The Woman in the Park

by Teresa Sorkin

  Dr. Robin shook her head. “He was depressed and scared and selfish. It wasn’t your fault he left.”

  Sarah shook her head, pulling out the clipping to look more closely at the photo. “She cried all the time. I can still hear her.”

  “She coped for as long as she could. She worked very hard to make excuses for him. But that wasn’t enough.” Dr. Robin nodded again, encouraging her. “Do you remember what happened then, Sarah?”

  “The accident—”

  “No, Sarah. What really happened?”

  Sarah blinked back tears. What was she supposed to remember? “They died in an accident, both of them. That’s all I remember.”

  “Look at the picture again,” Dr. Robin said. “Imagine yourself as that little girl, Sarah—try to imagine the last thing you remember seeing.”

  “The last—?”

  “It happened in your house, upstairs. You’ve told me about it many times before, Sarah; I know you can remember again.”

  She looked at the photo, at the girl she could hardly remember being. She would have been younger than Darcy then—just eight years old.

  She remembered the gunshot. And then the blood, her scream, and her mother’s empty stare.

  “She—” Sarah faltered. The words stuck in her mouth: her own disbelief—the scene not making sense to her; the silence afterward; the empty house.

  She saw it all, saw what she had forced herself to forget. “She killed herself,” she whispered, while trembling. “Right in front of me. My grandparents—they took me,” she continued.

  “Yes.”

  “But how—I never remembered—” Sarah began.

  “The brain works in miraculous ways,” said Dr. Robin. “It shields us from danger. But that shield peels back sometimes, and we get glimpses of the past. After a trauma like that, almost anything is possible.”

  Sarah unfolded the clipping to read the headline on the other side.

  WOMAN, ANNABELLE JULE, FOUND DEAD IN BROOKLYN APARTMENT

  Late Sunday evening, neighbors called the police after finding a young girl wandering the hallways of their Brooklyn building, searching for her mother. Annabelle Daltry Jule, 28, had taken her life, leaving an eight-your-old daughter, Sarah.

  Witnesses and neighbors described Annabelle as happy and well-mannered. Annabelle had raised her daughter on her own since her husband, Richard Jule, left the family. The girl has been placed with Social Services, pending the location of Richard Jule or other family members.

  Services will take place at the Tanner Funeral Home on Tuesday at 3:00 p.m.

  Other photos were in the folder: her mother; their apartment building; herself being carried away by a police officer, her face emotionless.

  “I remember an entirely different childhood,” Sarah said, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “As a child, you created your own reality,” the therapist went on. “The trauma was too much for you to deal with.”

  “But my grandparents—”

  “Your grandparents were suffering too and indulged it. It wasn’t until you married and had your own children that some of that repressed past started creeping in, asserting itself. And then what happened with Eric opened it all up again.”

  Sarah nodded. Juliette, of course. The affair had dredged everything up.

  “I created an alternative reality for myself?” she asked. “Since I was eight?”

  “You did—and no one got you the help you needed,” Dr. Robin went on. “Your grandparents did the best they could, but they were ill-equipped to confront your delusions while dealing with their own loss.”

  Sarah looked at the picture of her mother. She’d been so young and beautiful—how could he have left her; how could he have hurt her so badly?

  “He was a monster,” she whispered.

  “He was a man,” Dr. Robin said. “He made mistakes. It was your mother who truly abandoned you by killing herself.”

  “I hated her,” Sarah admitted. “I hated them both. He was—”

  Something became very clear in her mind, she was unsure how she’d ever forgotten it.

  “His name was Lawrence,” she said. “My father. I remember how much we loved him. He looked like a movie star. She called him her Cary Grant. They used to dance. It made me so happy to see them like that.”

  Dr. Robin nodded. “You idolized this idea of him,” she said. “It’s what you would later use as the basis for your erotomania. It’s not uncommon—it’s called delusional fixation. Something about Ben Turner reminded you of your father—the way he looked, or how he interacted with his wife. It stirred up some memory within you, and you latched onto it, the hidden logic being that by keeping him in your life, you will ultimately keep your father and save your mother. But Ben was only one of many. There have been others.”

