The Woman in the Park

by Teresa Sorkin

  “It happened here,” the doctor was saying. “Do you remember, Sarah?”

  “What did?” Sarah asked. She remembered Lawrence kissing her, Eric kissing her, all those days and years ago. For an instant she saw her husband, standing next to the doctor. She shut her eyes, regretting so much.

  “Shhh,” the therapist said. “Focus. Remember.”

  The memories flashed through her mind, the past filling her completely.

  She is by herself in the kitchen preparing dinner. Friends will be joining them later, and the country house is quiet, full of promise.

  The door opens, startling her. It’s Eric, coming back from the city. She’s happy to see him, but he is withdrawn.

  “Where are the kids?” she asks. It is difficult to chop and talk at the same time. She is making penne al ragù, a sauce he loves.

  “Sarah,” says Eric. Even in that brief word, his voice strikes her with its seriousness. Tired, she thinks: work has been very stressful for him lately, and he has so many things to worry about. “We have to talk.”

  “About?” she answers offhandedly. She is thinking about preparations for tonight: the guests, the wine. Where are the kids?

  “I think you need to go away for a while,” Eric says quietly.

  She almost drops the knife. “What?” she whispers.

  “This obsession. It’s been getting worse.”

  Her mind whirling, she realizes. “Eric, where are the kids?”

  “They’re not coming to the house tonight,” he says firmly. “I brought them to my sister’s.” He gathers himself for what’s next. “And they’re going to go away to school for a bit.”

  “Away?” She panics, throws the knife onto the counter. She spins to face him. “You can’t do that without my permission!”

  His eyes follow the knife as it clatters against the granite counter. Alarm gives way to anger. “They need a normal life, Sarah! This drama—they don’t need to be part of it.” His voice softens and he steps forward to put a hand on her shoulder. “Your therapy hasn’t been helping. We both know that. Juliette isn’t going to press charges, but—”

  Her heart is a burning pit at her center. “I knew it,” she mutters. “I knew you were leaving me for her.”

  “I’m not leaving you, Sarah. But this has to change. I love you, but we can’t keep doing this.”

  She slumps to the floor, sobbing. Eric picks her up gently.

  “Sarah, I am not him. I’m not your father, and I never will be. But you aren’t your mother either. You have to stop blaming yourself for what happened between them. You have to stop enacting it in our lives.” He caresses her cheek. “Please.”

  A thunder crack makes both of them jump. Outside the wind picks up, a storm coming. She looks at him as if seeing him for the first time.

  “Tell me the truth, Eric,” her voice hard. “I know you want to be with her. But I need you to admit it.”

  Eric throws his hands up. “You’ve stopped taking your medications, you’ve stopped sleeping. Until you get help, this can’t work.”

  “What the hell am I supposed to do?” she screams.

  “I’ve looked into some options,” he says. “But it can’t be at home. You have to go somewhere they can help you.” He heads upstairs. “Come on, Sarah. I mean it. We need to pack a bag for you.”

  Her mind races. Go away? Away where? He can’t do this to her. Their house is already a prison, its walls closing in.

  Run.

  She opens the door and runs out into the darkness.

  “Sarah!” she hears him yell after her.

  She runs aimlessly downhill in the darkness, her feet finding the path to the pond. Lightning explodes, lighting up the sky. She turns to see her husband emerging from the front door, his eyes searching for her.

  He trips and falls to the ground beneath the tree they planted when they bought the house. Their tree—a symbol of their family’s future.

  Already drenched, she looks up at the tree. Its branches spread out wide, leafless. Beneath, Eric struggles to his feet.

  Lightning strikes again. The thunder crack is immediate, deafening. For an instant, the tree seems to flash light.

  Eric’s whole body tenses, falls to the ground.

  “No!” she cries out, already running toward him.

  She is too late. He lies motionless on the ground. His eyes seem to look up at her, but she knows they are sightless. Above her the lights in the house have gone dark. She looks around for some sign that she is dreaming.

  She cradles his head and cries.

  He is gone.

