Chapter 10: A New Day in Port Townsend
The dream was of water. Not the sea as I knew it, not the warm, bright blue that belonged to the islands I had only just left behind. This water was darker. It had no waves, no sun above it, no direction. It was simply there, all around me, heavy and still, as if it were not falling but waiting. Dark, warm, swallowing me whole in a silence that pulsed.
I woke with a gasp, my heart hammering against my ribs, the echo of that liquid darkness still clinging to my skin. Jason’s arm was slung heavy over my waist, his breath soft and regular against the back of my neck. The grey morning light seeped through the blinds of the guest room, outlining the stacked luggage that held our life.
My body felt different. Not just the baby, a solid, low presence, but internally. Sore in a deep, secret way. A pleasant, used ache between my legs that was a ghost of the merging and the pleasure. I lay perfectly still, listening to Jason breathe, feeling the warmth of him, and hating myself for the thought that immediately crystallized: Only twenty-two hours until my next appointment.
The guest room in Daryl and Olivia’s house was still bathed in the grey morning light. The pale glow of a rainy day filtered through the curtains, and for a brief moment everything looked unfamiliar: the low ceiling, the wooden walls, the suitcases in the corner of the room, waiting to be unpacked at some point. Our lives were packed into just a few suitcases and bags. Clothes. Documents. Things that had come with us from Manila and were now in a house on the other side of the world.
Jason was sleeping next to me, his arm draped over my hip. His breathing was steady, and that calmness was something I sometimes envied him for. Not because he had no worries. On the contrary. I knew how much weight was on his shoulders. But Jason had this special ability to wake up in the morning and get on with the day’s tasks as if they were simply a list of things to be ticked off.
I lay there for a while longer, listening to the house.
Old houses make different sounds to new ones. That was something I’d learnt in the few days I’d been here. They creak when the temperature changes. They make noises that you can’t quite place straight away. At night, I sometimes had the feeling that the building itself was still awake, whilst everyone inside was asleep.
But perhaps it was simply because everything was new to me.
The town. The house. The weather. Even the silence.
I carefully freed myself from his embrace, and his arm slid away from me with a sigh. The wooden floor was cold beneath my feet. In the bathroom, I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a woman who looked more tired than she felt. My hair was a mess, my eyes seemed darker than usual, and my face reminded me that the last few days had passed much more quickly than my mind could process. I bent to examine my underwear, a fresh pair from yesterday. Clean. No evidence. But when I sat on the toilet, a faint, milky trickle followed my urine. My body was still expelling him. I clenched my teeth, a flush of shame heating my chest. I cleaned myself meticulously, the cool water a temporary penance. After I finished I got dressed and lingered in front of the mirror for a moment longer.
My next appointment was tomorrow.
The thought didn’t come as a surprise. It had been lingering somewhere at the back of my mind all night, like a song whose tune you just couldn’t forget.
Just as I was heading into the kitchen, I realised that I hadn’t showered as I usually do. I’d washed myself thoroughly, mind you, but only with a cloth and my hands. It was almost as if I didn’t want to wash my gynaecologist off me, but rather to wash him off gently, whilst thinking about him and the way he performed his examinations.
By the time I padded into the kitchen, the smell of coffee and bacon was cut with the sharp scent of fresh paint. Daryl was on a step ladder, running a roller over a section of primed drywall. Olivia stood at the massive butcher block island, whisking eggs in a bowl. The radio played quiet folk music, a brittle counterpoint to the news anchor’s solemn updates on case numbers.
“Morning, Sarah!” Olivia chirped, her red hair a bright splash in the gloomy room. “Sleep okay? You want some tea? I’ve got ginger.”
“Tea would be lovely, thank you,” I said, my voice scratchy. I slid onto a stool, the baby giving a slow, rolling kick as I settled.
Jason came in, dressed in jeans and a faded flannel, his glasses perched on his head. He pressed a kiss to my temple. “Hey, you. You were restless.”
“Just the baby,” I murmured, accepting the mug Olivia handed me. The ginger steam scoured the inside of my nose.
“So,” Jason said, leaning against the counter next to me. “I’ve got some news, and I’ve already thought of something: my shift was supposed to start quite late this afternoon, so we’d only have had a bit of time here in town. But luckily, the company’s given me the day off today. That means we’ve got the whole day to ourselves. We should go to Seattle. Have a look at a few of the flats we’ve shortlisted online. And we can pop into the immigration office to see if we can get a head start on the paperwork.” He tried to smile. “Let’s make a day of it. Before everything gets locked down even more strictly.”
My mind snagged. Seattle. The whole day. It was a perfect, normal, husbandly plan. It felt like a trap.
