By the time we were all munching Currywurst
and fire-grilled Thüringer
at Bratwurst Glöckle in Göttingen,
we had left Porto,
found a house in France,
slurped Phở steaming hot in Tours.
One month still to go before our move-in date,
I said to him:
“Let’s go to Germany,
for admin,
for doctors,
for your father,
for your aunt and uncle,
for Inge.”
We left the small car in France
and headed north,
him,
three daughters,
two dogs,
two cats,
sardined into a replacement car,
him on the phone and online,
booking appointments within an impossible window:
Dentistry
Gynaecology
Orthopaedics
Endocrinology
Paediatrics
Oncology
Ophthalmology
Dermatology
ENT
I booked his family,
for lunch,
for dinners,
for coffee and cakes,
like a good wife,
like Lai Yin.
It’s around the Gänseliesel that everything happens.
My first time meeting his family.
Him buying me walking boots
for my Eurorail journey,
to Paris,
to Venice,
to Sevilla.
Christmas markets,
upset stomachs after creamed mushrooms.
Coffee,
cakes,
ice cream with our babies and his clan.
The day after occupying our Airbnb,
Petra, my first baby, found work to pay for her next trip
to Austria,
to her boyfriend,
to her first love.
She cleaned Airbnbs,
scrubbed at the village butcher,
filmed promo shorts.
By the time we got to the gynaecologist,
we’d been to
the GP,
the dentist,
ordered my first pair of glasses,
eaten ngau lo mein (牛撈麵) and aap chow faan (鴨炒飯) with authentic wok hei at the Chinese restaurant across the street from Mister Spex.
Me.
My youngest, now eight.
Petra, my first, already active at sixteen.
My middle one,
in the car with the dogs, waiting her turn.
Him shuffling three clipboards,
filling out medical histories for
three of his women.
My words came fast:
“Get the pill for Petra.
Both their grandmothers died of cancer;
ovarian, breast.
Tell the doctor they need a Pap smear,
ultrasound,
breast exam.
Teach them how to self-examine.
Don’t forget my boob job,
our period pain,
my stomach cramps.
I want them with me.
Yes to HPV, Rubella, vaccinations all done.
Tell the doctor it’s Padme’s first time. She is not active.
The dates of our last periods are …”
A young woman
behind a desk
behind a computer screen
typing, recording my medical history,
her breasts extending to her elbows.
I said: “kui hai yi sang ah? kui gam hau sang ga? (佢係醫生呀？佢咁後生㗎？)”
He said: “Empty your bladder, come back and sit down.”
I rolled my eyes and did as I was told.
By the time the young doctor
raised my legs,
raised my labia level with her eyes,
she was assisted by a senior woman.
The young doctor
opened me
with the duckbill.
The senior doctor rubbed the cotton stick around my cervix.
I inhaled.
I winced.
I looked at him,
he held my gaze.
By the time the young doctor inserted the ultrasound probe deep,
she moved it like the stick shift of my first car.
He stood behind my new gynaecologist,
looking at the ultrasound screen,
looking into my eyes,
looking at the monitor,
looking between my thighs,
her hands,
watching the probe buried deep,
twisting left, twisting right, up, down,
returning to lock eyes with me,
me holding my breath,
pretending to smile.
The senior doctor
kneaded my breasts,
lifted them,
held them,
weighed them in her hands,
looked underneath,
traced my areolae with her fingertips,
looked puzzled.
She looked
at me,
at him.
He said: “Armpits.”
I raised one elbow above my head.
The senior doctor said to the younger doctor:
“So etwas habe ich noch nie gesehen!”
He said: “Seoul.”
She said: “I cannot feel anything. Your breasts are perfect.”
I said,
“Where are the teens?"
By the time I walked out of the examination room,
my first baby was watching the dogs,
her younger sister alone in another examination room with the senior woman who assisted my young gynaecologist.
They did not let me in to be with my second baby.
