The Queen Gene Read Free Page A

Anjoli if everything was okay. “I don’t hear Paz anymore.”
    “Oh, Lucy, I think this is going very well,” she said with a tone of awe at what she was witnessing.
    “What’s going on?!” I asked, reminding her that I couldn’t see through the telephone.
    Gleefully, Anjoli answered. “Paz is totally relaxed right now. He’s not moving a bit, which is a relief because he was quivering a few seconds ago. He’s standing completely still, staring into the distance. God, I wish I had this kind of focus when I meditated.”
    “Is he okay?” I asked, wondering perhaps if he died.
    “He’s in another place, darling. Paz is in a completely altered state right now.”
    Poor dog was probably melancholy about his days on the euthanasia waiting list.
    “Pars,” said Dr. Hwang, “I’m going to take out the needles now.”
    Did this man have any concept of what a dog even was? Did he expect Paz to give him a knowing nod then lift a paw to help the doctor gain easier access to the needles?
    “Pars should be all better now,” said Dr. Hwang.
    “Dr. Hwang, look!” my mother’s voice cried with alarm.
    “What?!” I shouted. “What’s going on?”
    My mother remembered I was on the phone and replied. “Oh, Lucy, he’s chewing his paws again. His chi is still blocked,” she said with defeat.
    “It takes several hours for chi to fully flow again. Pars will be better by dinnertime,” Dr. Hwang assured.
    Say evening! I wanted to shout to Dr. Hwang. My mother doesn’t eat. She doesn’t understand this dinnertime of which you speak!
    After she left the office, Anjoli confided that she thought Paz’s acupuncture was a complete waste of time. “I hate to resort to western medicine, though,” Anjoli said. “I’m going to have to do some more research on canine nervous disorders and see what other options I have.”
    At that point, I heard Jack return home with Adam after having spent the afternoon at a birthday party at a kiddie theme-restaurant. I remember when I was thirteen, I spent every Saturday at a different friend’s Bar or Bat Mitzvah. Adam was in the toddler version of this circuit — the weekly birthday parties. After we both attended three of these parties, we both agreed that they were like Fear Factor personal challenges for us. First, you have to eat a piece of pita bread with ketchup and melted American cheese served by an overgrown rodent character who’s telling you it’s pizza. Then you have to force a smile as you watch your child climb through tunnels of rotavirus-infected plastic tubes only to land in a pile of colored plastic balls glazed with toddler snot. For the final challenge — and the grand prize of getting to leave — parents have to watch a two-year-old attempt to unwrap his presents and “ooh” and “ahhh” convincingly. All the while parents must suppress the urge to blurt, “Just for the record, if any of you ever give my child a toy that makes animal noises like the one little Cayenne has just opened, I will put a Mafia hit on you.” Anyway, after three of these parties, Jack and I agreed to take turns bringing Adam to these festivals of parental torture. Yes, I know I might sound a little like Anjoli with her aversion to zoos. The difference is that Jack and I actually make sure Adam goes to the parties. We hate it, but we take him anyway.
    “How was the party?” I asked Jack, giving the “I didn’t have to go” smug smile we each sported when it was the other’s turn.
    “Hell on earth,” Jack returned, sporting the “you’re on deck” smile we’d each perfected. He walked across the living room carrying Adam, and leaned over to give me a kiss. “Get a lot of writing done this afternoon?”
    “Some,” I said. “Not as much as I’d hoped. Paz called again. Apparently he’s got some sort of nervous disorder and is pulling his fur out of his paws.”
    Jack moved toward the kitchen and filled Adam’s bottle with orange juice. As he was screwing the