9. Inheritance Patterns
INHERITANCE PATTERNS
*Samantha*
T he next morning, I woke up on the blue corduroy sofa in the apartment’s family room and I had zero recollection of how I got there.
But I’d had that dream again, the one where Andreas and I were building a banket and pillow fort and we’d turned into adult versions of ourselves. But instead of asking me to marry him, this time Andreas had told me he’d already adopted me. And then right after saying the words, he’d died.
Last thing I remembered before falling asleep last night, I’d been on my bed reading an article about ancient microbiome DNA.
I’d been wearing a sleep shirt, undies, and nothing else.
Now, I was in jeans and a backward, inside-out T-shirt, sitting on the couch, covered in a chunky fleece blanket that smelled like citrus and old bagels, and someone—probably Diya—had set a glass of water and two ibuprofen on the coffee table in front of me.
I reached for the water, my hand trembling a little, and chugged half the glass before the first wave of disorientation passed. My mouth tasted sour. My arms and legs felt like they’d been disconnected and reattached. I squinted at the clock on the wall: 5:32 AM.
Sleepwalking. Again. I didn’t want to think about it, but my brain, like a bad roommate, always ignored closed doors and boundaries.
Instead, it replayed last night’s series of decisions, starting with the walk home from Kaitlyn’s, followed by the usual ritual of brushing my teeth, setting my alarm, etc.
This time, there’d been an addition to the ritual.
Sitting on the edge of my bed for a solid forty minutes, staring at my phone and hovering over Andreas’s number, willing myself to call and agree to his scheme.
I never did call him. I fell asleep on my bed and now I was here.
Standing, and ignoring the twin protests from my spine and my sense of mental stability, I shuffled to the kitchen for more water. I heard the hiss of the shower from the hall bath and figured Nakita was gearing up for an early shift. I didn’t know where Kendra or Diya were, however.
My backpack was on the floor by the front door, right where I’d left it last night.
I shouldered it, poured another glass of water, and—after a moment’s debate—went to my room and grabbed the towel and shower caddy from my closet, placing them in a duffel bag.
I had a huge task list today and I couldn’t afford to allow myself to freak out about the troubling reemergence of my sleepwalking.
I simply need ? —
I needed to start taking better care of myself and avoiding anything in my life that caused stress. And maybe ... maybe my subconscious knew the right answer before the rest of me did.
* * *
Mostly jogging to work, I made a beeline for the women’s locker room. Once there, I showered, scrubbing my skin with more aggression than usual. I tried to lather off all the weirdness and disruption of the last few weeks, tried to wash away the greasy film of sleep deprivation and bad memories.
For once, I used the fancy pomegranate shampoo Diya had given me for my birthday. I shaved my legs, even though it was November and nobody would be seeing them, not even me. I also exfoliated, which I hadn’t done since law school.
After drying off, I spent a long moment in front of the mirror, examining my reflection the way a pathologist might examine a suspicious cell line. The usual pale skin, brown hair pulled into a wet bun, blue-gray eyes underscored by dark circles.
I put on the clean underwear set I kept in my locker for emergencies, then my scrubs and lab coat.
I even dabbed on a little concealer and mascara since I wouldn’t be running any samples in the secure lab today.
The makeup made my eyes pop but also hid the dark circles.
For the first time in months, I felt a flicker of actual, non-caffeine alertness.
The cotton pants were too short at the ankles, and the shirt was a touch too baggy, but at least I looked and smelled like a functioning human.
I walked the length of the building’s main corridor, my sneakers squeaking on the linoleum.
My plan was to call Andreas before I got sucked into spreadsheets.
I’d decided this in the shower, the same way I sometimes convinced myself to go to spin class.
I always seemed to make my most responsible choices while taking a shower, as though good-decision inertia buoyed my motivation and self-control, especially when it came to doing something difficult.
The plan was to call, say, “Thanks, but no thanks,” and then block Andreas’s number and hope we never ran into each other ever again.
Or at the very least, tell Andreas that, after careful consideration, I’d decided to let the past stay in the past and focus on my future. And then block his number and hope we never ran into each other ever again.
No matter how airtight the legal strategy, no matter how delicious the revenge, no matter how badly I wanted my father’s company, I’d spent the last ten years, since I’d turned eighteen, trying to put my past behind me.