  “Gone,” Sarah said out loud, shocking herself with the words.

  She was sitting on the floor now. She looked up at Dr. Robin again. “Eric is dead.”

  The doctor nodded. “It’s been many months, Sarah,” she said. “I did my best to ease you into the reality of his death, I let you talk about him as if he were still here, but this is what’s real. No matter how much you want him to be here and pretend he is, he’s gone.”

  Sarah protested. “I feel him. I see him. I hear his voice. He is here with me.”

  “He’s dead. You haven’t been able to let him go.”

  “You don’t understand, I can’t,” Sarah’s voice broke and tears rolled down her cheeks. “It’s a piece of me.”

  Behind her a shadow moved in the doorway. The man emerged into the light, solid and real.

  It was Ben Turner. He stared at her, his face emotionless.

  “You were here,” Sarah said to him. “I know you were.”

  He nodded.

  “I was,” he said. “I was trying to help you.”

  She shook her head. “How?”

  “You had just lost your husband. She suggested that we try something different, and I was willing.” He gestured toward Dr. Robin.

  “It was such a terrible accident,” the doctor said.

  Sarah felt weak. Her head swam, and she had to concentrate not to collapse on the floor.

  “Why are you here now?” she asked Ben.

  “Ben has been my patient for a long time,” the therapist said, stepping over to the doorway where he stood. “Just like you, he lost his parents very young and has suffered with bouts of depression.”

  “She helped me, Sarah,” Ben said. “I need her. You do, too.”

  “I gave him a greater purpose; in helping you, he felt needed. His wife didn’t understand him in the way I did,” the therapist explained.

  Sarah stared in disbelief as Dr. Robin stroked Ben’s cheek as though he were an obedient puppy. The image was sickeningly absurd. Sarah felt her grip on reality slipping and held on tight to what she knew.

  Jason. Darcy. The house.

  “You two have actually met before,” Dr. Robin continued. “You talked to him in the office a few times when your appointments crossed. He made you laugh, made you seem alive. And we had been trying for so long without results.” She smiled, an awkward expression on her rigid face. “I thought, what harm could there be in indulging your little fantasy instead of fighting it? It was a rare opportunity, a new possibility to cure you.”

  A thick cloud seemed to gather around her words. Sarah felt herself floating.

  “There were other opportunities as well,” Dr. Robin said. She nodded as Ben picked Sarah up off the floor, depositing her heavily in a chair.

  “It’s all right,” Dr. Robin answered. She pushed a sheet of paper across the table toward her.

  “You can relax—you don’t have to do anything else,” the therapist was saying. “I typed this for you. With your attention to detail, I think it’s plausible you would type it.”

  Sarah squinted at it, trying to understand. The words on the page danced and blurred, defying interpretation.

  “It will do your children good for you to come clean about this,” Dr. Robin said. She moved to the sink, filled a teakettle. Had she been here before? “They’ll know their mother did the right thing. No more running, Sarah. No more fan
tasies.”

  As Sarah looked down at the words on the page, a few phrases began to come together.

  I cannot bear to…

  My obsessions have gotten the best of…

  Her death at my hands was…

  It was a suicide note and confession.

  “This house is so lovely. Isn’t it, Ben?” the therapist said. She opened a cabinet and withdrew a teacup. “It’s such a shame your past kept you from enjoying all that you had in your present, Sarah. I really did try.” The teakettle began to trill, and she took it off the heat. “Hypnosis, regression therapy, cognitive therapy. The meds weren’t even that effective when you were taking them properly! You were really an incurable case.”

  Shaken, Sarah looked again at Ben. “But you—” she began.

  “Ben’s pattern is not dissimilar to yours in some ways,” Dr. Robin interjected.

  “But—your wife,” Sarah said.

  “An unfortunate variable,” the therapist said. “Her reaction when she found out about us was less than favorable. She came to my office. She had figured out what we’re doing and really, just imagine, your case study would have been legendary had I cured you. So I couldn’t allow her to ruin everything.”

