The Woman in the Park

by Teresa Sorkin

  “Whatever,” he said. “It’s fine, Mom. Just—you don’t have to do that.” His voice softened. “We get it.”

  A wave of sadness ran through her, and she fought back tears. She looked at Darcy, who was staring into her lap. This was all going wrong. She’d been so excited to see the kids, and now she’d upset both of them. Goddamn it, Eric. It was beyond unfair; it was nothing they should have to deal with. Ever.

  “I have a treat for you guys,” she ventured, desperate to lighten the mood. “We’ve got pumpkin pie for dessert, with whipped cream.”

  Darcy brightened. Jason breathed a heavy sigh.

  How could it have become so difficult to tell what he was thinking? Let it drop, Mom. Solid ground again—the voice of teenage impatience, or so she hoped. “You’re not going to tell me you don’t like that, either?” she teased.

  Jason smiled just a bit, in spite of himself. “It’s not natural to eat something that looks like a person’s head,” he said.

  The relief was incredible. “Now you’re just trying to be difficult,” she managed to say lightly. “Darcy, what about you? You’ll eat a little jack-o’-lantern, won’t you?”

  Darcy giggled. “Yeah,” she said.

  “It’s a special occasion, after all.” Sarah got up to clear the plates. “If you guys want, we can watch a movie after. Whatever you want.”

  “Yeah!” Darcy said exuberantly.

  Even Jason seemed willing to give in a little. “Sure, that sounds good,” he said.

  This time when his phone buzzed again, on her way to the kitchen, she didn’t mind.

  The evening after, the kids were both away, sleeping over at friends’ places in the city, while Sarah and Eric got ready to attend a fundraiser. She tried to make peace with the fact that everyone was living such separate lives these days.

  She’d waited up for Eric after the children had gone to bed the night before, but had been too tired to quarrel with him when he finally came home. They’d agreed to spend the morning together with Jason and Darcy, but she had been exhausted and overslept. When she woke in the late morning, Eric was gone again.

  Nevertheless she’d managed to spend a pleasant afternoon with them but found it unsettling how reticent they were about the morning they’d spent with their father. It was as though they were protecting their relationship with him from her, or perhaps protecting her from it; they each seemed unwilling to go into it with her, as though cautious of some hidden volatility.

  She went into her oversized closet, leafed through her clothes. Everything was in order, just the way she liked it, organized by color, every shade of the rainbow with whole sections at the end for those staple colors of Manhattan nightlife: white and black. Feeling like wearing black, she chose a simple black sheath, carefully applied her makeup and opened her jewelry box. She withdrew the nameplate necklace again, briefly remembering the way the stranger in the park had touched it. Had it really only been a day since then?

  She shook the thoughts from her mind, concentrating on the necklace instead. Eric had bought it for her the year before Jason was born, in Colombia, when they’d gone to Cartagena for a wedding. She’d loved the seaside town with its hint of danger, its spicy food, its side streets and small shops full of local art, jewelry, and strong coffee. One night, the electricity had gone out in the entire area and blackness had descended over the town. The streets had all looked the same to them, unfamiliar and rough, and they’d nearly been hit by a motorcycle roaring out of an alley. Even Eric had had a nervous smell about him as they’d returned to their hotel room. It had felt dangerous and sexy, and that night they’d made love like never before, with a sense of urgency that she still remembered. Sarah had thought there would be many more trips to come like that one: wild and carefree. Shortly thereafter, however, Jason was born, and the trips became less carefree, then less frequent, then they stopped altogether.

  She slipped into the dress, feeling its silky coolness caress her back as she zipped it up. As usual, she was naked underneath—she hated wearing panties or bras and preferred going without them when she could. She remembered how, when she’d told Dr. Robin about this, the therapist had cocked her head and written it down in her notebook. Had the idea surprised her? Sarah secretly hoped so. What would Lawrence think, she wondered—then dismissed the thought with a smile.

