The Woman in the Park

by Teresa Sorkin

  “It’s one of our many audio sessions,” Dr. Robin was saying. “Whenever I hypnotize you I tape it—but you signed the consent forms, you know that.”

  She vaguely remembered. “But—this,” she said, holding the CD. “Did you tape it when I told you about him?”

  The therapist smiled. “I tell you each time you’re here to see me, but you don’t seem to register it anymore,” she said. “Do you recall any of it? It does just keep happening, Sarah—you’re ruminating.”

  “Ruminating?”

  “It’s why you’re here. We’re trying to make sense of your disorder together.”

  Disorder?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sarah said. Spontaneously, she rose from her seat. Where was she going?

  “Sit down,” Dr. Robin said with surprising force. “Sarah, you suffer from a number of delusional disorders. The one at hand is a particularly well-worn one for you: erotomanic disorder, to be precise.”

  “Eroto-what?” Sarah stammered. “I’ve never heard—”

  “Erotomania.” Dr. Robin repeated. “And yes, you have. Many times. I explain it to you almost every time we see each other. It’s usually women who suffer from it—a woman falls in love with a man with whom she has little or no contact and comes to believe that the feeling is mutual. It is my specialty. It’s why you came to me in the first place, so I could help you. There is no right amount of medication to fix this. It’s incurable, but with therapy and some medication we can manage it. But you have been one of my most difficult cases.”

  Sarah sank back into the couch, her mind reeling. “Incurable?” She could not believe what she was hearing. She knew one thing for sure, Lawrence was real. “He was there. He told me he loved me.”

  Dr. Robin walked over to her computer and inserted the CD.

  “Listen for yourself,” she said.

  A moment later the doctor’s voice came through the speakers.

  “Today’s session: May 8, 2016,” it said. “Sarah’s delusions are intricate, and long-lasting—they’ve continued for over twelve months now.”

  Sarah gasped and covered her mouth. “That’s two years ago,” she said.

  Dr. Robin nodded, holding up her hand for silence.

  “Her husband fears he may have lost her,” the therapist’s voice continued. “We’re going to talk about them again today. Isn’t that right, Sarah?”

  Sarah heard her own voice answer, quiet and faraway. “Yes.”

  “Very good. Sarah, I’d like for you to tell me about this new friend you’ve met.”

  “He’s just someone I see in the park sometimes. He likes to talk with me about books and writing. And he makes me feel different, alive. I feel like I’ve known him a long time. Do you ever feel that way?”

  Sarah listened, absolutely still with fear.

  Dr. Robin’s voice spoke again, passing over the question. “What’s his name?”

  Sarah wanted to shut her ears, to block out the answer she knew was coming. “Lawrence,” her voice said. “He’s perfect, really. Says all the right things. He makes me feel very special.”

  “Do you find that odd at all? That this stranger just comes up and talks to you in the park?”

  There was a pause. When Sarah’s voice spoke again, it was smaller, hesitant. “No. Why would I?”

  “Is he real?” Dr. Robin’s voice asked.

  “Of course he’s real.”

  “I think we’ve heard enough,” Dr. Robin said. She stopped the recording. “You’ve been manifesting this relationship for a long time, Sarah.”

  Sarah stood up again, a black octopus reaching its long arms out of her from within. Impossible. This was impossible. She paced back and forth, the edges of her vision quivering.

  “But I just met him,” she said. “It was a few weeks ago. He’s real. We were—” A cold thought hit her. “This is some kind of trick,” she said. “How do I know you haven’t altered my voice, made it up somehow?”

  The doctor’s face barely registered surprise. “Why would I do that, Sarah?”

  “I have no idea.” Sarah shut her eyes, pressed her fingers to her temples. This had to be a dream.

