The Queen Gene

by Jennifer Coburn

  Other Books by Jennifer Coburn

  The Wife of Reilly

  Reinventing Mona

  Tales from the Crib

  (read a sample chapter by clicking here)

  This Christmas

  (with Jane Green and Liz Ireland)

  Coming Soon

  Brownie Points

  Field of Schemes

  Chapter One

  I can usually count on a phone call every day from my mother’s dog, and today was no different. Paz is my mother’s new toy Chihuahua that she totes around everywhere she goes. When he sits in Mother’s purse, his little paws often hit the redial button on her cell phone, which means I’m in for at least ten minutes of unwilling eavesdropping on Anjoli’s life until she finally hears me shouting, begging her to hang up the phone. My mother discovered a phone with a personality that matches hers. It doesn’t allow me to simply hang up. She has to be the one who decides to disengage.

  I can hang up on her, but when I pick up the phone a few minutes later to make a call of my own, she’s still there. This is the story of my life.

  With most women her age you might think I’d hear her attending lectures at elder hostels, playing bridge, or consulting a podiatrist. After a lifetime with Anjoli as a mother, I’ve come to expect nothing less than the shocking, ridiculous, and thoroughly appalling. Hearing the details of her life firsthand (rather than the somewhat sanitized version she tells me) is a bit much, though. Just last week I heard her mantra consultant telling my mother that if she wasn’t willing to chew her food until it was fully liquefied, the chanting couldn’t possibly heal her lower back pain. I also heard Anjoli telling one of her customers at the Drama Queen bookshop that he had tweezed his eyebrows too thin. She then proceeded to give him tips on creating a dramatic, but not overdone, arch. And truly disturbing, I heard Anjoli having sex with her Pilates instructor. I hung up immediately, but moments later when I picked up the phone to make another call, Mother had still not disconnected. Literally. Some of my friends complain that their parents are overly involved in their lives and thought I should be grateful my mother has such a full schedule. But Anjoli’s myriad of interests and activities do not preclude her from her favorite activity — “helping” me with my two-year-old son, and visiting my husband Jack and me at our new home in the Berkshire Mountains.

  We closed escrow on an old four-bedroom home last winter and have been making improvements to the main house and two guest cottages with the intention of opening it to visiting artists next month.

  Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother dearly. But as Jack has noticed, she’s like a vapor. When she enters a room, she occupies every bit of space. Corners we hadn’t even discovered were suddenly filled with the presence of my mother. Still, she’s my mother, so like most daughters I have feelings about her that range from complete adoration to total frustration. And if I’m being entirely honest, there’s a tablespoon of jealousy added into the mix.

  Not only is Anjoli the darling of New York’s theater district with friends — and enemies — around the globe, she’s also a drop-dead gorgeous, blond version of Sophia Loren with a ballerina body that has stayed firm well into her sixties.

  Anyway, Paz is the newest addition to our family. Anjoli called me a few weeks ago to thank me for hosting Thanksgiving dinner. As she put it, “Having family around the dinner table activated my issues, darling. It reminded me of how very important our connections to others are. You know what a nurturing soul I am so this shouldn’t surprise you too much.” Without pause, she continued, “I’ve adopted a puppy and I’m calling him Paz.”

  This would have been the end of it for most people. They might put a photo in their wallet, mention the new puppy at work, or maybe even buy a few silly dog toys. My mother sent a formal announcement on white textured silk cards which invited guests to the puppy blessing of the winter season. After Paz was lightly doused with warm water, my mother’s friends raised their champagne glasses to toast the puppy of honor. She served organic hors d’oeuvres shaped like mini dog bones.

  “Isn’t he the most adorable little pound puppy, darling?” Anjoli said when she brought Paz to visit for Christmas.

  Despite my mother’s delusions that she was a great nurturer, I was surprised when she first announced the adoption. “I didn’t know you liked dogs,” I said.

  “I don’t,” she returned quickly. “But Paz isn’t like other dogs, darling. He’s the sweetest little teacup Chihuahua. He fits in my purse and doesn’t even bark. He has a tiny little yelp that you can hardly even hear, and when you do, it isn’t the least bit disturbing. Oh honey, I adore this little peanut!”