  She heard a footstep on the bedroom floor and Eric was there again with her, elegant in his dark blue suit and crisp white shirt. She felt his hands on her back and, as angry as she had been at him all day, part of her anger dissolved into sadness and desire. He looked much as he had in Cartagena; did he still see her as he had then?

  “I like it when you’re home,” she said. “So do the kids.”

  “I know.” He kissed her gently. She could smell his cologne, the same that he’d worn when they’d first met and only wore when they went out together: French vetiver, leather and spice. It smelled of anticipation to her. “Très jolie, ma belle—are you ready?”

  She loved it when he spoke French to her. But today it felt like a distraction.

  “The kids missed you last night at dinner,” she said.

  “I know. I missed them, too.”

  But not me, she thought. “Jason seemed angry,” she went on, brushing aside her rage, “and I’m sure Darcy will be following suit soon enough.”

  “They’re kids,” Eric said. “They’ll be all right if we are.”

  Sarah looked hard at him. “And are we?” she asked.

  “Of course we are.” He kissed her again, running his hands up her neck, over her necklace, through her hair. It sent shivers up her spine as it always had. How could she even entertain the thought of another man with Eric here? A sickening guilt overcame her and she wanted to forgive everything, wanted him to make love to her like he had in Colombia, when the lights went out and the dangers of the world were just another adventure they were on together.

  They joined friends at the museum bar. The soirée—a fundraiser for education in underserved communities—was well attended, and a buzz filled the room, making it feel like the place to be. Wannabe-famous people, maybe-famous people, and even a few bona fide celebrities had turned out, most of them rich, spoiled men and women looking to top each other in generosity—just as they topped each other on where they vacationed and how big their houses were.

  Sarah had regretted coming as soon as they’d arrived. Her friend Laura, who’d extended the invitation to her, was nowhere to be seen and the music was overloud, reducing conversation to shouted pleasantries. Sarah and Eric made their way to the bar where she ordered a red wine while he glanced around the room.

  Eric was distracted, impatient. A few times she reached for his hand but he moved away too quickly, called to conversations elsewhere. Soon she felt alone, forgotten in the midst of small talk with people she barely knew.

  Then she saw the woman standing at the other end of the bar.

  Juliette.

  She was perfect, the height of youthful splendor. She wasn’t as tall as Sarah, but that didn’t matter—Juliette’s firm, unwrinkled skin, shiny ebony hair, perky breasts, and elegant neck were everything Sarah’s own body wasn’t. Sipping her drink, her long, dark hair cascading gracefully over her shoulders, the young woman looked as though she could have anything she wanted, simply by commanding it.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence. Eric must have told Juliette they would be there.

  Sarah felt the blood rush to her face. Before she could stop herself, she approached Juliette, as if on a mission. Sarah could smell the lilac aroma of her perfume, and it was nauseating.

  “Juliette?”

  Juliette turned with a surprised face. “Hi, Mrs. Rock.”

  Sarah glanced at the group she was with, and they were all looking at her.

  “I didn’t realize you would be here,” Sarah said.

  “My friend volunteers for the committee, and she invited some of us,” Juliette explained.

  Sarah nodded, e
ven though inside she knew Juliette was lying. Before anyone could see how upset she was, she escaped toward the back of the bar and ducked into the ladies’ room, rushing past two women at the sink to lock herself in a stall. She breathed in and out, slowly, just as Dr. Robin had instructed her to do, counting silently to five: One, two, three, four…

  Darkness lapped at the corners of her mind, coming closer. The room felt as though it was getting smaller, warmer; a strange heat burned in her chest and spread up through her neck. She touched her cheeks, felt the skin there growing fierier with every moment. The other women’s voices sounded incoherent and faraway. It seemed they would never leave.

  Once they were gone, she emerged and rinsed her face with cold water, forcing herself to keep breathing deeply. Slowly the fire within her cooled, and her heartbeat slowed down. Looking up, she saw herself in the mirror, wide-eyed and panicked.

  Over her shoulder, she saw a figure stir in the shadows behind her.