  She retrieved another file from the cabinet and placed it in Sarah’s hands. Inside were several closely typed, formal-looking pages: harassment complaints. Each had a different name at the top.

  “These were all because of me?” Sarah asked, incredulous.

  Dr. Robin nodded.

  Sarah leafed through them. All the complaints were similar; the same words turned up again and again.

  “Stalking.” “Following.” “Harassment.”

  Sarah let out a breath. “Have you told me about this before?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” the therapist said.

  “And I never remember?”

  “You always do for a little while.” Dr. Robin smiled faintly. “Then you regress again. But this time was different.”

  “This time the man’s wife ended up dead,” Sarah blurted out. She remembered a glimpse of Ben—Lawrence—in the park, yelling at Hannah. Had it actually happened? Or was it her he’d been yelling at?

  “Yes.” The therapist nodded gravely.

  “I would know if I did something like that, wouldn’t I?” Sarah pleaded. “You would know.”

  “I can’t say. You’ve been fighting me so much, Sarah.”

  “There were things I know happened,” Sarah insisted. “It’s impossible that they didn’t. We went up to the house together, ate there together. We made love there. He knew about the tree—I told him.”

  “It’s not impossible that you experienced all of that in your head.”

  “That vividly? How can that be?”

  “This kind of delusion is very strong,” Dr. Robin said. “Mood-congruent psychoses can be overpowering, especially when they’re linked to equally strong feelings of loss or unhappiness. Your feelings in relation to Eric and the kids have been that trigger for you. It’s a classic triad of depression.”

  Sarah felt a chill run through her body. Triad of depression. Where had she heard that phrase before?

  “I’m sorry,” she said slowly. “A classic what?”

  “Triad of depression,” the doctor said. “Beck’s cognitive triad, or negative triad, as it’s commonly called: negative thoughts about oneself, about one’s future, and about the world. Triad of depression is my term for it. In your case, the effect it has on the psyche is to encourage the kinds of fabrication we’ve been talking about.”

  Sarah barely heard her. She was remembering where she’d heard the phrase before.

  Lawrence. He’d said it on their trip together.

  “I am sorry, Sarah,” the therapist continued. “I feel that I’ve failed you. I wish I could have done more.” She looked down at her hands. “Naturally, I have to cooperate with the police, but whatever I can do to help you—”

  Just then, they heard the muffled sound of a phone ringing. Dr. Robin looked toward her handbag.

  “Let me silence that,” she said awkwardly.

  “No, it’s okay,” said Sarah, alert and on guard. “I know we need to wrap up anyway. Take the call—I can wait.”

  “Are you sure? I imagine it’s nothing.”

  Sarah gave her most apologetic, nothing-else-to-do smile. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 
“All right.”

  The therapist took her handbag and walked out of the room.

  Triad of depression. My term.

  It was Lawrence who’d said it before. Sarah was sure of it. But what did that mean? Sarah had to find out if there was some connection.

  She’d just settled herself on the couch again when Dr. Robin returned.

  “My apologies,” the therapist said. “I’m going to have to get going.”

  “It’s all right,” Sarah assured her. “It was so good of you to meet with me today anyway. Just one thing.” She eyed the doctor carefully. “About those CDs—the ones you recorded of me. Do you think I could listen to them? Now that we’re discussing all this?”

  Dr. Robin shook her head, her face contrite. “I’ve had to give them to the police,” she said. “I’m sure your lawyer will be able to get copies for you, but it’s out of my hands for the time being. You’ve made major strides, Sarah. You’re taking responsibility for your life. One way or another, I know you’ll be better off than you were before,” Dr. Robin said.

  Sarah barely registered their last goodbyes as she noticed Dr. Robin lock the cabinet that contained all the answers she was looking for. Dr. Robin placed the keys on a tray on her desk.