  “It’s a psychosis, Sarah. It’s not something you can control on your own. It’s quite literally your truth, although it has no existence outside you. You normally come in and speak about Lawrence, then he disappears for a while, then you’re back to seeing him again. This time, though—this time there’s this new person, this woman from the park. You never mentioned her to me before. If we’re going to help you, we need to figure this part of it out together.”

  Dr. Robin sat down beside her again and tried to take Sarah’s hand in hers. Her grasp was warm—not at all cool and clinical as Sarah might have expected. Still, Sarah cringed and pulled her hand away.

  “Eric—he wants to get rid of me,” she cried.

  “No one wants to get rid of you. Eric tried to help you. We’ve all been doing all we can to help you.”

  Sarah shook her head violently. “Why would I do that? Why would I make all of this up?”

  “Trauma is a very powerful thing, Sarah. These delusions can be mood-congruent; they’re brought on by trauma and re-triggered by intense feelings like depression. You suffered a terrible trauma when you were young. In your case, that was enough.”

  Sarah thought back to her childhood, to those lost years. Could her parents’ death have been too much for her to process in any other way? “That’s impossible,” she said weakly.

  “It most certainly isn’t. It’s very rare, but it’s far from impossible.” The therapist’s eyes narrowed. “Why did you stop taking your medication? Your symptoms have been impossible to miss. I can’t make you take your medication. But I do believe that with the proper work here, we can help you. If that’s going to happen, I need you to listen to me.”

  “He is real,” Sarah whispered, shivering at the memory of his touch. “Lawrence is real.”

  “I know you think he is. And the man himself, whoever he is, certainly is real. But whatever relationship you’ve created with him—that’s fiction, Sarah. Just like the fiction in your books. You’ve even given your lover the name of a fictional character—Lawrence, Laurent. How can you not see that? You keep reading the same book over and over again, maybe hoping for a different outcome, the ending is always the same. Now I need you to focus on what’s real. Can you do that?” Dr. Robin leaned in again. “What happened to that woman in the park?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” Sarah shook her head again and again. “I don’t know her—I don’t know what happened to her!” The panic was uncontrollable; she felt it take hold of her.

  Run.

  “You have to try and remember, Sarah. You mentioned her to me several times.”

  “I couldn’t have—”

  “You did. We can play back the tapes if you need assuring. But I don’t think you do. Now please.” The therapist’s tone softened, but the blood pounded harder in Sarah’s ears. Run. Run. “You’re the only one who can stop all of this.”

  “I’m stopping it right now,” Sarah cried out, jolting up from her seat. She made for the door.

  “Wait, Sarah!”

  Dr. Robin reached out to stop her, but it was too late.

  ENTRY, NOVEMBER 13, 2018

  Patient: Sarah Rock

  Age: 39 (Dob: 12/7/1978)

  Sarah’s delusion reached a new boiling-over point today. Her psychosis has obviously worsened, counter to my beliefs up to now, and must be addressed in a more drastic way.

  The wife of Ben Turner, the basis for Sarah’s friend “Lawrence,” has gone missing. I am certain Sarah knows what happened to her, but unless she will allow hypnosis in one of our sessions, I don’t think we’re going to get at the truth easily; her defenses are much too well-established.

  In light of the overwhelming nature of the delusional process affecting her total life experience—marked delusions of persecution, grandeur, jealousy,
and self-deprecation, as well as complex ideas of reference and agitated behavior—cognitive therapy is no longer going to be adequate in Sarah’s case. I believe she poses a danger to herself and others now, and in cooperation with the police, I will move to commit her to a facility that can help her.

  Cf. Eliza Thompson: Eliza had been stalking a man who she believed was in love with her. She’d worked for him for five years, then began to confront him unexpectedly and proposition him. Her husband brought her in for treatment after she was fired. Similarly to Sarah, Eliza suffered from PTSD and mood-congruent psychoses. De Clérambault syndrome is associated with an unaffectionate relationship with father. Difficult to treat and chronic.

  CHAPTER 14

  Nothing could be more heartrending than this mute and motionless despair.

