My first time in the Maldives was with him.
By the time we checked in at Naladhu,
we had flown on a Cathay flight out of Hong Kong,
landed on the ocean,
on a runway we could not see, supporting the landing gear as we rolled towards the terminal.
Queued, got visas on arrival,
transferred by water taxi,
an uncomfortable hour-long ride on a bouncing boat.
I needed to concentrate on breathing and not throwing up.
He grew up on pleasure junks in Hong Kong,
swam competitively all his childhood,
a water rat comfortable in and on water.
I grew up waiting tables at my parents Chinese restaurant.
By the time I took my clothes off,
stepped into our private pool tiled
blue,
green,
aquamarine,
suspended above the ocean waves,
he handed me our things,
like a good husband.
My bras in drawers,
my spaghetti dresses hung,
our toiletries placed.
My space arranged.
The bathroom,
floor-to-ceiling windows,
looking over the Indian Ocean,
private,
a free-standing bathtub, bright, white by the window,
large enough for two like in Bali all those years ago.
We walked the suspended wooden planks back to shore.
Seafood dinner day one.
Day two I had bought us a holiday club membership,
upgraded us to a private villa on the other side of the island,
built on shoreline rocks above the waves.
Our babies one and two had stayed at home,
with their nanny.
It was just him and me.
My body slowly tightening again
after having had two babies in two years.
One arrived sooner we dared to hope.
The other unexpected and unannounced
until she was four and a half months nested in my womb.
I dropped contraception near our wedding,
planning it would take one or two years to get pregnant.
We conceived the first time.
My body miscarried.
Petra followed soon after.
Padme came the first night he was home from Canada after weeks away.
We dined like adults,
held fingertips,
flirted like lovers.
I showered for him
I showered with him
I showered him with my body.
I posed topless for his camera,
the blue of the sky meeting the blue of the ocean like a studio backdrop.
One arm held across my breasts, fingers touching my naked shoulder.
The other hand held behind my head,
elbow high above my head, or
held covering my waxed mound,
like it has always been since our beginning.
By the time we got back to Naladhu,
I had flown in from Hong Kong with babies one and two,
a few nights before he flew in from business in Hamburg.
The girls and I stayed in a modest villa near the beach.
Girl time, us collecting sea shells from the beach,
the waves, gentle lapping at my ankles.
The resort had a kids club to give me time alone.
No children.
No husband.
No watch on my wrist.
Only the alarm on my phone,
set for me to start walking to collect my cackle of girls.
For dinner.
For Nemo and Dory and cuddles in bed.
The morning of his arrival we moved to the same villa above the cliffs,
where he and I had stayed before.
We had carried his holiday wear with us,
prepared his space for him.
His raincoat and suit disappeared in the walk-in wardrobe,
replaced by
Bermudas blue and dark,
Flip-flops green neon bright one day, camouflage the next,
Rip Curl t-shirts hugging his lats.
Days passed with him swimming with his girls in their dolphin tails,
me sitting in a heavy wooden chair with thatched seat and backrest,
magazine in hand,
unable to read a single paragraph.
"Mommy watch me.“
"Mommy watch daddy.“
"Mommy did you see that?“
I’d let them swim until room service brought dinner.
Curries,
Rice,
Satays,
"Cumber"
"Ado"
Club Sandwiches,
Ice cold beers chilling in condensing wine buckets.
By the time they got out of the pool,
pool towels wrapped around my naked babies,
I’d have dinner served for them on a large round table overlooking the ocean
from our wooden deck.
Me lounging on the swinging daybed in the corner
watching my loud cackle of girls and him tuck in.
At night I’d tuck them all in
with hugs,
with kisses,
with tongue for him.
I'd wake up to flat whites and pancakes served in the bed,
kids back in the pool already.
The last time we were at Naladhu,
it was baby one’s 7th birthday.
I was big and full with baby three.
Michelle had given me permission to fly.
Cathay accepted her letter.
At Naladhu, my body stretched
to hold her,
to hold him,
to hold all of us.
I still posed naked for his camera,
just as I had ever,
since our first trip to Bali,
weeks after our first date.
I’ve been posing naked for him ever since,
in the nude with every baby I carried,
so each would have a photograph of their mother holding them.
My daughters watched their mother unbutton and drop her dress for his camera.
I had never been
so stretched,
so full,
so heavy.
By the time Michelle cut her from my womb,
baby three was 5.1 kg.
The nurses at Matilda said she was the biggest baby they had ever had,
and took her to intensive care,
for an infection and venous malformation on her right index finger.
In Naladhu he and I walked on the beach,
holding hands,
fingers intertwined,
me in a cotton dress sky-blue,
spaghetti straps,
breasts full,
womb fuller,
subluxation making each step wobble.
The kids at the kids’ club,
getting micro-braids
learning about turtles.
On the super king in our villa, the same since we first came here,
all four of us would cuddle,
watch TV,
baby three in my belly reminding me she was there.
At night the girls slept in their own bed by the window.
When they were fast asleep,
I’d slowly, softly, silently take what’s mine,
have him drop into deep sleep.
I’d drift off with my forehead tucked against his chest,
the room cold.
Half asleep at night,
he’d pull the duvet over my bare shoulders,
the kids dreaming across the room,
the moon full and round and perfect,
close enough to touch.
In the morning my girls were already splashing in the pool,
I’d let him sleep,
order breakfast.
The resort invited us on a sunset cocktail cruise on a gin palace.
We watched the sun drop behind the horizon,
the sky turning from orange to pink to purple.
By the time we returned to shore it was dark.
On board, we met a Portuguese couple,
working as consultants in Angola.
They praised the beaches in the Algarve,
yet said: "Nothing comes close to the Maldives!"
After living in Portugal for seven years,
we never made it to the Algarve,
always driving north to Biarritz instead.
This was the last holiday.
It was just us,
the original four:
me,
him,
and babies one and two,
then seven and six.
Back in Sai Kung,
we found our villa key in our luggage.
It still hangs on one of the doorknobs of the Chinese cabinet
in our dining room.