  When Sarah left, she crossed the street to a coffee shop and took a window seat, so she could observe when Dr. Robin left her building. She ordered a tea while she waited to make her next move.

  CHAPTER 17

  Thérése experienced no hesitation. She went straight where her passion urged her to go. This woman whom circumstances had bowed down, and who had at length drawn herself up erect, now revealed all her being and explained her life.

  THÉRÈSE RAQUIN

  Ten minutes later, Dr. Robin exited her building and walked down the block away from her office. She seemed to be in a hurry. All the better, Sarah thought.

  Once she was gone, Sarah walked back to the doctor’s office and the receptionist was not paying attention as usual.

  “I forgot my phone in the office, can I go get it?” Sarah said.

  The receptionist waved her in without looking up.

  Once inside, she went directly to the desk and picked up the keys to the filing cabinet that were in the tray. She opened the cabinet and flipped through file after file, the multitude of names seemingly organized not alphabetically, but by type of disorder. She looked through files and found a section labeled “EROTOMANIA.”

  She found a file marked S. ROCK right next to another labeled E. THOMPSON. She peeked into the other folder: an Eliza Thompson. It might be worth looking up one of Dr. Robin’s other patients. Sarah didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, but she was hoping that the other patient would have some answers. She opened the file and saw a photo of a young woman with dark hair and intense eyes staring back at her.

  She heard a noise from next door and froze. Was someone coming? Sarah took both files. She waited a few minutes in total silence, hearing footsteps pass in the hall. She breathed easy again. She’d need to hurry; getting caught would be a disaster for her.

  She opened the next drawer. Three rows of CDs. Dr. Robin had lied about giving them to the police, Sarah realized. She quickly found the ones marked with her name and took those. She stuffed the files and CDs into her bag and gave one last look around the room. She doubted she would see the inside of this place again.

  Doing her best to seem casual and collected with her full bag hanging from her shoulder, she locked up and left.

  The Brooklyn townhouse looked like a happy home, at least from the outside. Clean steps led up to the front door, flanked by pumpkins; the windows were lofty and—rare for New York—free of bars. It wasn’t the sort of place Sarah would have associated with a delusional mind. But then again, her own home wasn’t either.

  She double-checked the address against the file, then replaced it in her bag, walked up the steps, and rang the doorbell. A very small young girl answered, her face wary. Sarah knew from the file that this was Eliza’s daughter. The file didn’t provide as much information as Sarah would have hoped, except for detailing the symptoms of erotomania, which mirrored her own. Sarah had to try and find Eliza to find answers.

  “Hi,” said Sarah, as cheerfully as she could. “I’m here to see your mom,” she guessed. “Eliza.”

  Without a word the girl ran into the house, closing the door behind her.

  Sarah waited for a few moments, then knocked again. Nothing. She reached for the door, realized what she was doing, and pulled back. Was she really prepared to walk uninvited into a stranger’s home, a home with a child inside?

  Just as she was turning to leave, the door opened. A tall man stood there, a stern expression on his face. He needed a haircut and a shave. Sarah had seen mentions in the file of Eliza’s husband, Damien Thompson; this must be him.

  “Who are you?” he asked bluntly. He had a sad face, handsome behind the heavy lines: there was something there that reminded Sarah of Eric.

  “Sorry to drop in on you like this,” Sarah said. “Are you Damien?”

  “Yes,” the man said dubiously. “And you are—?”

  “My name’s Cynthia,” she lied. “I’m a friend of Eliza’s, from—”

  “No, you’re not,” he snapped, interrupting her.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “If you were, you would know that she’s away getting help,” he continued.

  She felt her skin prickle.

  “Goodbye.” He began to shut the door in her face.

  “Please—I need your help,” she said quickly. “I’m another patient of Dr. Robin’s.”

  The door opened again, and the man’s expression softened. “Helena Robin?” he asked.