Turning down the adoption meant I would truly and finally let it all go.
If I didn’t let it go now, once and for all, then I feared I’d continue to sleepwalk; I’d continue simmering in hurt, disappointment, and anger; I’d allow an obsession in the past to ruin my present and future.
Plus, to a much lesser extent, I couldn’t come to terms with the visceral wrongness of Andreas adopting me and me being tied to him forever.
There was no denying my attraction to him in the present.
And, I finally admitted, there was no denying that a younger version of me had deeply loved and cared for a younger version of him.
That was enough reason to put an end to this. I didn’t want to be tied to anyone. Ever.
Silly? Maybe. But also facts. Moreover, my sleepwalking agreed with me. My subconscious thought it was a bad idea and there was no arguing with one’s subconscious.
I turned into the hallway that led to my cubicle, intending to find a quiet corner to make the call. Instead, my phone buzzed with a new text. Not from Andreas.
It was from Dr. Hauser, my PI. I stopped in my tracks, thumb hovering over the screen. The message was terse, even for her.
Dr. Hauser : Please see me in my office when you arrive.
My first thought, she wanted to discuss my latest sequencing run. Maybe there was a problem with the dataset?
I squared my shoulders, made a U-turn, and walked to her office. The door was half open, as usual. Inside, Dr. Hauser sat at her desk, typing on her laptop. She wore her hair in a tight French braid and her glasses on a chain around her neck. She looked up as I entered.
“Sam,” she said, and gestured to the chair opposite her.
I sat.
She closed her laptop, folded her hands, and looked at me with the steady, intelligent gaze that made her both a brilliant scientist and an intimidating mentor.
I’d known her for almost four years now, and in that time I’d never seen her hesitate to do the right thing or take responsibility for a mistake.
She was the only person in the department I respected without reservation.
“Is everything okay?” I asked, hoping to get the bad news out of the way first.
She nodded, but her lips pressed into a line. “Sam, I want you to know that I fought for you. I did everything I could.”
My heart, already unsettled, performed a backflip. “Fought for me?”
Dr. Hauser sighed. “I’m so sorry to tell you this, but I was informed yesterday afternoon that all my funding for your two part-time positions has been suspended, effective immediately.”
For a moment, her words didn’t parse. They hit my brain like a virus, searching for a receptor dock.
When they finally connected, I said, “But—but—why? What happened?”
She leaned back, glasses dangling from the chain, her fingers steepled. “I have no idea. The dean called and said it was temporary, just for the next six months, but that he couldn’t give me any other information. The foundation account for my lab is under review.”
“That makes no sense,” I sputtered. “You’re the top grant recipient in the department. You bring in more money than the next three PIs combined.”
She shrugged, a sharp, angry motion. “Apparently not for the next six months.” She paused, then added, “I’m not the only one. It’s department-wide, but for some reason, they targeted my lab and two others first. The other two PIs have tenure. I do not.”
I stared at her. “So ... I’m out?”
“No, not exactly.” She picked up a folder from the edge of her desk and slid it toward me. “Don’t worry. I’ve spoken with James, and he’s agreed to take over your position. You might be aware, but his postdoc just left. He was happy to step in and help.”
I picked up the folder, but my fingers barely worked. “James Nieminen?”
“Yes. He’s the only one with private funding who can take you on without a gap. He’ll get you the hours you need, and he’s agreed to let you continue your research as a side project, provided you help with his upcoming publication deadlines.”
My jaw clenched. I wanted to scream. Of course.
Instead, I said, “Will I continue to report to you?”
“Unfortunately, no. Dr. Nieminen will be your PI for the time being. He’ll need to have you do some work on his projects to justify the funding for his position, but it’ll only be half the hours.
I’m so sorry. If you need to get another part-time job elsewhere, this will likely delay your dissertation until my funding is restored unless you can find the extra hours somewhere else in the department.
I wish I could explain what happened, but it honestly seems like a major donor or alumni must’ve called and requested an internal review, something like that.
I’ve only seen this happen once before.”
“I understand,” I croaked, confusion giving way to cold certainty, because I did understand. I understood perfectly.
Tobias Kristiansen.