Room Twelve

Mark came home that evening acting perfectly normal.

He kissed the top of my head.

Asked what was for dinner.

Opened a beer.

And cheerfully told me about a delivery driver who’d backed into a portable restroom at a construction site.

He laughed at his own jokes.

Helped set the table.

Even washed dishes without being asked.

That last part was particularly suspicious.

Mark loved me.

But he had never been enthusiastic about washing dishes.

It felt as though I were watching an actor perform the role of my husband.

Later, we sat together watching television.

He put his arm around me.

I leaned against him, listening to his heartbeat.

For a moment, I wanted desperately to believe everything was fine.

But Carol’s voice kept echoing in my head.

*Oh, honey.*

That night, I waited until Mark was deeply asleep.

Then I slipped out of bed and opened our closet.

His old green duffel bag was still on the floor.

He hadn’t unpacked it.

Normally, he emptied his luggage as soon as he returned home.

I carried the bag into the hallway.

Under the soft light of a night-lamp, I opened it.

Dirty clothes.

Socks.

A flannel shirt.