American Panda(13)
I shoved the hand scrubs into my bag and hopped off the table. “No thanks. You’d probably tell me I’m pregnant.”
“Then you need a test. If you’re pregnant, we can help you. There are people you can talk to.”
Grabbing my clothes in a huff, I stormed out in just my gown, my inner volcano—aka Lu-suvius—bubbling ominously.
Across the hall, I pushed the bathroom door open. And there, crouched over the toilet, her arm disappearing into the hole, was a slim Asian female in a white coat.
“What the hell?” I took a second to compose myself, then said, “May I ask why you’re fishing for poo?” I desperately wished this wasn’t something I’d have to do in the future as a doctor. Was this really the best way to retrieve bowel samples? Just the thought made me need to bend over the toilet myself.
“I dropped gauze in here,” she said in a you’re-clueless tone.
“Are you kidding me? Just flush it.”
She regarded me as the weird one just as a nitrile-gloved hand emerged with the evil gauze. “I can’t do that. It’ll clog the toilet.”
“How is that any different from toilet paper? And don’t you regularly flush much larger things? If not, we really must write the author of Everyone Poops. They’ll have to rename it Everyone Poops . . . Except?”—I glanced at her name tag—“Dr. Chang.”
She dumped her gloves in the biohazard bin. “Huh. You’re right. I never thought about that. Maybe that’s why the janitor stopped responding to my emails about retrieving stuff from the toilets. It’s just that, my parents always told me anything foreign in the toilet would clog it, including tissues, cotton swabs, gauze. . . .” Her voice trailed off.
I waited for her to say something else, something that would clarify things a little more, but she just walked past me, completely silent, her head lowered and shoulders hunched. Since I knew that level of embarrassment intimately, I let her pass without meeting her eyes.
After changing and leaving the flimsy robe in a heap on the floor, I slunk home, a spitting image of the mysterious Dr. Chang.
Voicemail from my mother
Mei! I heard from Mrs. Ahn who heard from Mrs. Lin that Ying-Na just got her third sexual disease. Glad you will never have to worry about this. Focus on studies, not boys. Because you have Eugene. Well, if you nab him soon. Call your mǔqīn so we can set that up. Remember, only cats, no pandas.
CHAPTER 6
FUTURE MEI
TWO FLIMSY ROBES IN ONE week.
“Dr. C. will be right in to see you,” the nurse said, flashing me a smile before she closed the door. Well, this appointment was already looking better. As was my rash, though it hadn’t totally disappeared yet.
There was a timid knock at the door, so quiet I barely heard it.
My eyes widened when I saw the gynecologist, who pushed her glasses to the bridge of her nose, then stuck a limp hand out. I was still frozen as she said, “Chang. Dr. Chang. Tina Chang. No, just Dr. Chang. But, um, I guess you knew that.”
Apparently her posture the other night hadn’t been from humiliation; even now, as the authority figure, she was the epitome of subservience, hunching so much she appeared to be trying to hide herself. Or maybe she was thinking about how I had caught her with her hand in the toilet.
She was all business, no conversation—surprise, surprise—and immediately following the introduction, she pushed my gown aside. My leg muscles tensed instinctively, but the damn stirrups kept them in place even after Dr. Chang wheeled over a giant magnifying glass.
Diagnosis: allergic reaction. Embarrassment level: as high as when my mother talks about her period in public.
But despite the mortification, I relaxed because the Mǎmá Lu in my head had finally stopped chattering. Up until now, it had been a nonstop stream of: Eugene does not want a wife with herpes. How will I ever marry you off now? I told you not to sit on public toilet seats.
As Dr. Chang rattled off a list of potential sources—new lotion, perfume, body wash—I shook my head repeatedly while trying to puzzle out the answer myself. After running through a mental list of yesterday’s events, it hit me. “I never washed my new jeans before wearing them,” I told her.
Dr. Chang delivered a monotone rundown of the treatment—apply over-the-counter hydrocortisone cream and wash the contaminated pants—followed by, “Questions?” in a tone that implied no questions allowed.
Ignoring her obvious desire to wrap up, I asked, “Do you like it? Being a doctor? I’m premed.”
“Yes. Being a doctor is a great job. Respectable. Stable.”
I examined her in a new light, the future version of myself. “But how do you like it?”
“It’s great.” Her tone remained flat, same as all her other sentences, making it impossible for me to interpret her true feelings. She could’ve been ecstatic or miserable or anywhere in between.
She stuck a palm out, signaling an end to the conversation.
Desperate for answers, I extended the handshake longer than allowed by societal norms. “Did your parents pressure you to be a doctor?” She tried to pull away, but I tightened my grip, crossing into freak territory. “Are you happy? Is there something else you wanted to do more? Please. Just those questions.”
She sighed, giving in. “I liked math, but there are no job prospects with that.” Mustering all her oomph, she yanked her hand free in one aggressive swoop, then left, again with no good-bye.