The Woman in the Park

by Teresa Sorkin

  It was the weekend again. Sarah had picked up their favorite, the Goddess’s fried chicken (which, after the requisite alterations, Eric had christened “General Sarah’s Chicken”), and was now adding seasoned tomatoes and lemon to complete its transformation into a homemade meal. Her favorite romantic music was playing on the stereo, and she sang along as she chopped. Eric had always hated this kind of music—but who cared? She felt free and light, able to do whatever she wanted: the bright flip side to being ignored by your spouse. How was that for thinking positively?

  She wondered whether Dr. Robin had believed her at their session. Had she really accepted her reticence about Lawrence as easily as she’d seemed to? It was impossible to tell with her; sometimes she felt as if the therapist read her mind. But Sarah was hopeful now, something that she hadn’t felt in years. She wasn’t about to jeopardize that by inviting the kind of judgment she knew Dr. Robin would express. Anyway, one afternoon in the park had done what all those thousands of countless, meaningless hours on the couch hadn’t. It had restored her hope.

  If only she could find out something, anything, about Lawrence! She sighed, thinking of all the fruitless, furtive work she’d put in. She’d tried searching online for Lawrence—for his name, for his writing, even for his sister in Paris—the man was a ghost, even more of an internet non-entity than Dr. Robin. She just didn’t know enough about him. It made things exciting, she had to admit.

  A bloodcurdling scream pierced her daydream. Surprised, she slipped with the knife, cutting her finger and drawing blood. She felt a quick jolt of pain and swore to herself as she clutched her finger. Darcy rushed across the kitchen to her side, shaking her own hand violently.

  “Mommy!” she sobbed. “I touched the stove.”

  She held out her hand. The burn was an angry red, already starting to blister. Sarah took hold of her hand and plunged it under cold water, her daughter’s winces cutting through her.

  “It’s okay—it’s okay, sweet baby,” she repeated gently as she stroked the girl’s long hair to soothe her. She took an ice pack out of the freezer and held it to Darcy’s hand. “Hold that, honey—it’s just a burn, it’ll be all right.”

  As Darcy quieted down, her face changed from upset to alarm. She wiped away her tears abruptly and pointed past her mother.

  “Mommy—are you all right?” she said.

  Sarah looked. On the kitchen counter were a few drops of blood, which continued into an impressive-looking trail.

  “Of course,” she said, covering her alarm. “It’s just a little cut.”

  She put her cut finger under the faucet, too, then wrapped a paper towel around it to stop the bleeding. She got out a Band-Aid and applied it, watching as the blood soaked quickly through.

  Ominous thoughts flitted through her head: Would she be willing to hurt her family for her secret? Pushing the guilty thought away, she drew Darcy into a close hug.

  She said in a calm voice, “It’s just a little burn. It’ll heal up soon—just try to keep it protected for a while, okay? You want to hold onto the ice pack for now?”

  Darcy nodded and Sarah felt the guilt return as she looked into her daughter’s big, gray-green eyes. They were Eric’s eyes, the part of him that had been most obviously passed onto their daughter. It was those eyes that she had fallen so deeply in love with, once upon a time—that vulnerable, soulful look. Sarah felt she could hardly bear the look of them, but then they turned away—Darcy’s pain and need for Sarah gone, almost as quickly as it had come.

  “I love you, honey,” Sarah said, her voice cracking.

  “I love you too, Mommy,” already on her way to the next thing.

  Sarah was happy to have the kids home for dinner. Jason ate three servings then disappeared into his room, as was his habit these days. Darcy followed soon after. Sarah’s mind drifted away to Lawrence again.

  Just then, she realized that Eric had arrived and had sat down next to her.

  “The kids have already eaten,” she said while passing him his plate.

  “You look different today,” he said.

  “How so?” she asked, trying to hide her smile behind her wine glass.

  “Happy—you actually seem happy.” He was smiling, too. Sarah felt herself blush.

  “I am. Does that surprise you?”

