Samantha woke yet again with a start. What an awful way to be thrust from sleep: electrified nerves, pounding heart, sweaty skin.
What had awakened her? A thump? She held her breath and listened. Nothing. It was just another bad dream she'd rather not bring into focus.
She swept her arm wide, finding cold sheets on Mark's side of the bed. Right. He'd been sleeping in the guest room all summer.
She turned on the bedside lamp, winced at the brightness, and then fumbled for the key she'd hidden beneath the papers in her nightstand drawer. She un-cuffed her arm from the bedpost.
It was four in the morning. The spike of adrenaline would prevent any further sleep, and for that she felt grateful. She trudged into the kitchen and was reminded of last night's ugliness. The cold dishwater was tinged a deep rose color. She examined the cut on her index finger where she'd sliced herself washing a knife. It was surprisingly small compared to how much blood pooled in the sink. She noticed then that her knuckles were scraped raw. Her brows knitted together. When did that happen?
She righted the overturned chairs and picked up the baguette Mark had thrown at her. Then she inspected the red spatter on the wall from when she'd thrown a wine goblet at him.
Not a shard of glass in sight. Mark must've picked up the pieces. Maybe he cut himself, which could explain the excess blood in the sink. Serves him right after what he called her.
Never mind that. He'd apologized, she'd apologized. It was over. Over and done.
She tossed the baguette into the garbage. The broken glass clinked beneath the stale bread. She carted the bag to the front door. The lock was not bolted. Mark had been the last to come home yesterday. She clicked her tongue. It was just like him. Never mind that too. She didn't want to start another fight. She lugged the bag to the trash chute down the hall.
Forty minutes later, the kitchen sparkled. All the dishes were washed and put away, the counters bleached and rinsed, the stainless door of the refrigerator wiped free of prints, the floor mopped to a brilliant sheen, and the wine stains on the wall were now nothing but a bad memory. There was no evidence that anyone had ever cooked a meal in that kitchen. Certainly no evidence of a knock-down, drag-out fight. That's the way they both preferred it. Once it was over, there was no point in thinking about it again. They considered it healthy to deal with their problems this way. Get it out and get it over. Other couples they knew held things in and harbored resentment for days, weeks, months, even years. No, she and Mark fought worse than any couple she knew, but they also made up faster — and better — than any of their friends. They loved each other as passionately as they fought.
Samantha smiled. Make-up sex. She checked the clock. Plenty of time. Mark's alarm wouldn't go off for two hours.
She took her coffee to the balcony. The ocean breeze blew her hair into her face. She pulled it back into a ponytail and secured it with the soft wristband she wore to protect her arm from chafing under the handcuff. Mooring herself to the bed hadn't been foolproof, but it drastically reduced the chances of her getting out of bed and doing strange things in her sleep during a night terror. She'd unlocked it in her sleep once and removed all the artwork from the walls in a frantic search for a safe they didn't have. She had no memory of doing it. Mark had watched — from afar he'd said — because he never knew what might provoke her in that wakeful sleep state. She looked at her knuckles again and wondered if she'd punched the headboard in an imagined fight for her life. She searched the hazy memory of last night's dream. A home invasion? The details weren't clear, only the pressing feeling of threat.
The sky had taken on a pinkish glow. On the horizon, a brilliant, yellow sun peeked out of the water. A brand-new day. A fresh start. But she and Mark hadn't really resolved anything with their fight last night. He still insisted on doing business with a man who'd threatened to kill him. He was just blowing off steam, Mark had said, but she believed he'd do it. Boris Petrov had the eyes of a killer. She supposed they'd fight about it again, but not today. Today would be filled with love-making.
She went inside and cracked open the door to the guest room. He wasn't there. Perhaps he'd gotten up while she was on the balcony.
She made her way down the hall toward the master bedroom. As she passed the living room, she saw that the magazines she kept fanned out on the cocktail table were scattered across the floor. She didn't remember them taking their argument out of the kitchen last night. She bent to pick them up and gasped. Mark's feet protruded from behind the couch. One pointed straight up at the ceiling, the other at the baseboard.
Her heart pounded. She nudged his feet. Nothing.
"Mark?" she whispered, inching closer until he was in full view. A dark stain ringed his head like an aura. His eyes, motionless in their sockets, stared skyward. Samantha sank to her knees. A marble statue from their curio lay inches away. She picked it up, the heft familiar. She broke out in a sweat. But of course it was familiar — she lifted it weekly to dust.
Mark issued a faint moan. Still alive! Samantha grabbed the phone and dialed 9-1-
Her fingers froze over the one. She eyed Mark's pale face. "Blink once, darling, if Boris did this."
This article appears in Jan 26 – Feb 2, 2017.