“That’s a great idea,” Daryl said, dipping his roller. “Get a feel for the neighborhoods. Everything’s gonna feel weird for a while, best to know where you’re landing. You can take the Smart, of course. It's your all the time you are here.”
“I have my appointment tomorrow at ten,” I said, too quickly. The words hung in the air. I took a slow sip of tea to cover the stumble. “The doctor was very insistent on the schedule. For the… musculoskeletal therapy.”
Jason’s brow furrowed slightly. “Right. Okay. We’ll be back then. I mean tonight. So you can relax yourself and get ready for the next round. That’s fine.”
“It’s just… he said it’s crucial. For the delivery. To prevent… complications.” I heard myself layering the justification, using the clinical language Dr. Taylor had given me like a shield.
“Of course, my love. Your health and your body come first.” Jason rubbed my shoulder. His touch felt comforting and loving. He was already mentally mapping the drive, the logistics. I was another item on his list—a precious, fragile, complicated one.
Olivia scraped scrambled eggs onto plates. “It’s so good you found someone so thorough. I heard he’s the best. Agnes, his assistant, she’s lovely. Really knows her stuff.”
I bit my lip, feeling embarrassed and trying not to draw attention to myself. Olivia continues: "Agnes can be really helpful. She knows her stuff really well. It’s great that she helped you, even though she’s Daryl’s ex-wife and Daryl and Jason are best mates.’
Agnes, Agnes, Agnes. Her name made me flinch. I pictured her pale cleavage and that knowing smile. I wondered to myself whether she’d noticed what happened yesterday and, if so, whether she’d go round telling everyone that this Filipina, Jason’s new wife, lets herself be fucked from the very first encounter, from an OB-Gyn? “She seems capable,” I said matter-of-factly, trying to change the subject.
“Oh, she’s good. Even if she really annoys us – and Daryl in particular.” Olivia passed plates around. “Daryl, food’s up.”
Daryl climbed down, wiping his hands on a rag. “Yeah, she’s great with our daughter during switch-offs. Never any drama.” He sat next to Olivia, giving her a look of easy affection that made my chest ache.
Daryl climbed down and wiped his hands on a cloth. “Yes, whenever she drops our daughter off at the weekend, Elena always tells me all the nonsense Agnes has been up to and all the gossip she’s been spreading. She’s almost always arguing with me about how I bring up Elena, and plenty more besides, but you know her, Jason. Agnes is a brilliant nurse, but she’s also a bit of a character.” He sat down next to Olivia and gave her a look full of casual affection. I just thought: ‘Fake.’ Whenever he looked over at me, I had that feeling again that he was imagining me standing naked in front of him once more. As if I were back in the shower and he were catching me. But this time he wouldn’t walk away; he’d keep looking at me. And me? I’d let him enjoy the sight of my pregnant body – every curve.
But maybe I was just imagining it. Weird thoughts. So completely untrue, aren’t they? Aren’t they?
We ate in a semblance of normal conversation. They talked about the madness of panic-buying at the grocery store, the weird quiet of the marina, their hope to get the kitchen cabinets installed before supplies dried up. Jason chimed in with dry observations about his work-from-home setup. I nodded, I smiled, I pushed eggs around my plate.
But my mind was a locked room, and inside it, a film played on a loop. The cold glide of the probe. The shocking heat of his mouth. The obscene, powerful thrusts that had finally, finally unlocked a climax my own husband’s loving, careful touch never had. The memory wasn’t just visual; it was a full-body recall. The soreness between my legs throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I felt a treacherous drop of warmth, a phantom echo of his release. I shifted on the stool.
“You okay?” Jason asked, his hand on my knee.
“Just a kick,” I lied, placing my hand on my belly. “A strong one.”
His face softened, the stress lines easing for a moment. “Really? I never get to feel them.” There was a wistful note in his voice, a loneliness that mirrored my own but stemmed from a completely different place.
“Later,” I promised, the lie smooth as oil. “When we’re in the car, maybe.”
The drive to Seattle was a tunnel of grey. Fog gave way to a dismal, persistent drizzle. Jason talked, his voice a comfortable monotone about interest rates, rental agreements, health insurance loopholes. I watched the evergreens blur past, their darkness seeping into the day.
My phone buzzed in my purse. A text from an unknown number.
“Good morning, Sarah. This is Agnes confirming your appointment tomorrow at 10 AM for your comprehensive therapy session. Please arrive hydrated. Dr. Taylor is looking forward to seeing you.”
The formal language did nothing to mask the subtext. He is looking forward to seeing you. I stared at the words until they dissolved into meaningless shapes. I felt a flutter, low in my belly. Anticipation. Sharp and bright and filthy.
