“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?
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
The Queen Gene