Chapter Text
CHAPTER 1
The realization that my mother was dying only hit me when I saw her lying in a hospital bed. But in a way, my mom was already gone. She was a strong woman, her arms toned from hard manual labor. But as she lay in the hospital bed, all I saw was a frail old woman. Her skin was ashy grey, matching the color of her lips. She spoke to the ceiling, mouthing inaudible gibberish. Was she trying to tell me something? Did she even know I was here? The woman I'm looking at is not my mother; it's almost as though my brain didn't want me to accept the truth. I am the only one left. It's just me now.
After my mother's funeral 2 months ago, there was nothing left for me there. Nothing tying me down to that town. So I left.
The navigation system says 10 minutes until I reach my destination, but I'm still driving in the middle of nowhere. Jesus, maybe I shouldn't have done this after all. I took the first job that hired me out of state. Green Township, Ohio, sounded like the perfect place I'd never heard of. I got a job just 20 minutes away from my new place at the University of Cincinnati. Their forest science professor just quit 2 weeks before the school year started, so this works out perfectly for me.
I rub my finger over the part of my steering wheel where the material was scraped off. It happened one night when I was drunk and thought I was shoving my keys in the ignition, but actually shoved them into the steering wheel. Don't linger on my questionable driving choices; I've had a rough few months.
As I pull up to what will be my new home, I am greeted with an unsavory-looking building. “What, this can't be the correct place? Did I put in the wrong address?” I say doubtfully. “Nope, this is it.” I guess this is what I get for only looking at the online photos before signing a 12-month lease. My mother always used to say, “If something seems too good to be true, than its not true.” I guess she was right.
My landlord sent me a text, “Hey Clayton! Sorry, I couldn't make it to introduce you to your new home. Your room is on the 3rd floor, 3 doors from the elevator, the key is under the mat.”
Great, the landlord is a blowoff.
My apartment is exactly how you would imagine it to look after seeing the outside. 3 rooms: a living room and kitchen connected, a bedroom, and a bathroom. To my relief, there was no lingering musty smell, even if there were some questionable drips of a mystery substance coming from the ceiling, traveling down the walls. Before unpacking, I take the time to explore and am pleasantly surprised to see a comfortable-looking queen-sized bed in the bedroom. Lying on it didn't disappoint either. The mattress is perfect, not too firm but not too soft.
I don't remember drifting off to sleep, but I guess here I am looking at a clock that says 3:00 am. Great, now my sleep schedule is fucked. The dress shirt I fell asleep in is now half untucked and severely wrinkled. Why did I wake up, though? I usually sleep through the night easily. My question is answered by something moving under my duvet. I freeze and stare at the movement for 30 secs my body deciding between flight or fight. What could it be? A cockroach? I fucking hate cockroaches. Apparently, I chose to fight as I fling my duvet off the bed, I see a fucking rat.. The rat is thrown across the room from the duvet being moved so aggressively, Nevermind i choose flight. I bounded out of my room, holding back a scream so as not to get a noise complaint on the first night.
The biology building is in the center of campus, although I don't mind because I get to explore on my way. The building has the words “UC Biosciences Center” on top. Its made up of brown brick and the building is bent into different dull shapes, giving it a modern look. I almost feel underqualified to be here. It's a lot nicer than the last school I worked for. I mean, I am only 35, what if I am just a last-minute replacement? I sigh, I attempt to walk forward, but my feet but they dont want to budge. My palms are sweating so much that I have to wipe them on my shirt. I find myself running through my mental checklist one more time before I go in: bag, ID, phone, briefcase, room numbe.. What's my room number.?!?.. “Shit,” I sigh and rub my face, accidentally transferring my sweat from my palm to my face in the process.
“Exsusme?” I spin around and see a tall, thin man with olive skin and brown shaggy hair behind me
“Yes?” I respond, confused at what this man could possibly want. “Are you the new forest science teacher? Cl-?” he cuts himself off abruptly “You look a bit lost.” he grins almost a bit to much “oh. Uh, yeah. I guess I am a bit lost”. He grabs my shoulder and ushers me inside.