“Everything okay?” Jason asked.
“Just a reminder from Agnes for my next appointment,” I said, my voice barely a whisper against the swish of the windshield wipers.
We looked at two apartments. The first was a glossy downtown box with a view of Puget Sound and a rent that made Jason go quiet. The second was a basement unit in a older house, smelling of damp carpet and regret. “It’s temporary,” Jason kept saying, a mantra. “Just until the baby comes and we get our bearings.”
I stood in the middle of the damp living room, picturing a crib by the single, high window. A place to bring my child home to. A place where I would lie next to Jason at night, my body humming with the memory of another man’s touch. The duality was dizzying. I felt split, a fracture running right down the middle of my soul.
The immigration office was a lesson in subdued chaos. Lines of anxious people, spaced apart, masks already mandatory visibly appearing on faces. The clerk was harassed but kind, taking our thick folder with a sigh. “Processing is slowing down,” she said, not unkindly. “Everything’s slowing down. We’ll be in touch.”
Back in the car, the silence was heavy. Jason gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. “It’s going to be okay,” he said, to himself or to me, I couldn’t tell. “We just have to hold it together. I’ll hold it together.”
I reached over and placed my hand on his forearm, feeling the tense muscle beneath the flannel. “I know you will.” And I meant it. His responsibility, his weary determination, was the bedrock of our life. Therefore, I Iove Jason so much. Eventhough, I would share my pregnant twat with my OB-Gyn and enjoy it.
Jason turned his hand and laced his fingers with mine. It was a simple, married gesture. I was already thinking how lucky I am. I wouldn’t have to demand or beg my husband for sex so often anymore, which would take the pressure off him.
We stopped for takeout on the way back to Port Townsend, eating soggy sandwiches in the car as the rain picked up. The headlights carved our path through the deepening twilight.
“So tomorrow,” Jason said, crumbs on his lap. “The appointment’s at ten. How long do you think it’ll be?”
“He said the first few are longer. For the… full assessment. Maybe two hours?” I invented the number, my pulse quickening.
“Two hours for physical therapy? Jeez. Must be some treatment.”
“It’s very specialized,” I said, repeating the phrase like a catechism.
“Okay. I’ll drop you off. I will look for a few things for our new apartment, we still don't have. Do you want me to pick you up?”
Panic, sudden and cold. No. The thought was absolute. I could not have him waiting, could not emerge from that clinic, my body softened and secret-filled, and climb straight into our car.
“Yes, but I will text you, when I'm done,” I said, forcing lightness. “Agnes said they have a comfortable recovery lounge. He wants patients to rest afterward, not rush out. I’ll just call or send you a message when I’m done. No sense in you wasting your whole morning.”
He glanced at me, a flicker of something in his blue-grey eyes—concern, or maybe just fatigue. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure..” I smiled at him, hoping it looked like wifely consideration and not the desperate maneuver it was. He was too tired to argue. “Alright. If you’re sure.”
When we got back to the house, Daryl and Olivia were watching a movie, the glow of the television painting their faces blue. We exchanged quiet goodnights. In the guest bathroom, I brushed my teeth, avoiding my own eyes in the mirror.
In bed, Jason curled around me, his body a warm question against my back. He nuzzled my hair. “Love you, Sarah,” he mumbled, already half asleep.
“Love you too,” I whispered into the dark.
He fell asleep quickly, his breaths deepening. I lay awake, rigid, feeling the baby turn and press. My hand drifted down, over the swell of my stomach, to the junction of my thighs. I didn’t press. I just rested my fingers there, over my pajama bottoms, feeling the heat of my own body, the persistent, guilty ache.
My mind was no longer a locked room. It was a schedule. A map. Tomorrow, 10 AM. The white room. The antiseptic smell. His hands, his calm voice, his confident, aging body. The things he would do to me, for me, with me, in the name of therapy.
Outside, the rain picked up, tapping a frantic code against the window. I listened to it, and to Jason’s breathing, and to the twin beats of my heart and my conscience, out of sync, pounding toward tomorrow.
The thought was a splinter I couldn’t dislodge: would he still want me? Yesterday I was new, a surprise, a tight, pregnant cunt he’d conquered. But tomorrow? I was just a patient again. Would my swollen body, my stretch marks, my ordinary pussy be enough for a man like that? My hand slipped under the waistband of my pajamas, fingertips finding my pubic hair. It was trimmed, for him, but it felt coarse. Wrong. A barrier. He should see everything. I should be completely bare, completely clean, like a gift presented without wrapping.
