Big Swiss(105)

GW:?Alone?

OM:?Me and another kid, who I also bullied.

GW:?Did you spit on animals?

OM:?I sprayed them with Windex. But I threw a cat in a pond once.

GW:?Did you gobble a bunch of ketamine while my head was turned?

OM:?This is me being real with you, hon. Is any of this resonating?

GW:?With what?

OM:?Your own experience.

GW:?I’m wondering if you’re trying to make me feel better or worse, or if you’re telling me you’re a serial killer, or if you’re about to spit on my forehead and then trip me when I try to run out of here.

OM:?I was thirteen at the time, the age you were. I hadn’t learned to rein it in yet. My point is, we all have an inner shithead, and maybe you need to shake hands with yours.

GW:?Oh yeah? Then what?

OM:?Stop trying to silence her or pretend she’s not there. Remind her that she’s not a bad person, that she doesn’t need to feel ashamed for having or expressing feelings, positive or negative. You could start by giving her a name.

GW:?[SNIFFS]

OM:?What are you smelling—gas?

GW:?My least favorite kind of therapy: inner-child healing.

OM:?I prefer the term “reparenting.”

GW:?I’m not ready to be a mom.

OM:?I just want Big Greta to be nice to Little Greta.

GW:?I’m not good with kids, Om. Can we not call her Little Greta?

OM:?You have another name in mind?

GW:?James.

OM:?[PAUSE] Is your inner child a boy?

GW:?Rebekah.

OM:?That sounds right.

GW:?Do you plan to bully my inner child?

OM:?Rebekah is already deeply wounded, Greta. She’s still traumatized after all these years because you internalized her wounds without processing or repairing them. Rebekah needs space to heal, and it’s up to you to give her that space, to advocate for her. If you heal Rebekah, you heal your mother, too, and everyone else you’ve hurt, including Flavia and Luke. If everyone did this, the world would be a better place.

GW:?Please don’t ask me to “journal.”

OM:?I think transcribing these sessions will be a good first exercise for you. How was your experience transcribing your last session?

GW:?Hellish. I hate my voice.

OM:?Why?

GW:?It’s my mother’s voice.

OM:?When we have three or four transcripts and you’re ready to go deeper, I’ll give you additional exercises.

GW:?You never told me what you’re writing. Is it a self-help book?

OM:?God, no. It’s a novel.

GW:?About a relationship coach?

OM:?It’s a campus novel set in New England. I tend to think of it as The Secret History meets Animal House.

GW:?Who’s the transcriptionist?

OM:?There isn’t one.

GW:?A Swiss woman?

OM:?Nope.

GW:?Maybe you’re writing the wrong book, Om.

OM:?Maybe you should write your own book, Greta.

GW:?Is that the lesson?

OM:?I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, actually. If you try it, be mindful of our confidentiality agreement. No transcripts. Don’t think for a second I won’t sue you. I have a very good lawyer—

GW:?Settle down.

OM:?You know you’ve been staring at my gong for the past fifteen minutes? Longingly, I might add.

GW:?Your dong?

OM:?[LAUGHS] Shall I give you a sound bath before you go?

GW:?Fine. Make it quick.

[GONG BATH: 10 MINUTES]

[END OF RECORDING]





21


The next morning, Greta woke to the high-pitched whining of insects. Not the scourge of mosquitoes that had visited her room the previous night—something larger, louder. She climbed out of bed and checked the antechamber—nothing. Pi?on growled at the floor. The noise vibrated beneath their feet. It was coming from the kitchen.

“Stay here,” she ordered Pi?on.

Outside her bedroom door, two bees greeted her and slow-danced near her face. They were drunk, bottom-heavy. It was their siblings she was likely hearing downstairs, and it sounded like they had a few, along with their mother, of course. Greta rushed downstairs.

Indeed, the kitchen was filled with bees, more bees than she’d ever seen, a swarm of perhaps a hundred thousand, twice the size of the previous colony. The hatch was hanging open, and so the bees were everywhere she looked. Thousands blanketed the windows from the inside, blocking the weak morning light, making the kitchen darker, but most were in the hive doing major construction of some kind. Others performed separate tasks or rested in various parts of the kitchen. One group seemed to be devouring leftover pork loin on the stove; another lounged on Sabine’s collection of chipped French dinnerware.

Greta stood perfectly still, afraid to draw attention to herself. Had they opened the hatch themselves?

“Mother of god,” Sabine said from the stairs. She was puffy eyed and dressed in men’s pajamas. “They sent scouts the other day, and now it appears the whole clan’s moving in. Hi, guys.”

Sabine looked happy, as if her kids were visiting for the week.

“Can we maybe close the hatch?” Greta asked. “So I can make coffee without getting killed?”

“They won’t attack you,” Sabine said, just as a bee landed on her arm. “Ow. Fuck, I just got stung.”