  He ignored her and said, “I’m going to have to go away again next week, Sarah.” A somber look came over his face.

  For once, she actually felt relieved. Looking at him as she wiped her mouth, she called to the kids. “Who wants dessert?”

  “Me,” came Darcy’s response.

  She pushed her chair back and got up. “I’ll be in with it in a minute,” Sarah called back.

  Eric watched as she got out the ice cream, his face puzzled.

  He leaned in. “Sarah,” he whispered, “I know we said we would go to the country house on Thursday. But I can’t change this. I have to go. You know that.”

  “It’s fine,” she said. “I’ll go on my own.” She took out a bowl, put it down on the counter. “It’s not like I wasn’t expecting to anyway.”

  “Please, Sarah,” he pleaded.

  She hissed. “What do you want from me, Eric? The kids are going to be gone through next weekend—and now you’re gone this week, too? We’re losing our grip on the life we’ve made together.”

  She heard Darcy call out to her from the other room, her voice uncertain.

  “Mom?”

  “Coming, sweetie,” she called back. Without looking at him, she went on. “Eric, I don’t want to talk about this now. I’m enjoying having them here, and I don’t want to think about how you’re never here. Is that so complicated?” She stabbed at the ice cream furiously. “You’ve got to be gone again, fine. I’m going to the country house alone. The tree needs to be taken care of after the storm, along with a lot of other things. We have a life, Eric, if you don’t remember.”

  Eric shook his head. “I don’t like you going there alone, Sarah. You’re not—” He stopped himself.

  She turned on him. “I’m not what, Eric? Go ahead, say it!”

  “Stable,” Eric said defiantly.

  Sarah scoffed. “How dare you lecture me about stability, Eric? Do you really think walking out on your family for a young girl is acting stable?”

  “Please Sarah,” he said.

  “Do you?”

  “Stop!” he demanded.

  “At least I’m here.” She picked up the bowl of ice cream. “You want to be gone all the time, I don’t need you lecturing me whenever you’re here. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bring this out to our daughter.”

  She stormed out of the room before he could answer.

  It wasn’t until Monday that she was able to get away to her park bench again.

  Sunday night had been restless, and even after her morning cup of coffee she still felt fuzzy. The kids had needed seeing off much earlier than she’d been ready to get up; it felt like the medication was still making her groggy.

  Thérèse Raquin lay like a lead weight across her leg. She looked at the book, aware that she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on it if she read it now. The novel was intense and surprisingly close to home; she found herself sympathizing with its heroine even while she recoiled from her craziness. There was something victim-like about her, despite the cold calculation it took to plot her husband’s murder; her insanity was a condition thrust upon her, a result of her having been abandoned throughout her life.

  She sat on the bench for a while, trying not to let her thoughts veer too much in this morose direction. Then a familiar shape caught her attention, and she saw Lawrence entering the park at a brisk stride, strolling toward her with a big smile on his face. He was wearing soft blue jeans and his gray jacket. She felt the joy spread across her face in response and hoped he wouldn’t notice how giddy she was. She stood to meet him.

  A voice came from behind her, cutting through her school-girl excitement.

  “S
arah! Sarah!”

  She turned quickly, her face sinking.

  It was Laura, walking toward her with long strides. The familiar cheery smile was nowhere in sight. Sarah glanced back in the other direction; Lawrence had already turned and walked discreetly off to one side of the path. How had he managed to do that so smoothly?

  “Sarah,” Laura said, annoyance barely detectable in her voice. “What’s going on with you?”

  Had she seen Lawrence? “What—what do you mean, what’s going on with me?”

  “We had lunch plans,” Laura said. “Remember, to go over the event? I tried calling you.”

  “I’m so sorry, Laura, I’ve just been so distracted lately,” Sarah apologized. She looked past her friend for Lawrence, but he’d disappeared.

  “Are you sure that’s it?” Laura said, following her gaze. She looked at Sarah again, her eyes narrowing.