  “You’re going to carry around a dog in your purse?” I asked incredulously, wondering if my mother knew this was a long-term commitment, not a new accessory. “Who are you, Paris Hilton?”

  “Who?”

  I tried again. “Who are you, Zsa Zsa Gabor?”

  “Would I ever slap a police officer, darling?”

  “That’s true, you’d probably have sex with him.”

  Anjoli laughed. “That’s something your father would say.”

  They divorced early enough in the marriage that they remained quite civil. Whenever my father had come to pick me up on Sundays, it had been very amicable. Without everything else that comes with a marriage, my parents got along astonishingly well.

  “So you’re calling this dog Paws?” I asked when she first told me about the adoption.

  “Not Paws, darling. Paz, Paz. It means ‘peace’ in Spanish. Paz is Latino.”

  “I’m just a little surprised. I never saw you as the type to own a dog.”

  “It was love at first sight, darling. As soon as I saw him, I knew he was my baby.”

  The more I thought about my mother saving this Chihuahua puppy from the dog pound, the more I thought it was a sweet idea. So what if she dressed him up in little outfits and paraded him around Manhattan in a Louis Vuitton satchel? The fact of the matter was that my mother was connecting with her nurturing side. And Paz didn’t exactly get a raw deal. This Chihuahua would have the best of everything, which is a hell of a lot better than the life he would have known at the dog pound, or even if he’d been adopted by a normal person.

  When I first told Jack about Anjoli adopting a dog, he was surprised to say the least. “Does she realize how much work a dog is? Does she understand she needs to take the dog out of her purse every couple hours to take a crap?”

  “I’m sure she’s aware of a dog’s biological functions,” I defended. I think it’s a commonly shared sentiment that the only ones allowed to be critical of parents are their own children. Since I had no siblings, I cornered the market on Anjoli-bashing.

  Jack continued. “You think she’ll remember to feed a dog every day? You told me she forgot to feed you most nights.”

  That’s not exactly what I said. During that starry-eyed time when a couple is first getting to know each other — comparing their childhoods, their families, and their hopes for the future — I mentioned that my mother didn’t prepare meals the way most did. Her usual dinner preparation was what I came to know as “ten on the table,” which meant Anjoli left ten dollars on the dining room table so I could buy myself the meal of my choosing. Back in the seventies and early eighties, this was a windfall for a kid. There were dozens of restaurants from sushi bars to hot dog stands all within a short walk of our brownstone on West Eleventh Street. There was Balducci’s Italian market, Joe Jr.’s diner, and Ray’s Pizza, among others. There was Chinese, Indian, and Cambodian. Nearly every nation was represented by its cuisine.

  As a child I loved the freedom, nonetheless Jack had a point. I giggled at the image of an undersized Chihuahua in a Burberry’s Nova pattern beret and poncho
bopping down Sixth Avenue clutching a ten dollar bill in his teeth. Poor thing couldn’t even reach the counter to place his order.

  “Jack, I’m sure Anjoli will be wonderful to the dog,” I assured him. “Let’s give her the benefit of the doubt. The new year is all about people changing for the better. Neither of us is perfect, but we’re getting better every year,” I said, winking.

  Jack pulled me in toward him with one arm and hugged me. “That’s what I love about you, Luce. You always see the best in people.”

  “I really think she’s going to surprise us both,” I said. “This dog could be just what she needs to tap into her maternal instincts.”

  Anjoli had changed over the past year. When she visits the house, she always generously volunteers to supervise the handymen so I can take Adam to the park for a few hours. She recently announced that she was willing to change urine-only diapers. Anjoli even broke down and bought a cell phone last summer so we could talk more often, despite the fact she believed they cause ear cancer. When she first started using the phone, Anjoli kept sterilized cotton in her ears to protect herself from the radiation, but found that this also made it difficult to hear. Then she discovered that her phone had a speaker, and now keeps it on so she doesn’t have to bring the receiver to her ear. Admittedly, this is less than considerate to the people who have to listen to both ends of her phone conversations, but New Yorkers have seen everything. What’s another designer-clad grandmother carrying on a semi-pornographic conversation with a lover who’s unaware that his voice is being blasted through Union Square?

