Free Looks to Die For by Janice Kaplan

didn’t mean anything personal. It’s probably just standard procedure,” I said, trying to sound encouraging. Though I had to wonder which farsighted hospital administrator would have written the protocol for dealing with a doctor accused of murder. Most didn’t know how to handle a physician who ordered aspirin when the in-house pharmacy offered Advil.
    “You know hospitals — all those crazy rules,” I continued, determined to show my husband what support really meant. “You can’t say a patient’s name on the elevator because of privacy codes. No flower arrangements allowed on the maternity floor in case peonies make someone sneeze. And Brandon’s a bureaucrat. Isn’t he the one who wanted to ban balloons? I guess he’s worried about allergies to air.”
    Dan sighed. “Nobody’s planning on sending me flowers. Or balloons.” He slumped down onto the bed and let his shoulders sag.
    I sat down next to him, sidled close, and rubbed his cheek. “What can I do, honey? What do you need?” I asked softly.
    “I don’t need anything,” Dan said, more brusquely than he probably intended. Being vulnerable or needy had never made it into his emotional repertoire. Still, I put my arms around him and he kissed me briskly on the cheek — less a prelude to passion than the tap of a worried woodpecker.
    “Did Brandon say anything else?” I asked.
    “Nope.” Dan shook his head. Continuing in his stoic mode, he was done with the subject. If I wanted to indulge in extended analysis of who-said-what-to-whom and what-it-all-means, I could marry someone without a Y chromosome. Though I’d have to move to Massachusetts.
    “What’s going on with the kids?” Dan asked, changing subjects about as gracefully as Karl Rove discussing a CIA press leak.
    “Grant went to school this morning, but Ashley didn’t,” I said evenly. “She’s sleeping. Jimmy just got up. We need to talk to him about what he saw the other night. I think he’s too scared to ask.”
    “I’m not up for talking. But let me drive him to kindergarten. I guess I have some time.”
    I knew the proper reply was “Thank you, darling” — which would make my husband feel needed and encourage his continued participation in the kindergarten carpool. But I also knew it was a bad plan. How to say this nicely?
    “Oh, let’s let him miss a few days of finger painting,” I said sweetly.
    Too sweetly. Dan looked at me, puzzled. “Why would we do that?”
    I bit my lower lip. If sweet didn’t work, maybe blunt would. “Because you shouldn’t go out this morning and neither should Jimmy.”
    Dan jerked his head back, as if he’d been slapped. Maybe I should have stuck with “Thank you, darling.”
    “I don’t go to the hospital and the kids stay home. We’ll go into hiding. Is that what Chauncey wanted?” he asked sharply.
    “It’s the only thing that makes sense,” I said softly. “We can’t pretend life is normal. Everything’s changed, Dan. Aren’t we going to face it?”
    So much for A-OK. Dan’s blue eyes blackened in anger. Without an additional word, he stood, turned on his heel, and walked out of the room.
    Whether or not it was what Chauncey wanted, going into hiding was more or less what we did for the next four days. Except for Grant, who refused to make any changes in his life, none of us went farther than a hundred feet from the front door. A couple of reporters kept ringing our doorbell and leaving messages on the phone, and one news truck reappeared half a dozen times. But a wildfire in the Valley that destroyed two celebrity homes, along with endless analysis of the naked-Mikita tape, filled the schadenfreude quotient for the local media.
    “Which doesn’t mean the attention is over,” Chauncey warned us on the phone. “As soon as there’s a new development, they’ll be back. For now, just live your normal lives.”
    “We don’t have normal lives,” I told Chauncey.
    “I understand how you feel. But just go ahead