I had to be smooth. For him.
I waited until Jason’s breathing reached the deep, even rhythm of profound sleep. Then I slid from the bed, the cold air biting my skin. I found my smartphone and padded silently across the creaking floor to the bathroom, shutting the door with a click that sounded like a gunshot in the silent house. I didn’t turn on the overhead light. Instead, I flicked on the smaller vanity lights, which cast a stark, intimate glow.
In the mirror, I looked like a stranger. My pregnancy was full and round, my breasts heavy and veined. I saw the beauty in the curve, the life, but all I could focus on was the dark thatch of hair at the junction of my thighs. It felt obscene. I undressed slowly, letting the pajamas pool at my feet. I ran my hands over my belly, my hips, my breasts. I saw the woman Dr. Taylor had fucked. I wanted to see her again.
The idea came with a jolt of electricity. I would film it. For me. Maybe, in some insane corner of my mind, for someone else. I set my phone on the edge of the sink, propping it against a toothpaste tube, angling it to capture my naked body from the belly down. I tapped record. The red light blinked. A witness.
I took Olivia’s razor out of the shower basket – a simple ladies’ razor. I could see that there were still fine dark hairs caught between the blades. It was so strange. I used our hostess’s razor, with her pubic hair still stuck to it, to shave my hairy pussy straight away. It was kind of tingly and also completely mad, to the point where it felt like there was nothing more embarrassing or kinky. But was that really the case? I felt a slight dampness between my legs.
I lathered my pubic area with a thick cream, the white foam swallowing the dark hair. My heart was pounding. The first touch of the razor to my skin was cold and sharp. I pulled the skin taut with one hand and began with slow, careful strokes at the top, clearing the mound. The sound was a gritty whisper. Curly black hairs gathered in the blade, clogging it. I rinsed it under the tap, watching the dark swirl disappear down the drain.
I worked methodically, obsessively. I bent one leg onto the closed toilet lid, opening myself to the mirror and the camera’s unblinking eye. I shaved the outer lips, pulling them gently to get every follicle. The sensation was intensely vulnerable, the cool air on newly bared skin making me shiver. I parted my inner lips, shaving the more delicate skin there with tiny, precise strokes, terrified of cutting myself but driven by the need for absolute bareness. When I was done, I rinsed thoroughly, patting myself dry with a towel.
I stood before the mirror again, one hand spreading myself open. I was completely hairless. The skin was pink, slightly swollen from the attention, utterly exposed. My pussy looked different. Younger. More vulnerable. More like something meant to be used. A slick pulse of heat answered the thought. I left the phone recording.
My fingers, which had been clinical during the shaving, now took on a different purpose. They trailed down from my stomach, through the smooth valley, finding my slit. I was already wet. The thought of his eyes on this new bareness, of his fingers or his mouth or his cock exploring this sensitive, shaved skin, made my knees weak. I leaned back against the sink for support.
I started slow, two fingers just circling my clit, which was already hard and eager. A low gasp escaped my lips. I bit down on the other to silence it. The images came unbidden: Dr. Taylor’s bald head between my thighs, his aged mouth on my fresh, clean pussy. The memory of the probe, but replaced with his tongue. I pushed one finger inside myself, then a second. My own tightness was a poor imitation of his thick cock, but my mind supplied the stretch, the brutal fullness.
“Fuck,” I breathed into the silent, steamy room. I worked my fingers in and out, the sound obscenely wet. I thought of his hands on my hips, his voice telling me what a good patient I was, how well I took him. My thumb pressed hard on my clit, rubbing in frantic circles. My breathing became ragged, desperate little puffs of air. I fucked myself faster with my fingers, imagining it was him, that he was here, that he was making me come on his hand before he even took his pants off.
“Oh Doctor, yes,” I moaned, the words a shattered whisper. My hips bucked against my own hand. The climax built not as a wave but as a sudden, violent detonation. It ripped through me, a silent scream tightening my throat, my back arching off the sink. My vagina clenched around my digging fingers, pulses of raw pleasure radiating out until my thighs shook. I stayed like that for a long moment, panting, watching the frantic woman in the mirror come down.
I stopped the recording. The file was saved. A testament. I cleaned myself up, wiped the sink, put the razor back exactly as I found it. In the mirror, my face was flushed, my eyes dark and sated. The smoothness between my legs was a secret, a preparation. Tomorrow, he would see. He would touch. The doubt was gone, burned away by the proof of my own desperate need. I slipped back into bed beside Jason, my body humming, my skin carrying the faint, clean scent of aloe and my own excitement. The rain had stopped. The only sound was the wind, and the relentless forward march of time until ten a.m.