  THÉRÈSE RAQUIN

  Sarah found her way home, into her room, to her desk. She opened her computer, then stared out the window, a woman in a maze. There was only one way out; she knew it.

  She had to find him.

  B&H—Amor vincit omnia. Love conquers all. A thought occurred to her, baffling in its simplicity.

  She tried “Turner” and “Latin.” She didn’t have to scroll down far.

  There he was.

  He was a Latin teacher in a high school in Manhattan, the Circle School. There was a teacher bio: he’d graduated from Bard College, grown up in Milwaukee, had a sister and two kids. He was working on his first novel.

  She wrote the address of the school down, grabbed her coat, and ran out without locking the door.

  She arrived at the address and got out of the car, walking by the security guard with a friendly “hello,” as if she knew him. He nodded, unsuspicious. She certainly looked like a parent.

  The elevator took her to the second floor. A young receptionist waited behind a desk, her face open and friendly. Sarah’s heart beat faster.

  “May I help you?” the woman asked.

  Just then, two men appeared at the end of a corridor, talking. One of them was Ben Turner.

  Sarah looked at him in shock. Without saying a word, she began walking toward them.

  “Excuse me,” the receptionist began, getting up.

  Sarah didn’t stop. “It’s fine,” she said. “I’m looking for him.”

  Ben turned toward her, surprise on his face.

  “What are you doing here?” he said.

  “Lawrence,” Sarah pleaded, torn between horror and relief. He was real; at least that was true. She reached out for him.

  Ben’s face grew heavy and hard. “Olivia, please call security,” he said firmly, looking to the receptionist.

  “Of course,” the receptionist said, going for the phone. The other man backed away.

  “Security? What?” Sarah said. Who was this man? Where was the man she knew?

  Ben’s voice was cold. “You’re the woman who was staring at us in the park,” he said, rage overtaking him. “Where the hell is my wife?”

  “And why are you here and not out looking for her?”

  Sarah felt the room darken, raven wings spreading around the walls. “Lawrence. Why are you doing this?” she begged.

  “Lawrence?” the other man asked doubtfully.

  “That isn’t even my name,” Ben shouted.

  “Why would you do this?” Sarah whispered. Two security guards appeared in the corridor. She backed away. “You said you loved me—you came with me to my house—”

  “What house?” Ben stared at her, wide-eyed. “I don’t know the first thing about you, except that you were obsessed with us. Why were you watching us?”

  “I wasn’t—” she insisted.

  The guards grabbed Sarah. “Come on, lady, let’s go,” one of them said as they pulled her toward the elevator. She looked back at Ben.

  “I’m calling the police,” he seethed.

  “Lawrence!” she shrieked. “I don’t know what this is—but I know it was real! I’m not crazy—” She tried to reach into her bag for the scarf, but the guards pulled her arms back.

  The guards guided her into the elevator. She looked past them; the other teacher was trying to calm Ben down.

  Ben was saying, “I told her to leave us alone, but—” His voice broke with emotion. “Now she’s missing, and—”

  The elevator doors slid closed.

  She ran from the building, barely hearing the admonitions of the security guards. Her mind spun, retracing what she had done with Lawrence. Had she made him up anew from one day to the next, each time fixating on a different man? Grasping in her bag, her hand sought out the scarf inside. That, at least, was solid; that was not in her head.

  She took the train to the neighborhood she had visited with him a few weeks back. As though by intuition she found the bookstore, The Cat and the Owl. Several other patrons were there browsing; turning to look at her when she burst inside. The store felt dark and dirty, losing the charm it once had. Sarah looked around, somehow thinking that she would see a different Lawrence standing there among the shelves.

  She recognized the same clerk from before and approached him.

  “Excuse me,” she said to him. He looked up slowly. “I was wondering if by chance you remembered me. I was here about two weeks ago with a man. We—”

  “Thérèse Raquin,” he said. “The classic, lust and murder! Did you like it?”