  The small girl peeked out from behind him.

  Sarah took a deep breath. “I’m sorry to lie, I’ve been seeking treatment with Dr. Robin recently, and I’m a little concerned about her. I had some questions about—”

  “You’re right to be concerned.” Damien gave a sardonic half-laugh. “She treated Eliza for years.”

  “Yes,” Sarah said. “But she’s away now?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So Dr. Robin wasn’t able to help her?”

  Damien half-laughed again. “Quite the opposite,” he said. “Seeing Helena Robin made her worse, much worse. We had to commit her.”

  “Oh my God,” Sarah said. “I’m sorry.”

  “She’s doing better now than she was before, that much I know.”

  “How exactly was she worse before, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “It came and went,” he said. “When it was bad, it was really scary. She said she’d met a man but didn’t know his name or anything about him because he liked to keep it a mystery. We wanted her to go away for a bit, but Dr. Robin dragged it out. If I were you, I’d keep away from her.”

  Sarah felt a chill go through her at the mention of a man. “What do you mean, she dragged it out?” she asked.

  “She said Eliza needed more time. She said she’d be able to help her with hypnosis sessions. We trusted her at first, but she only made it worse. Eliza became more paranoid and detached than usual—spent more and more time in her own delusional world. Eventually, I decided to get her the help she really needed. That’s when we had her booked in at Margo. She seems to be improving there, though it’s slow.”

  “It sounds like you did the right thing. She’s lucky to have you,” Sarah said, making a mental note of the name.

  “It takes a toll. I married her for better or for worse, but this illness—” He noticed the little girl behind him. “You seem friendly, but I don’t think we can be of much help.”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I can’t imagine it’s easy for you, talking to me like this.”

  “It’s our life.” He smiled at the little girl behind him. “Try to keep it from becoming yours. And keep away from that so-called doctor. She’s incompetent, at best.”

  Sarah nodded, thinking of Darcy.
“I appreciate it,” she said.

  Damien shut the door, his little daughter peeking curiously out until the last moment. Sarah was shocked that her doctor was possibly making things worse. She knew that if she wanted more answers, she would have to go see Eliza.

  The ride to the Margo Mental Hospital was a long one. When she reached the hospital, she hesitated outside.

  Making up her mind, she strode in. If this was where Eliza Thompson had ended up, it was at least worth finding out why, and what shape she was in.

  The security guard behind the desk was young, and Sarah smiled confidently as she walked up to him.

  “Hi,” she said breezily. “One of my patients is a resident here, and I need to speak with her. Her husband called me earlier this afternoon.”

  The guard looked at a logbook in front of him. “And you would be Doctor—?” he asked.

  “Robin,” said Sarah. “Helena Robin.” She leaned over the counter, following the guard’s finger down the list. “I’m sorry, I know it’s after-hours.”

  The guard studied the list carefully. His finger had stopped at a numbered line—302. “Dr. Robin, you said? I don’t see you on my list of approved doctors.”

  “I was her old doctor—I’m also a family friend,” she said. “This is a confidential matter, but it won’t take long—I’m sure I’ll be in and out in ten minutes.”

  The security guard shook his head. “I’m sorry. I just can’t let you in without it being approved, and it’s too late to get approval today,” he said. “If you come back tomorrow, we can straighten it out with the supervising doctor on duty.”

  Sarah bottled her disappointment. Time to try a different tack.

  “If you insist,” she sighed. “I told her husband—but I understand. Thanks anyway, I’ll come back tomorrow.” She hesitated, giving him a charming smile. “Can you tell me if there’s any place to get coffee around here? This comes at the end of my day, and I have a long ride back to the city.”

  Warming up he said, “I get that—I have the night shift, too. It’s killer the next day.”

  “Awful! The body just never gets used to it.”

  He pointed towards the back of the building. “There’s a cafeteria in the back. They’re still open but only for another fifteen minutes.” He smiled. “If you hurry up, I’ll let you in to grab a coffee.”