  “I’ve just been really busy lately. We’re renovating the country house; we had that tree we planted, as a family. The storm hit it hard, and—” She felt herself babbling and reined it in. “The kids are away this weekend, so I’m going up there on Thursday for a few days, just to tidy some things up. Look at the tree, that kind of thing. Can we plan on doing lunch sometime before that? I’m sorry, I’ll be there this time. I promise.”

  Laura didn’t look convinced.

  “You know I would do anything for you, right?” she said abruptly.

  Sarah’s embarrassment turned to annoyance. Why did everyone want to take care of her? She swallowed the frustration back. “I know, Laura. Believe me, I do.”

  Laura’s face brightened. “What if I came with you to the country house. You know I love it up there with all those quaint little shops; we could make a day trip out of it! I could help you with some of the things that need doing, and we could go antiquing. What do you think?”

  “I just think I need to get up there on my own, think some things through. I’ll be around for lunch beforehand if you want.”

  “If you’re sure. I’ll look at my schedule.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “I’ll call you later?”

  They cheek-kissed goodbye, and Laura sped off down the path.

  When she was gone, Sarah looked around for Lawrence again. Evidently her friend had spooked him; he’d vanished.

  CHAPTER 8

  When Laurent parted from her, after his initial visit, he staggered like a drunken man, and the next day, on recovering his cunning prudent calm, he asked himself whether he should return to this young woman whose kisses gave him the fever. First of all he positively decided to keep to himself. Then he had a cowardly feeling. He sought to forget, to avoid seeing Thérèse, and yet she always seemed to be there, implacably extending her arms. The physical suffering that this spectacle caused him became intolerable.

  THÉRÈSE RAQUIN

  The stark, white walls of Dr. Robin’s office seemed to be leaning in on her. Her own skin felt wrong, too tight. Something felt wrong about the air, too; it was thick, unmoving, the air inside a parked car on a hot day.

  “Can we open a window?” Sarah asked, already up and moving towards it. “It’s stifling in here.”

  “Of course, go right ahead,” Dr. Robin answered. “Get yourself comfortable, however you’d like. Let me get you a glass of water, too. Is everything all right?”

  Sarah squirmed, her high heels chafing her feet. “It’s just really hot in here. You don’t feel it?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.” Dr. Robin poured water from a ceramic pitcher into a glass and handed it to her. She drank it all in one gulp, feeling momentary relief as the cool water spread down her throat. Dr. Robin looked at her, concerned.

  “How about we try to breathe a moment, just to get ourselves centered,” she suggested.

  “All right,” Sarah said, closing her eyes.

  “Let’s count from ten, backwards.” Dr. Robin’s voice was soft, peaceful. “Start with ten, nine, eight—”

  “Seven, six, five,” Sarah continued. An image of Eric and Juliette flashed across her mind, and she faltered.

  “Breathe deeply,” Dr. Robin continued.

  She thought of Lawrence, of his particular smell.

  “Four, three…two, one.”

  When she opened her eyes, the therapist was looking at her with the same concerned expression.

  “What’s been going on, Sarah?” she asked. “You seemed so happy last week, so upbeat. I can’t help but notice that you seem particularly anxious today. Has something happened in the meantime that you want to talk about?”

  She didn’t want to talk about it. She wanted to stand up and run out the door, out of the room, out of her life. Just go, without stopping or looking back.

  Instead she leaned back in the couch, the change of posture doing nothing to relax her.

  “I don’t know. I really don’t,” she said. Lawrence came into her head again, and she shook her head violently to clear him from her thoughts. “I just feel so empty all the time. Like I’m just here, empty—waiting for something to come along.”

  “Do you have any sense about what you’re waiting for?” Dr. Robin asked, her calm self-possession infuriating. “What about the woman in the park? Has seeing her with her children upset you again?”

  Sarah thought about that for a minute and then shook her head and said, “No it’s not about that.”

  Sarah looked out the window to keep her face from giving her away. She couldn’t bear the therapist’s stare right now, couldn’t bear her questioning. How was it that she was already so close to the truth?