  Adding to the list of Anjoli’s changes was that she not only agreed to take Adam to the Central Park Zoo last summer, she was the one who suggested it. When I was a child, she said the zoo was dull. “The animals don’t even do anything, darling,” she explained. “I’ll get tickets for you and your father to go to the circus this Sunday. The lions will do tricks instead of simply standing around and growling. That’s supposed to be entertainment?!” Thirty years later, she realized that children love to see animals, and the entertainment for the adults was witnessing the look of delight and discovery in a child’s eyes.

  When Anjoli and Adam returned from their days at the zoo last summer, my mother was a bit miffed because a goat ate a Playbill that was sticking out from her purse. “What in my consciousness attracted that interaction?!” she asked Jack and me, who were waiting at my mother’s apartment.

  “What?” Jack asked, not because he didn’t hear her, but because he wanted to clarify what she meant. And truth be told, I’m sure he understood exactly what she meant, but delighted in having her repeat it. He said that getting to hear all of Anjoli’s new age musings added to the benefits package of this marriage. Meaning, he enjoyed laughing at my mother’s frivolity. It was just one of the many things we shared in common.

  She repeated, “What in my consciousness attracted that animal?”

  “Mother, it’s a goat. You had paper hanging out of your purse. Goats eat paper,” I said, nudging Jack with my elbow.

  “Darlings, several people had paper in their possession!” she explained.

  Jack rested back in the couch, hoping this conversation would continue. “How close were you to the gate?”

  “Who knows?” Anjoli said, shooing with her hand. “Who pays attention to that sort of thing? I don’t know, a foot, three feet? Ten feet? Somewhere around there.”

  “Anjoli,” Jack said, laughing. “If a goat ate from your purse, you must have been pretty close to its enclosure.”

  I added, “What were you doing when the goat took the Playbill, Mother?”

  “I don’t know. Alfie called and said there was some sort of problem with the credit card machine at the store. I guess I was near the goat cage.”

  Mocking Perry Mason, Jack added, “Was your bag zipped, Anjoli?”

  “Zipped?” she said as though she’d never heard of the concept.

  He continued, “Or was it wide open like it is now?” He rushed over to her purse and held it up as if he were presenting Exhibit A to the ladies and gentlemen of the jury. “Look at this bag. There are two take-out menus, a day planner, five sheets of loose paper, and a pack of tissues. You’ve got a regular goat feedbag here.” By this time, Anjoli was laughing her silent inhale of a laugh. Jack continued. “I must argue that it was not, in fact, your consciousness that attracted said goat, but rather the paper, paper, paper tempting, taunting, dare I say inviting any normal red-blooded goat to help himself to the contents of your purse!” Anjoli laughed and declared herself guilty of being a flake.

  Jack was such fun these days. It’s hard to imagine that just three years earlier we almost divorced. My cousin Richard always says that everyone has two marriages, but the lucky ones get to have them both with the same person. Jack’s and my marriage was far from seamless, but it was definitely experiencing a renaissance. Appropriately enough he’s a painter. And my body is pale and doughy.

  As I thought back to the day last summer when Anjoli’s Playbill was snatched from her purse by the goat at the zoo, I hoped that she’d be more careful now that Paz was her cargo.

  Of course, at the core, Anjoli was the same goddess of her own universe. She still dabbled in every new age healing workshop New York offered. When Jack and I first moved in to our new place, Anjoli offered her “space-clearing” services to us as a housewarming gift. She’d just completed a six-week ghost-busting class and danced around the house burning sage incense and ringing tingsha bells in every corner. For Christmas she gave us a refresher cleansing, using the techniques she recently learned at an advanced space-clearing class in Los Angeles. She chanted and blew high-pitch notes through a thin bamboo flute-like instrument. Jack and I learned long ago to just roll our eyes and thank her. There was no use fighting Anjoli and her magical thinking. She was convinced that all old homes were potential apparition hotels, and insisted she save us from some crotchety dead colonial dude with an ax to grind. Jack and I just shrugged and let her chant away while our neighbors sang “Silent Night” at the doorstep. She is odd for sure, but she’s my mother. Plus, what harm could she do?