  She jumped and turned around. No one was there. She could have sworn it was a person, though no one she knew—a figure like one from her dream, uncoiling itself from the darkness like a snake. Slowly she turned back to look in the mirror again; she was alone.

  How dare Eric make her feel this way! She wasn’t going to let the two of them make a fool of her for another minute. She rushed out of the restroom, her hands still wet, to find him.

  ENTRY, OCTOBER 16, 2018

  Patient: Sarah Rock

  Age: 39 (Dob: 12/7/1978)

  This morning Sarah exhibited unusual hostility during our session. She sat in silence for almost the entire hour, despite my attempts at different conversational topics. She seems to be looking for something to validate her anger. For the most part I didn’t engage with her, instead allowing her to sit in silence. She was also wearing deep-red lipstick, a shade she doesn’t usually wear—and one that she has remarked on before as being particularly disliked by her husband.

  She is evidently going through a transformation, some new realization, though she’s not yet ready to share it with me. She is defying authority, with me as the representative of that authority; it is obviously part of the process. I’m giving her the space to figure it out; hopefully she’ll respond by coming to her next session. If she does, we’ll try to see what this newfound anger is all about.

  CHAPTER 4

  The nature of the circumstances seemed to have made this woman for this man, and to have thrust one towards the other. The two together, the woman nervous and hypocritical, the man sanguineous and leading the life of a brute, formed a powerful couple allied. The one completed the other, and they mutually protected themselves. At night, at table, in the pale light of the lamp, one felt the strength of their union, at the sight of the heavy, smiling face of Laurent, opposite the mute, impenetrable mask of Thérèse.

  THÉRÈSE RAQUIN

  What was she doing in the park again?

  Her kids were gone, back at school for another week; she didn’t belong among all these young, hopeful moms and their bubbly kids—crying, laughing, and growing up right before everyone’s eyes. But then, that wasn’t why she was here anyway.

  Her eyes went to the bench where she’d been sitting the other day. Nothing. No book. No Lawrence. She felt relief and disappointment, and the desire to give in to guilty pleasure. She sat down, a solitary onlooker.

  Why couldn’t Eric see that it was his fault she felt this way? But then, that was the problem—it was up to her to see everything, to know everything. Their fight the night before was still ringing in her ears, but for him it was just another exchange of words on his way out the door.

  It was partly her fault, as it always was; the amount she’d drunk made it easier for him to dismiss her accusations. She looked back on the years with the same puzzlement she’d always felt; it all happened so quickly.

  For the first few years, anyway, things had been blissful. They’d been inseparable; it was the pure, reliable love she’d been waiting for her whole life. Both of them had been crazy about each other; they talked and made love for hours, unable to get enough of one another. They married young—he proposed on her twenty-fourth birthday—and for some time, the passion had continued unabated.

  Admittedly, when the kids came, Sarah found excuses not to have sex; postpartum depression, weariness, simple stress over the degree of change. But though he was frustrated, Eric had been patient with her—even more patient with her than she was with herself. When her depression deepened after Darcy was born, and turned to fits of helpless despair when breastfeeding didn’t take, Eric did everything he could to support the family.

  But there was another reversal ahead. One day, the depression lifted like a heavy fog dispersing, and she suddenly felt back to normal. Her sex drive leaped again, to heights she hadn’t even known before, waiting for Eric to come home. At first he was thrilled with her newfound fervor, but then something shifted. He began to back away from her and came up with his own excuses to leave her wanting. He spent more time at work and on the road. Her depression returned and with it the nightmares and obsessive thoughts. Eric was completely distant now. When Sarah met Juliette, she knew the reason.

  Now he was off in Boston, away on another trip—with his mistress, no doubt. His position at the bank had changed over the past 10 years, and now he was a managing director and had to be away a lot more. He had long since given up even lying to Sarah about Juliette being along on these work trips, and admitted it openly, as if the fact that she worked for him made their little affair any less transparent.

  Sarah heard a child’s laugh. She watched the mother from the other day playing with her son. Sarah noticed the woman and her friend looking back at her.

