Big Swiss(23)

“Lemme guess,” Greta said. “You want one for your birthday.”

“They cost six grand,” he said, and laughed. “And no, I’d rather have a RealDog.”

Greta pictured a silicone sex doll in her golden years. Wrinkles, flab, sun damage. She could see how there might be a huge market for that, given everyone’s obsession with youth and perfection.

“So, like, older sex dolls?”

“Dogs, Greta,” he said. “Life-size dogs made of silicone.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Well, we could take a RealDog on road trips. We could hang out with a RealDog on the couch. We could take naps with a RealDog—”

“But why not get a real dog?”

“Because you’d never look at me again,” Stacy said seriously. “And I’m not sure I could handle that.”

“I love dogs,” Greta said. “But I’m not the dog-mom type. I don’t think of dogs as fur babies.”

And so, they’d adopted a dog. A real dog named Pi?on, whom they found at a no-kill shelter in El Segundo. It was rare to find a purebred Jack Russell at a shelter, especially one so young (he was five), with long legs. His original owner had dropped dead; Pi?on had nowhere to go. All he really required was several hours of exercise per day and to be made the center of their universe. They signed the papers.

Everyone liked to believe their dog was superior to every other dog, but in Pi?on’s case it was undeniable. He jumped rope. He could ride a scooter. He could surf, skateboard, somersault. He could balance a soccer ball on his nose. He caught balls with his front paws. He slept in until nine or ten, never begged or slobbered, and wasn’t food-obsessed like other dogs, often fasting for a day—by choice.

“Why do you let him put his tongue in your mouth?” Stacy asked.

They were sitting on the couch, and Pi?on was standing on Greta’s thighs with his paws on her shoulders. In addition to being a highly gifted and trained athlete, he was a very powerful kisser.

“He’s just getting cream cheese off my chin.”

“Are you putting food on your face on purpose?”

“No,” Greta lied.

His kisses were dry, sweet perfection. His breath smelled like licorice. She’d never known such pure and uncomplicated love. Her life, pre-Pi?on, seemed like a formless fog. What had gotten her out of bed in the morning? How had she lived?



* * *



IT WASN’T UNTIL STACY asked her to marry him for the second time that Greta had forced herself awake. Nine and a half years had somehow drifted by. She’d coasted through her thirties, easy as you please, and had forgotten how to take care of herself. Now that she was awake, she wanted the feeding tube removed. She wanted to walk on her own feet again, to wipe her own ass. A little wine with dinner might be nice. Perhaps most of all, she wanted her own bed. She recalled her favorite part about being single, about being alive, the only thing for which she’d experienced pure and complete gratitude as well as the existence of God and heaven, her greatest, most unfiltered joy: sleeping alone, waking up alone, not speaking before noon.

So, what was she going to do—ask Stacy to sleep in a separate bed? To keep his mouth shut six hours upon waking? To stop being so loving and helpful? Was she a psychopath? He deserved more, and better.

The actual act of leaving, however, of packing and moving to Hudson, had felt like trying to stay conscious under anesthesia. It had taken every bit of her will. She’d even reached out to her aunts in desperation, hoping for a bit of reassurance.

Aunt Dusty, whose brain had been melted by the Hallmark Channel, thought Greta was crazy for leaving Stacy and suggested therapy. Aunt Petra cursed Greta in Croatian, calling her a wild pig and a big smelly monkey. “But maybe you find Lord again,” Petra said. “Fingers cross.”

Greta said she’d already found Him. On Hinge. They’d been to third base.

“Jebem ti suna?ce,” Petra muttered before hanging up, which Google translated as “Fuck you, sunshine.”

Aunt Deb called Greta a dingbat but wanted to reminisce about the little boxes Greta used to draw as a teenager, boxes that were either closed, partly open, or wide open with flowers spilling out.

“Sounds like you read my diary,” Greta said.

“It didn’t say ‘Dear Diary.’?”

“Did it say ‘Dear Deb’?”

“I could never figure out what any of it meant.”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“But what was the code? Tell me.”

“The position of the lid corresponded to how suicidal I was on a given day.”

Greta listened to Deb rinse something in the sink.

“So what’s your lid doing now?”

“Flapping around in the wind.”

“Call me before you do anything stupid,” Deb said. “Okay? Promise?”

“Promise,” Greta said.





4


In her room, she found Pi?on standing near a window with his nose to the floor, engaged in his new hobby of resuscitating half-dead bees. He did this by blowing hard out of his nose, directly onto their still bodies. Sometimes he succeeded in bringing them back to life for a few wing beats. Then they stopped moving forever.