  Chapter Two

  So anyway, I digress just a bit, which I must confess is quite typical. Back to Paz and his phone call to me.

  “Just relax and breathe deeply,” I heard an unfamiliar Chinese man’s voice say in the background. I knew my mother must be at one of her alternative healers. Anjoli had a troubling and persistent ailment called perfect health that she was determined to overcome. It’s hard to keep up with all of her recovery programs, but she’s done the gamut. She’s spun her chakras, had her eyeballs and tongue analyzed, and even flown to New Mexico to have protective white light woven around her aura. She always manages to do a little shopping wherever she is as well.

  Once when I was in fifth grade, I returned home to find my mother and eight other bare-breasted women chanting, “I am in the center of light, I am here to express delight.” Mother was so filled with spiritual delight that she got laryngitis. A guest got a nasty mosquito bite near her nipple.

  One of Anjoli’s tenants called to say that their expression of delight was causing his expression of anger.

  “Relax and breathe,” the Chinese man repeated.

  “I’m not sure he understands,” I heard my mother’s voice through the phone.

  “Mother!” I shouted. “Mother, I’m on the phone!!! Can you hear me? Hang up the phone!” Where was she? And why was the person she was with so zoned out that he couldn’t understand the Chinese man’s simple instruction to relax and breathe?”

  Anjoli continued. “Doctor, will the needles hurt him?”

  “He won’t feel a thing,” the doctor assured.

  Who won’t feel a thing? Needles? This sounded more serious than eyeball analysis. “Mother!!! It’s Lucy. Your dog’s calling me again. What’s going on?”

  “Lucy, is that you, darling?” I heard her voice in the distance.

  I shouted, “Pick up
the phone.”

  “Doctor, do you have any sterilized cotton?” she asked. A few moments passed before I heard her voice again. “Lucy, darling,” she whispered, undoubtedly clutching the phone to her ear. “It’s such a relief to hear from you. I’m in crisis,” she said with her usual accent on the word crisis. She meant to sound French, but it actually only sounded like plural crises.

  “It sounds like it. What’s going on?” I wondered which of her boyfriends she’d put into such a state of shock that they needed an injection to return him to the world of the living.

  “It’s Paz, darling. He’s ill.”

  “The dog is sick,” I said, sadly.

  “Yes, darling,” she sniffed. “Little Paz is not well, but we’re with Dr. Hwang right now.”

  “Dr. Hwang your acupuncturist?” I asked.

  “Yes, I’m a bit worried that the needles will hurt him. I know the needles are thin, but Paz is so tiny,” Anjoli sniffed again.

  “Back up, Mother. What’s wrong with Paz and why is he at your acupuncturist?”

  At that point, Dr. Hwang repeated that Mother’s toy Chihuahua should relax and breathe deeply. “This will not hurt you, Pars.”

  “It’s Paz,” Anjoli corrected him.

  “Mother, what’s wrong with Paz?”

  Anjoli sighed. “Oh darling, Paz has trichotillomania.”

  “He has what?” I asked, hearing the dog squeak as the first needle went into his fur. The poor thing sounded like he was dying, and the last thing he did before going under the needle was call me. I was touched. Then again, so was everyone in my family.

  Dr. Hwang was as kind as one could be while puncturing a dog. “Relax, Pars. Your chi will flow like a river, and you will feel all better soon. Breathe deeply.”

  Again with the “breathe deeply.” It’s a dog, Dr. Hwang. They have one breathing mode and it’s panting. Perhaps this is why puppy yoga never caught on.

  “Oh God, this is awful to watch,” Anjoli told me. “He’s looking at me as though I’ve betrayed him, darling.”