Ann Major - The Secret Lives of Doctors' Wives

She was clutching a stuffed cat and dressed in skintight black slacks and a black, long-sleeved shirt emblazoned with the message, Keep Austin Weird in red. There were red cats all over it.

Her mother—the Cat Woman.

Hazel’s coppery-gold curls were bright and held back from her face with two red, sparkly, cat-shaped barrettes. She’d obviously had her hair and nails done recently, and her perfectly painted lips were the same bright shade as her nails and the cats on her T-shirt.

Like a lot of women of her generation, Hazel believed it was important to coordinate accessories. Maybe the lipstick and polish and the cats were a little too vivid for a woman her age, but then that was Hazel—a little bit gaudy—and into turning back the clock rather than aging gracefully, whatever the hell that cliché was supposed to mean.

So, why had Hazel snapped this time? Twice before she’d lost it after a bout of flu, coupled with sleepless nights.

“The date on my tombstone has to be March 2, 1945!” Hazel shouted from her gurney to no one in particular as Rosie pushed the door open, tugging a sleepy Alexis inside with her.

“That’s your birthday, Mom. And don’t shout. I’m right here.”

“Finally!” Carmen snapped. Her dark eyes that were too much like a certain cop’s flashed with irritation as she shot to her feet and yanked Alexis toward her.

“Stop it! You’re hurting me!” Alexis fought to pull loose.

“Don’t be such a whiny baby! We’re outta here!”

“Hello to you, too,” Rosie said. “And, hey, be nice to her. She’s a little girl.”

“I’m being way nicer than you and Hazel ever were to me! I’ll park her in front of the TV. Will that make you happy?”

“Ouch!” Rosie said, feeling a guilt pang. She had left Carmen with Hazel when she’d gone to college and when she’d worked. But she’d had to.

“Murder,” Hazel said. “I told you to kill that arrogant bastard. It’s about time you killed Carver!”

Still worrying about how Alexis would fare with Carmen, Rosie sat down by the gurney. “Mom, Pierce is fine, and I’d appreciate it if you don’t talk about him and me here…at the hospital. People might get the wrong idea.”

Hazel stared at the green walls. “When did I die?”

“You’re not dead. You’re going to be fine. You just need to try to calm down and get some rest. That’s why you’re here. When you’re better, you can go home.”

“You’re still in love with that motorcycle guy. He’s Carmen’s real daddy, isn’t he? Your daddy shot his daddy. It was an accident, you know.”

Rosie covered her face. How much did her mother know? She’d never told Hazel very much about Michael.

Families! Did all families share the obnoxious talent hers had of being able to ferret out its members’ best-kept secrets and then broadcast them to the universe?

“Where’s the doctor?” Hazel demanded, frowning in confusion.

“He’s already seen you.”

“When the TV said Pierce was stabbed tonight, I knew right off who killed him. It’s in your blood.”

Rosie sighed, struggling for professional patience. “Mom, Pierce is fine. I saw him earlier.”

“You’re twelve years old, Rosie. Mother committed suicide.” Hazel’s eyes rounded in fright and then in guilt. She gulped in a big breath and clamped both hands over her mouth. “Oops, I’m not supposed to tell that. She died in her sleep.”

“Mom, please. Just don’t talk anymore right now.”

“You’re still in love with that motorcycle guy. Is that why you stabbed Pierce?”

Rosie rubbed her brows with a sigh. “Mom, please…”

“Your father said murder’s as easy as dog shit, and he would know, now wouldn’t he? I’m who I am—I’m really me!”

Rosie popped her knuckles and stared up at the ceiling. She felt so helpless she wanted to scream. Get me out of here!

“It’s me who’s dead over there,” Hazel said, staring wildly past Rosie and pointing out the door at a figure on a gurney. Her brow knitted into rigid lines, which meant she was late for her botox shot. Then Hazel slid off the bed and began to pace in small, tight circles. “I have to get over there—so I’ll see you again.”

Thankfully, the nurse came in, and Hazel went still. “We have a bed for her upstairs,” the woman said in a kind, low tone. “Are you the sister?”

Grrr. “Daughter.”

Hazel dashed behind Rosie and squatted down, using Rosie as a shield between her and the nurse. “Is she going to close the casket? Tell her not to close the casket!”

“You’re not dead yet, Mom. You’re just here for a little rest.”

“Are you nuts? This place is a madhouse.”

Five minutes later Rosie was sitting across from the admissions clerk, a middle-aged woman with a pinched mouth and piercing eyes, who kept handing her endless stacks of papers to sign so her mother could be admitted.

“That lady over there is pointing at you,” the woman said, just as Hazel began to shriek again. “Is that your sister?”

“My mom,” she said through gritted teeth.

Her mother’s screams grew more frantic as an orderly wheeled her toward the bank of elevators at the end of the hall.

“I was a virgin and didn’t know what the hell was going on,” Hazel yelled. “Daddy had never had sex before, either. I was a nymphomaniac and screwed everything that came down the walk.”

When Hazel suddenly spotted Rosie, her voice grew louder. “Rosie—do you know what’s wrong with you? You’ve been frigid ever since you screwed that motorcycle guy! You need to learn about oral sex!”

“Mom!”

“My cats! Charlie and his friends! I’ve got to get home!”

“I’ll feed Charlie, Mother.”

Hazel struggled to get out of the wheelchair, but the orderly gripped her arm. At the use of force, Hazel’s voice grew more hysterical.

“My daughter killed Dr. Carver! She stabbed him! Because I told her to. And because she’s still in love with that motorcycle guy.”

Shuddering Rosie covered her eyes with her hands. When she looked up and peered through her fingers, the admissions clerk’s huge, magnified gaze was devouring her with what seemed to be excessive lurid interest.

Story of her life—being publicly humiliated by her family. Reason number one Pierce had dumped her for Anita and her girls, which he’d once described as aristocratic little ladies.

“I’m sorry,” Rosie whispered. “There’s not a word of truth in anything she’s said. She’s totally out of her mind.”

“Not about Dr. Carver, she’s not,” the clerk stated in a conspiratorial whisper.

“What?”

The woman’s thin brows lifted as she continued to study Rosie as if she were a microbe under a microscope. “I heard about his murder when I took my break. He’s dead. It’s a real shame, too. He had a lot of talent. We have lots of his patients here. He used to bring us candy all the time. Chocolate truffles. The best. Godiva.”

Rosie blew out some air and then fought for her next breath. The blood drained from her face. She almost felt as if she might faint. Pierce…dead?

He’d been horribly alive last night. He’d been his impossible, arrogant self. He couldn’t be dead!

He’d better not be, girlfriend. What if you were the last person to see him alive?

“You…you can’t be serious…about Dr. Carver…”

“He was stabbed in the face. Him, handsome as he was even at fifty. Multiple stab wounds. They say that except for the eyes, you wouldn’t know him. His head was practically severed from his body.”

Unconscious of the movement, Rose Marie sank her own head lower into her shoulders as if to protect it from being lopped off. “Oh, no. No. No.”