with Silas in the yard. Come out of there now and talk to me.”
Greta listened to Big Swiss’s heavy footsteps move away from the door. Big Swiss was a heel-striker. Greta’s feet, on the other hand, were leaves floating on water. She sometimes envied the nerve of loud walkers. Her mother had been the loudest.
Big Swiss paused at Greta’s desk. Her hands shuffled papers, seemingly in search of something. Transcripts, probably.
“Is this your diary?” Big Swiss said.
“What?”
Greta rolled out of the bed, opened the door, and poked her head into the room. Big Swiss sat at Greta’s desk with her feet up. Red Swedish clog boots, bare legs, a linen shirtdress the color of unripe olives. They hadn’t seen each other in six days, a record.
“There you are,” Big Swiss said. “Hello, Greta.”
“Are you going to say my name every thirty seconds?”
“Maybe,” Big Swiss said. “Do you dislike your name, Greta?”
“I guess you’re still mad?”
“Is your last name really Graves?”
Greta felt naked in her nightgown. She was also wearing what she called a blood diaper, having run out of tampons. Nevertheless, she fox-walked across the room and sat in the armchair next to the desk.
“Greta Graves,” Big Swiss said gravely. “Sounds fake.”
“We were in the cemetery when you asked for my last name,” Greta said. “Seemed like a natural choice.”
Big Swiss looked alarmed. “We’ve never been to a cemetery together.”