The Secret Lives of Doctors' Wives. Ann Major
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sitting position, both hands shaking. Carmen, who was twenty-one—make that an immature, mixedup and wild twenty-one—called her “Rose Marie” these days—to distance herself, she’d explained, and rather nastily. Carmen, who shared an apartment with two other dancers, never phoned her if she could avoid it. Obviously, this was an emergency.
Holding the phone, Rosie lay back, feeling groggy with exhaustion. How long had she slept? Two hours, maybe? She shut her eyes and tried to concentrate on whatever it was Carmen was saying.
“Hazel called me. She’s out of her mind again. Only worse than usual.”
Carmen had started calling her grandmother by her first name, too, which was really annoying to Hazel, especially since Rosie found herself doing it, as well.
“Why did Mother call you? Did she forget my number or something?”
“She says it was a bad birthday for you and she didn’t want to make it worse, and that besides, she only wants me, that’s she’s scared of you.”
Deep breath. “Scared of me?”
“She started hollering every time I started to call you. I couldn’t call until the doctor came. He’s in with her right now. She keeps saying you killed him.”
“Killed who? Did I miss something?”
“Pierce. She says somebody killed him tonight. You haven’t seen him or been around him lately, have you?”
A chill went through Rosie.
“Hey, Mom, please tell me you didn’t catch him jogging on your way home, and lose it again.”
She’d lost it all right.
So had Pierce. “That isn’t funny,” she whispered, her voice strangled.
Carmen heaved out a long sigh. “That’s like a huge relief. Huge. With Hazel wicking out all the time, the last thing I need is a homicidal maniac for a mother.”
“So, at least you still claim me.”
“As if I have a choice.”
“Excuse me?”
“If anything happened to you, who will take care of Alexis?”
“Where are you?” Rosie demanded.
“The E.R. Brackenridge Hospital. You’ve got to get over here. I can’t take much more.”
“Ditto.” It would be an understatement to say that Carmen’s many talents did not lie in the nursing field. “You’ll have to take care of Alexis then. And that means being patient and nice and—”
“Fine! Just get here. Another hour and I’ll be singing the loony tunes along with Hazel.”
Except for her slack mouth, which she licked constantly, and her wild eyes darting everywhere, Hazel looked good. She’d had a lot of work, as Pierce used to say, and such good work, she looked years younger than she was.
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