  Sarah was relieved. “Thank God,” she breathed. “So you do remember me.”

  “Not a lot of people read Zola,” he said, smiling. “I always remember the clients with the best taste.”

  She nodded hopefully. “Can you remember anything about the man I was with?” she asked.

  “Man?” asked the clerk.

  “About this tall,” she said, holding up her hand for measure. “Dark hair, blue eyes. He bought me the book.”

  “Sorry, but I didn’t see a man.” The clerk shook his head apologetically. “I just remember you.”

  Sarah’s heart dropped into a dark hole.

  “But—he bought the book. He brought me here—he’s one of your regulars.”

  The clerk shook his head again. “No, you paid for that book. You came in alone. I remember because I watched you—you seemed to know exactly what you were going for.”

  No. No. No.

  “I wasn’t alone. Please, try to remember,” she pleaded, leaning in over the counter. “You have to.”

  The clerk looked alarmed. He backed away from the counter. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now, ma’am.”

  Sarah clutched her bag tightly, looked around in panic as she backed away. The other patrons were eyeing her now, alarm and pity mingled in their faces. In the corner of the store, she spotted a security camera.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said abruptly and ran from the store.

  Her way home was confused. The train ride seemed a subterranean nightmare, crowded with hostile faces, and she emerged a station early, disoriented and alone.

  She found her way to the playground, to her bench. She sat and took a deep breath. She needed to calm herself, to think clearly. She counted backwards from ten to one, closing her eyes and concentrating as she had done with Dr. Robin.

  She saw herself in the park, watching Lawrence. He was talking to a young woman. They were fighting. He grabbed her arm. Sarah gasped, started to walk over to them. She asked if everything was all right; Lawrence turned on her, annoyed.

  “Mind your own business,” he snapped.

  Sarah opened her eyes. Was this the same park, the same bench? Everything seemed different to her: that safe, whole feeling she’d experienced here before was gone. Even the trees seemed menacing now, their branches heavy above her.

  She closed her eyes again.

  She saw Eric. She was arguing with him, crying. She was Hannah; Hannah was her. She saw Juliette and Eric together. He was kissing her, Juliette, while Hannah looked on.

  Had she actually seen them together? She stood and walked farther into the park to the reserv
oir, looking out over the small lake spreading out in front of her. Small waves rippled across the dark blue surface. She thought of blue eyes, deep and agitated, a storm on the horizon. She saw a shadow passing nearer to her. She turned her head slowly.

  It was Eric, his face understanding. He had followed her there. At the sight of him, her strength drained and she fell to the ground.

  “I am crazy,” she sobbed. “I am, Eric.” She wept on the ground, her body limp. “I’m so sorry.”

  She felt his strong hands find hers. “Let’s go home, Sarah,” he said, helping her to her feet. He put an arm around her to guide her home. “We’ll figure it out together. It’s all going to be okay, I promise.”

  She felt relieved to see him there; he was her anchor after all, and she missed that. She nodded and followed him. Together they left the park.

  As they turned onto Park Avenue, they were met with a commotion. Bright lights blinked as they approached their building. She looked up, no longer capable of being surprised. The lights were from police cars; the police were there for her. She glanced at Eric who stared straight ahead, resolute. Manuel stiffly held the door for them, a look of strained silence on his face.

  Inside, several police officers were waiting in the lobby. One of them came forward as they entered.

  “Sarah Rock?”

  She froze and nodded.

  “Please come with us,” he said firmly.

  Eric nodded to her, strangely calm. “Call Frank when you get to the station,” he whispered. “He’ll know what to do.” He squeezed her hand as another of the officers stepped forward to separate them.

  She let them guide her out the front doors, looking back only once at Eric. He looked after her, his face a mask.

  “Tell the kids I love them,” she called out to him.

  The officer’s grip on her arms tightened. Sarah’s heart sank as she turned, unsure when she would see her home or her husband again.