She did not want me there,
she did not want her breasts examined,
she did not want to talk about it.
We stood outside the examination room,
him still filling out forms.
By the time we ordered cake and ice cream
topped with mountains of whipped cream
for him and my girls,
sitting al fresco in the pedestrian zone with the early spring sunshine warming our faces,
he and the doctor agreed on the mini pill for Petra.
I told him: “Make sure you teach her how to take it.”
He took the dogs to stretch their legs.
Every few steps he stopped and patiently answered:
“Das sind Portugiesische Wasserhunde.
Ehemals Arbeitshunde auf Fischerbooten in der Algarve, mit Schwimmhäuten wie Enten.
Nein, nicht Mutter, Tochter, ein Paar,
ja von verschiedenen Züchtern.
Ok, bye-bye, Tschüss.”
By the time he sat back down,
Inge, the Governess who came to Hong Kong through his mother’s arrangement
for another German Chinese family,
jumped off her electric bicycle.
My cackle of girls surrounded her,
laughing, rushing, shouting,
hair and hands waving in the air,
arguing over homemade Easter treats and gifts from Inge.
My little one asked:
“Is this my grandmother?”
Inge sat down,
hair held by a scarf,
hands wrinkled and scarred,
thick spectacles balancing on her nose:
“No, I took care of your Uncle Hans in Hong Kong when he and your father were still in shorts.”
My little one shouted:
“I was born in Hong Kong!”
Inge asked him:
“Warum hinkst du?”
He said:
“Just a pinched nerve.
Orthopaedic appointment next week.”
She said:
“Neeh! I know zis. You need a new hip like I have.
One week hospital,
three weeks rehabilitation.
I asked for more.
I had five weeks of breakfast, lunch and dinner in the park.”
By the time Inge pedalled off,
we purchased Petra’s tickets
from Göttingen
to Linz
to Vienna
to Bordeaux.
By the time my girls were wolfing down rare sirloins at Block House in Hamburg with his mother’s brother and his partner,
Symi, our young water dog bitch, entered her first cycle,
locked in the bathroom
wearing baby nappies slit for her tail,
Bali, older by a few months, desperate to mount her,
separated from his mate by two doors like an airlock.
We had been on the autobahn since 4AM for an early morning dermatology consultation in Eppendorf.
We arrived with a single appointment for my youngest.
By the time the doctor saw us,
all staff and patients had heard our family history from my little one holding court;
he had made space to see all of us.
After lunch, it was Instagram moments for Petra around the Innenalster,
more Demon Hunter tops for my youngest.
Him behind us,
carrying my MCM beach bag,
our puffy down jackets,
his limp.
By the time I drove us back to Göttingen at night,
he and the girls had fallen asleep in their seats.
Him next to me,
MacBook on his lap,
glasses on his nose,
right hand on the laptop’s lid,
left hand on my right thigh,
breathing slowly.
Back in our Airbnb,
I placed my good box of Tempo tissues on his pillow.
I said:
“You shower first. I left you something.
After that sleep.
I’ve got the girls. We’ll watch TV.”
By the time he and I got back from the dentist,
he had held my calf
when the needle went in,
when the drill screamed,
when the water jet made me squirm,
when I shuddered.
He held my calf.
He held eye contact.
By the time he learned he needed a hip replacement,
we had another bratwurst.
My first baby opened the door,
her face and nose red,
her eyes swollen,
tears flowing,
crashing into his arms:
„Er hat mit mir Schluss gemacht!“
He took her hand: „komm, wir gehen spazieren“,
and walked away with her, without ever stepping inside
By the time they returned, I had cooked dinner.
She leaned in to hug and said: „does it always hurt so much?“
I said:
„Yes it does.
Always.
It won’t last.“
When she was not looking, I said:
„I told you this would happen.
I told her he’s not right for her.
I told her not to go.
Couldn’t he have ended it before we bought the train and plane tickets?
I’m glad it’s over.
I told you he’s not for her!”