  She couldn’t remember what she was still doing there. The playground area was no place for adults without children—even those who had once been mothers.

  She stopped in at the Neighborhood Bookstore, that cozy maze of quiet shelves where she could hide, leafing through other people’s ideas, other people’s feelings. Places like this reminded her that she was only a small piece of a larger puzzle. Her eyes scanned the shelves but the titles were unintelligible to her; as though the names were shifting back and forth. It was the medication, affecting her concentration as it always did. She made a mental note to cut back on it again.

  “May I help you find something?” A clerk had appeared at her side.

  “Thérèse Raquin,” she heard herself say. “Do you happen to have a copy? I seem to have misplaced mine.”

  “Émile Zola.” The clerk scanned the shelf, shook his head. “Raquin—it’s one of his darker novels. I don’t believe we have it in stock right now, though we have some other works by Zola here. I can order it for you?”

  Sarah shook her head, strangely confused. “No, that’s fine, thanks. I can always order it myself. I just thought I’d give it a try, since I was in the area.”

  She walked out empty-handed and continued down the block to the corner supermarket. Dinner—that was useful. Entering, she walked up and down the aisles aimlessly, placing items in her basket. At the checkout counter, she looked down to find almonds, berries, seaweed crackers, three bottles of wine. She laughed to herself. She’d have to stop by the gourmet deli again and pick up a proper dinner.

  As she was leaving, the sight of a woman approaching from up the street caused her to look away abruptly. Laura—happy, successful Laura, of the perfect kids, the wonderful husband, and the Montauk beach house. A sweet woman, and much more genuine than the average rich Upper East Sider, but about the last person Sarah wanted to see at the moment. Sarah buried herself in her phone and kept walking, but it was too late. Her friend’s chipper voice accosted her.

  “Sarah. Sarah!”

  She turned reluctantly, forcing a smile. Laura looked great as always, tight yoga pants showing off her figure.

  “Hey, I thought that was you.”

  “Hi Laura!” Sarah hoped she sounded surprised and happy to see her. They cheek-ki
ssed. “Sorry, I’m off in my own little world today.”

  Laura’s smile softened with concern. “You left the other night without saying anything—was everything okay?”

  “I was just feeling a little off. Too many people, you know how it is,” Sarah said.

  Laura toyed with the wide gold cuff on her wrist, a piece she was never without. Sarah had always thought it looked a bit like armor on her slender wrist. “How are Jason, and darling Darcy? Owen said that Jason seems to like boarding school.”

  “Yes. They like it.” Jason and Laura’s son, Owen, had been friends since preschool and talked all the time.

  “And you?” Laura asked.

  “It gives me a lot more time to myself. It’s not too far from the country house, which gives me an excuse to get up there more often.”

  Laura smiled. “That’s really good to hear.”

  Sarah forced a smiling nod. “I’ve got to get going,” she said. She held out her grocery bags and laughed awkwardly. “Still have to pick up some things for dinner.”

  Laura looked down at the bottles of wine sticking out of Sarah’s bags.

  She gave Sarah a serious look. “Hey, call me sometime? I’d love to catch up.”

  Sarah nodded as she slipped past her friend. She knew she wouldn’t be calling Laura anytime soon.

  She bought groceries, dropped them off at home, and wandered back out. Though the apartment was large and spacious, she still craved open space, the cold air, and the crowded streets of Manhattan where she could feel alone and not alone.

  She walked down Park Avenue, passing by planters with trees in autumn colors: burning red, persimmon orange, ochre yellow. The rain hung in the clouds above her; at each palatial building entrance, doormen stood on guard with umbrellas for whichever privileged tenants might emerge from approaching cars and taxis. She nearly tripped over a dog-walker’s confusion of leashes; crossing over to Fifth Avenue, she felt baffled by the swarms of tourists wandering toward their collective destinations. She thought of the herds of sheep she’d seen on a summer trip to the Greek isles, the way Eric had delighted her and the children with sheep calls.