  It began to connect for Sarah. “I was just another guinea pig like Eliza,” she managed.

  “We did think we could help you. It wasn’t supposed to end like this,” Ben said quickly. He turned to the doctor, his expression stern.

  Sarah’s head spun. Could any of this really be happening? She was incredulous. “All this was just part of some experiment.”

  “More than that,” Ben insisted.

  “But why—”

  “Sarah, we all have deeper motivations, desires that no one else knows about or understands: fame, passion, lust, revenge, ambition. You were my ambition, my social experiment. And all great discoveries have their martyrs; history does its best to forget that.” Dr. Robin’s tone was icy. “There is a long and storied history of psychological experimentation on orphans, for instance. You two are hardly the first. It was an experiment, just like my predecessors, the courageous doctors before me who had to sometimes attempt new methods to get results. Even Dr. Freud conducted his own therapeutic experiments that led him to fame. Sometimes there are casualties for the greater good. I am close to solving this so-called incurable disorder,” Dr. Robin ranted.

  Sarah shook her head. “But your wife—Hannah—she was innocent,” she said. For an instant, Ben’s face contorted.

  “There’s no rule stating that our lives must be fair, or meaningful, or safe. And in the service of discovery—who knows what we might accomplish? When a cure is discovered, do we moan over those who had to be sacrificed along the way?” She shook her head. “The mind is a messy business; what you think of as a simple affair, or an unhappy marriage, can mean much more to the researcher. Barriers to that pursuit—” She stroked Ben’s cheek again, soothing his confusion. “It’s all right, darling,” she whispered. “I’m still with you. We’re here together.”

  Dr. Robin turned to Sarah. “When Hannah came to my office that day after you and Ben had returned from the weekend away, she said she was going to expose me. She had discovered some of my emails to Ben. She wouldn’t listen to reason and then became enraged, and she pushed me. When I pushed back to defend myself, she fell and hit her head. I saw the life go out of her, and I just had to clean it all up. That night, Ben and I brought her here.”

  “So you brought her here and buried her under our tree?” Sarah asked.

  “The truth is, Sarah, you were a failure.” Dr. Robin drew a small envelope from her pocket and poured the contents into the teacup. She filled the cup with boiling water. “Like other patients before you, you proved intractable, overly rigid. It was time to start over anyway.”

  She brought the cup to Sarah and set it down by the confession on the table.

  “This pain—this confusion and misery,” she said. “We can end this together, Sarah. We can make you whole again—reunite you with those you’ve loved and lost. You’ve done so much wrong in your life, but we can help you make it right.” Her voice was relaxed, an expression of utter peace. “No more agony. No more deception. No more delusion.”

  Through her tears, Sarah looked at the cup.

  “Drink that, and we’ll put an end to the mistakes,” Dr. Robin said soothingly. “Everything you’ve done—it’ll be all right.”

  “You’ve hurt so many people,” Dr. Robin continued. “You’ve made so many mistakes. It’s time for that to end.”

  Sarah picked up the cup, its scalding heat a strange comfort to her. It was so brutal, so meaningless.

  She thought of Eric’s body, contorted on the ground.

  She had never asked for a mind so fractious; she had never asked to be the cause of so much pain. And it would be easy to end it: to put herself to sleep and put it all to sleep with her.

  She thought of her children.

  “They will be safer this way,” Dr. Robin intoned, as though hearing her thoughts. “They will be happier this way.” Her hand caressed Sarah’s back, motheringly.

  Sarah raised the cup to her lips, smelling the bitterness.

  Sarah.

  She saw her husband standing behind the doctor. He was as handsome as ever, his phantom smile a reproach to her. He was all in her head now, a specter waiting to be freed with her.

  No, Sarah.

  She paused.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered.

  “There is no need for that anymore,” Dr. Robin said. “Drink, and put it behind you.”

  Behind the doctor the shadow of Eric shook its head.

  I love you, she heard him say. Do not do this.

  She broke into tears. “But our children—”

  Our children don’t deserve what you were dealt. They deserve you.