“I'm the professor for Medical Microbiology and Bacteriology! Do you know what that is?” “I think I–” “it's the scientific study of pathogenic bacteria that are significant factors in causing or facilitating human disease. I've been here for 5 years, so I know this place pretty well. Just follow me down this hallway to our left, and we will be there. I'm pretty sure our rooms are right next to each other, so we will be neighbors.” Man, this guy sure does talk a lot, and he's still touching my shoulder. Sure enough, we are in fact “neighbors,” but I'm not sure I'm as excited about it as he is. “Oh, I didn't even introduce myself.” It's almost as if the realization sent a jolt of electricity through his body. “My name is Jean Eaton, but please just call me Jean.” He's standing uncomfortably close to me. “May I ask your name?” I take way too long of a pause, lost in thinking how uncomfortable I am. “Oh, right. My name is Clayton Pearson.” “Well, Clayton, I think we will be good friends.” God, I hope not…
About 10 minutes later, I finally find a way to escape into my room after being held captive by Jean. Jean tried to pressure me into letting him help me set up my room, but I repeatedly declined every request until he gave up. After I set down my briefcase, I take a moment to observe my surroundings.Since forest science is a more niche major, my classroom size will only be about 20 students per period, to be honest, I prefer it that way, though. My classroom has an auditorium-style setup, although there are only 4 rows from the front to the back of the room. The front of the classroom has a pull-down projector screen with a whiteboard stained with residue of green marker ink. I am relieved I don't have a chalkboard because I always get the intrusive thought to drag my nails on it, and sometimes I end up giving in. I had one in my last classroom. Every time after a bad lecture, I would make myself drag my nails along the blackboard. The recoil it gave me almost reset my mind in a way. It was a distraction.
What should I do now? Should I have more things to prepare? I’m pretty much ready for class.
I grab my briefcase, discovering it has a sticky handle from my palm sweat. As I exit my room, I see the door across from mine is labeled “plant genetics ” with a name plaque labeld “proffester strobel”. That’s the education major I almost went into before forest science stole my heart. The professor probably wouldn’t mind if I took a peek inside, right?
I find myself testing the knob to see if it’s unlocked. It unlatches, allowing me to swing it open, unveiling a nearly identical classroom to mine. The same umber walls and dusky grey carpet, except for the immense ink stain beside the professor's desk. Genotype environment interaction effects in multi-environment model research papers cloaked the desk. I slowly strole over to the desk intrigued by the professor's findings. As I pick up a paper labeled disease-resistant cultivars must be developed through multi-environment replicated field experiments. My hand is coated in a dark blue liquid that is coating the back of the paper. “What the hell?” The liquid has an overwhelming metallic chemical smell. I lift up the other papers to find a cracked pen spilling its ink onto the desk and papers surrounding it. Was this because of me?
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my room?” a voice sternly says behind me
“Shit,” I whisper under my breath
“Why are you doing touching my documents?”
I whip around, feeling like an animal caught in a trap. “Oh. uh hi- uh sorry. I was just- uhm,” I pause, scanning my mind on what the best way to phrase my explanation on why I was looking through papers on a stranger's desk. “I'm the new forest science teacher next door, and I guess I'll let my curiosity get the best of me. I did some plant genetics research in college and wanted to see if I could find anything interesting in here.” The man standing in the door has a white button-up shirt splattered with blue ink. His hands are also blotched inconsistently with the dark liquid. He stands still in the doorway, attempting to analyze if I'm lying or not. His brows furrow, making the soft wrinkles on his forehead more defined. “You said forest science?” he gives an expression I can't read. “Yes?” “Can you help me with something?” he saunters past me at a brisk pace to the back of the room. Sitting on the window is a clear glass box with UV lights pointing at the soil. Protruding out of the dirt about half the height of the box are white flowers. Each flower has 3 white petals.
“Do you know what these are?”
Of course, I know what those are. They are white Trilliums, but those look more like brown trilliums in the state they are in.
“Why do you have trilliums?”
“I'm trying to research their genetic diversity by collecting healthy leaf and petal samples. But they keep dying, I have tried everything. I've changed the UV frequency, researched and changed how much I water them, changed where I put them, I've pumped this tank full of H202 , but nothing works!!” wow hes really getting heated about this
“Why are you using loamy soil? Trilliums can only last in laden soil,” he looks at me, confused
“But the website said...” “the website says they can grow in loamy soil if they have been in that soil since seedlings, but since you purchased these, they can't survive like that.” he looks defeated, and I almost feel bad for him. “I see,” he says, “Hey, why don't I give you my number so you can text me if you have any more questions?” I start writing it on a heavily stained research paper and tear off the part dripping with ink.
By the time I get home, Jean has already requested me on Facebook. The thought of declining seemed rude, but the thought of accepting did not seem appealing either, so I let it sit in my inbox, hoping it will just disappear at some point.