Page 13 of The Wilder Widows

“Cottonmouth,” Marge mumbled. “Drink something. There may be some whiskey left.”

“Don’t say whiskey,” I groaned, and the thought of it made my stomach churn.

Just as I forced down my own gag, Doris retched beside me.

“Bathroom! Go! GO!” I shouted as I shot up and pushed her off the couch.

Covering her mouth, she bolted to the bathroom, and a moment later, I heard another familiar sound. It was the same one I’d heard Bruce making for months during his chemo. After the toilet flushed, she emerged from the bathroom, horror and shame worn plain on her green-tinged face.

“I threw up,” she whispered, wiping her mouth. “Why did I throw up?”

“Whiskey.” Marge shook her head.

Once again, that word churned my stomach, and Doris spun on her heel and disappeared back inside the bathroom. When the retching returned, Marge chuckled from her post on the floor. “That was too easy. Should we go for three?”

“Don’t,” I scolded, leveling her with a glare. “If you make her puke on the carpet, you’re cleaning it up.”

“If she pukes out here, I puke. You’ll be cleaning that up as well.” Alice peered down at her over the arm of the chair.

“Party poopers.”

Doris stepped out again, pausing this time and giving a backward glance at the bathroom door. “I think I’m done. Why am I throwing up?”

Alice and I shot a look to stay Marge’s tongue.

Though it had been a while since I’d been hungover, unlike Doris, I at least recognized what it was. “I forgot you’d never been drunk. This is a hangover. Just drink some water, dear. It will help.”

Alice leaned back in the recliner. “Grab us all one while you’re up.”

Doris shuffled around the kitchen then returned with four glasses of water on a tray. The glasses clinked together as her hands shook, and the vibrations only increased while she tried to set them down.

“Careful there, Shakes Hoolihan,” Marge said while she sat up and helped guide the tray to safety.

“Why are my hands shaking?” Doris stared at her trembling extremities.

“Whi—”

“Marge! No!” I shouted.

Alice smacked Marge on the arm. “You’ll be fine, Doris. Just drink your water, and maybe a little hair of the dog will get you right again.”

“Eat dog hair? No!”

Alice rolled her eyes. “Hair of the dog, Doris. Like a Bloody Mary. Ooh! What do you ladies say we head to my house, and Agnes can whip us up mimosas and bloodies?”

“I think I’m never drinking again.” I groaned.

“Me neither.” Marge nodded before gulping her water. “And I should really get home. My mom is probably worried.”

“Oh, your mom! Is she okay being left alone for a night?” I asked.

Marge grunted. “Oh yeah. We just live together for the company. It’s not like I have to take care of her or anything. She still insists on doing everything for herself. Stubborn woman doesn’t need a damn thing from me. But I still bet she’s worried I didn’t come home.”

“You’re seventy years old and you still have a curfew.” Alice snorted.

“I don’t have a curfew. It’s just that I never stay out, and she’s probably got the neighborhood watch searching the bushes already.”

“There’s no one at home to worry about me.” Doris sniffled.