  “Your children will be happier without you,” the doctor repeated. She tipped the cup gently toward Sarah’s lips. “Now drink—”

  No!

  Sarah pushed back, shoving the cup away. Dr. Robin put up her hands just in time to deflect the boiling liquid from her face, screaming as it hit her.

  “Ben!” the doctor screamed.

  Ben lunged at Sarah, gripping her arm tightly. Sarah twisted, struggling, and together they fell onto the couch. Desperately, she reached a hand out and grabbed a photo frame. She brought it down across his face as hard as she could.

  The glass smashed and Ben cried out and fell backward, blood flowing through his fingers as he clutched at his face. Sarah struggled free and ran up the stairs and into her bedroom, locking the door. She heard the doctor’s footsteps race up the stairs after her.

  “Open this door!” the doctor shrieked. The door thudded heavily twice.

  Sarah raced to the window and tugged at it. It wouldn’t open. Outside her door she heard Ben’s heavier steps tramping up the stairs. Dr. Robin’s voice came through the door, tense between panting breaths.

  “Sarah,” she said. “This has to stop. There’s nowhere left to go.”

  By the dresser, Sarah found one of Eric’s old golf clubs. She remembered the strength of his hands as he taught her to swing, showed her how to transfer all her force to her hands.

  “Open the door, Sarah,” Ben shouted. His voice was hoarse, monstrous.

  Sarah swung the heavy window open and felt a rush of cold air.

  The bedroom door rang with heavy blows. Sarah thrust her body through the window pane, scraping her leg on the ledge. Ignoring the pain, she stepped out onto the roof and glanced below. It was a twenty-foot drop to the garden. The ground looked hard.

  As she stood out there, Ben broke through the door and ran toward her. She edged backward on the roof, almost losing her balance.

  “Stay back,” she screamed.

  Ben dove for the window, reaching his arm through the glass. She stood up and swung at him as hard as she could, a solid left-hand swing. The club connected with his forearm and Ben screamed in
pain, falling backward into the bedroom. Inside, Sarah heard Dr. Robin curse as Ben fell against her.

  Flinging the golf club away, Sarah knelt to lower herself from the roof. Her feet found a trellis. Bracing herself, she pushed back and dropped the remaining fifteen feet to the ground. Her legs buckled under her with the impact and she fell to the ground, the force knocking the wind out of her.

  She struggled to her feet. A pain shot through her left foot and she almost dropped again. Blood dripped from the cut on her leg. She felt herself growing lightheaded.

  The car. She had to get to the keys somehow.

  She limped toward the garden shed. If she could only hide inside, she might be able to—

  She felt arms around her, pulling her up. Ben was holding her while blood trickled down his face from the cut on his forehead. She turned to see Dr. Robin standing by the front door.

  “Bring her here,” the doctor said. She gestured, “If you’re not going to drink it on your own, Sarah, we’ll force you.”

  As Ben led Sarah forward, she looked around wildly. A glint from beneath one of the bushes near her caught her eye: the handle of the golf club.

  “Wait,” she pleaded. “Don’t do this—you don’t have to help her. Your wife is dead. She’s just using you. She’s done it before, and it hasn’t helped anyone. Do you really want her to kill me?”

  Ben, stunned, hesitated, while Sarah lunged for the golf club. She got a hold of the handle as Ben grabbed her arms.

  Dr. Robin strode toward her, shaking. “Just drink the tea.”

  Ben looked at Dr. Robin, easing his grip on Sarah.

  “Are you really trying to help?” he asked.

  Dr. Robin looked at him. “You know I am helping you,” Dr. Robin said forcefully.

  Sarah realized her arms were free and charged the doctor. Dr. Robin fell to the ground and her knee snapped with a dull crack. The doctor screamed, and Sarah let the momentum carry her into the doctor and they went down together.

  Struggling for the golf club, Sarah grasped the doctor and pulled back, kicking the club out of her grasp. From the pond came the sound of agitated squawking: the swans, seemingly terrified by the screams.