  “I lost touch with a friend,” she said. “A good friend.”

  “Which friend?” Dr. Robin asked.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Sarah looked out the window again. Outside, a woman and a man were arguing over something. Their voices fell into a staccato rhythm as they interrupted each other.

  “It matters, Sarah.” Dr. Robin placed her journal beside her. “You remember what we’ve said about the truth here? As long as it’s true, it matters—and this is a safe place to say it. It may not seem like it matters right away, but the truth is always where we have to start. Something tells me this is more than a friendship gone awry. It’s something more important than that, something closer to you. Is it the man you met? The one from the park?” She picked up her journal again, flipped to a page. “Lawrence?”

  It was useless trying to lie to her. Sarah nodded.

  “That’s not an insignificant thing at all,” the doctor went on. “You seemed very excited to have met him. You found a connection with him, isn’t that right?”

  Sarah nodded again. The man outside had stormed away from the woman, and she stood looking after him, shaking her head.

  “I don’t even know him,” Sarah said. “It’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s not ridiculous,” Dr. Robin assured her again. “Did you disagree about something? Fight about something?”

  “Not even. I just haven’t seen him in a few days, and I was worried, that’s all.”

  “Worried that you’d offended him somehow?”

  Or that he’s just come to his senses and changed his mind, she thought. “I haven’t exactly had a chance to offend him.”

  “What are you worried about?”

  How could she say it without sounding like a fool? “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe just that something bad happened to him.”

  The therapist jotted something down. “What would make you think that?”

  “I don’t know, what makes anyone think it?” Sarah frowned. “Bad things happen all the time, don’t they?”

  “They do,” the therapist agreed. “But couldn’t he just be busy? Didn’t you say he was an editor?”

  “A writer.”

  “A busy profession, or at least it can be.” Dr. Robin leaned in with the air of someone about to change the subject. “Perhaps it would be worthwhile for us to explore why not seeing him has you so anxious.”

  “What do y
ou mean?” Sarah asked, on guard.

  “Given your abandonment issues—your husband, your children away at school, the loss of your parents when you were young—don’t you think this might be getting to you in some special way that we might want to talk about?”

  Sarah looked around the room and sat in silence.

  The therapist smiled. “Are you planning on looking for him in the park after our session today?”

  “Maybe,” Sarah admitted.

  “You said before that you hadn’t exchanged any contact information with Lawrence, or last names. Is that still the case?”

  Sarah coughed, embarrassed. “Yeah, it is.”

  “Do you just wait in the same spot for him at the park each time? I know that routines are important to you,” Dr. Robin stated.

  “Maybe too important.” Sarah laughed, a small dry sound. “He’s probably just been busy, like you say.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” the doctor said, her smile reassuring.

  “And I don’t really know anything about him,” Sarah went on.

  “Let’s get into that,” Dr. Robin said. “That seems to be a good place to start.”

  When Sarah emerged, the day was gray, dark clouds covering the sky. She went to the park anyway; she needed to see him. She waited a while on the bench, alone. Distant rain threatened, but she hardly took notice. The magic she had felt there earlier seemed flushed away with the fallen leaves and autumn rain.

  A rustle woke her from her daze. She felt a flutter, then the rustle again: a faint, scraping sound, very near her. It was coming from under her bench. She looked down under her legs. There was a bird there, its body twisted and hurt. It tried in vain to flap its wings then paused, its panicked eyes meeting hers.

  She bent down and stroked the bird’s wing. The bird shuddered away from her, flapping its wings again. Yet its movements were feebler now; it was dying. She held her hands gently around the bird to calm it; in her grasp, it gave out its last breath. She felt the oppression of loss, the cruel relentlessness of life and death. The rain began to fall. She had to go.

  The rain turned quickly to a downpour. Through it she saw a man walking toward her and stood up straight, light again inside. He walked closer—then continued by her without stopping. It wasn’t him.