Big Swiss(61)

“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?

Her ability to compartmentalize bewildered Greta, who was unable to put Big Swiss’s box in a box. In fact, Greta thought about Big Swiss’s box every four minutes and was beginning to feel like a dude. Except she also felt more ladylike—or at any rate, Big Swiss treated her like a lady. Big Swiss never showed up empty-handed. She regularly brought wine, flowers, candy, and other gifts. So far, she’d given Greta a pair of cashmere knee socks, real gold earrings, and several robust houseplants. Greta had never felt so wooed.

Now Big Swiss’s car pulled into the driveway. She shouted for Greta in the yard. As usual, Greta wanted to go straight to bed, but Big Swiss insisted on taking the dogs for a walk across the field and into the woods. She brought supplies: two pair of snowshoes, two bottles of hard cider, two manuals for identifying trees and birds, and one knife. The knife, called a karambit, had been given to her by Luke, ostensibly for protection. The blade was sharp but small and had a crescent curve resembling a claw. Greta could only imagine using it for suicide, but, according to Luke, the karambit had been an agricultural tool before it became weaponized, and had been popular among Indonesian women. The women would tie the knife in their hair and use it to rake roots—or rapists, if necessary. Big Swiss seemed entirely comfortable with it, however, and even demonstrated the various striking motions—slashing, hooking, hammering—before using it to gently scrape bark off a tree.