The beach house was small, and further from the city than Miguel had thought it would be. But he had his own room for the first time ever, with a comfortable bed, a pillow, and a blanket without holes. All the worn, filthy clothes he had owned were gone now, replaced with new ones that actually fit. The food was the best he’d eaten in a long time, although he ate exactly what and when the old man in the room next to him ate, measured portions with no seconds. Still, he didn’t complain since the food was brought to him and the empty plates whisked away by the housekeeper, who also cleaned his room every day. He was careful not to say or do anything to upset the old man or the housekeeper in any way, afraid all this special treatment could be yanked away in an instant.
As the days went by he eventually realized he could never return to life on the streets, which only made him even more careful to behave. The only thing he really missed was visiting his mother in the rehab center, and when the weather was bad, he wondered how his friends were doing.
Miguel was certain of one thing, though—if they could see how he was living now, his mother would be as grateful as he was, and his friends would be both jealous and amazed.
No longer having to beg for coins to survive or be ever watchful for the police, he was finally free to enjoy himself. He found the beach particularly alluring. He would challenge the foaming surf, timing his charges towards the departing waves and retreating just as fast as they reared up and returned; sometimes he would win, sometimes his feet or legs got wet to his never-ending glee. He found a large rock he would climb up on and just lie back in the sun or stare far out across the ocean, wondering what could possibly be on the other side. Every now and then, the crashing waves would wash ashore some unusual piece of wood, gray and twisted in a way he found pleasing. He collected a few, along with the seashells that poked up out of the sand on those days when the surf had been unusually heavy and thunderous.
Since the man who brought him here—Doctor Carl Dorning, he finally learned—had encouraged him to start talking to the professor now that the old man was out of bed and feeling somewhat better, he decided one day to show the professor his burgeoning beach collection.
The only thing he was warned not to talk about to anyone was his mother and father. When he asked why, the doctor said the professor’s parents were dead and that any talk about parents always made the professor sad, so Miguel agreed not to say a word about them.
“Can I please eat lunch with the professor?” he asked the housekeeper one morning after working up the nerve.
Natalie seemed surprised by the suggestion. “I don’t see why not. You’re supposed to get to know him for some reason, aren’t you?”
Miguel nodded eagerly.
At lunchtime he followed Natalie into the professor’s bedroom, which had a stale smell his own room didn’t. Natalie skillfully wheeled the professor up to the folding wooden tray with his waiting meal and then brought in the boy’s identical meal on an identical tray. They ate in silence, side by side, until the professor finally seemed to notice with a start that he had company.
Finished, he put his fork down. “So. You must the one.”
Miguel sat up straight. “Yes, sir.”
Marlowe harrumphed and wiped his mouth. “Never thought of being Hispanic.”
“I’m Mexican,” Miguel said proudly. “But I was born here.”
“That either,” the professor said.
There was an awkward pause.
“I heard about your stitches,” the professor finally said. “Too bad.”
Miguel giggled then shrugged.
Marlowe turned and stared at the boy, leaning towards him for a closer look. “Why are your lips closed so tight? Is there something wrong with your mouth? Let’s see.”
The boy felt the professor’s dry, rough hands on his face. Miguel tentatively revealed his partially toothless grin, fervently hoping it wouldn’t mean the end of their agreement.
Marlowe laughed once, then withdrew from the boy. “So! Finally lost your last two baby teeth, did you? That’s all right. You’ll get your new ones soon enough.”
Miguel was astonished. “I will? You mean they all grow back?”
“Of course.” The professor stared at the boy again. “My God. Didn’t Dorning explain that to you when he gave you your physical?”
“No, sir. He ran lots of tests on me when I came here, but he never told me what any of them were for.”
Marlowe harrumphed again, then nodded sympathetically. “Typical for a doctor, I’m afraid. Well, you’re still here so all the results must have been just fine.” He lifted a glass of water towards his lips.
Miguel slumped a bit in relief. “Good. I was afraid . . .”
The professor paused with the glass near his mouth and looked sideways at the boy. “Afraid of what?”
Miguel was sorry he had started to say anything. “Afraid you wouldn’t let me stay here anymore.”
Marlowe took a drink. “Nonsense. You’re the right age and apparently healthy. After Dr. Dorning does his little procedure, you’ll be all set. All this,” he waved a hand, “such as it is, will be yours.”
Miguel gasped and looked around the cluttered room. “It will?”
“Of course. You’re my heir apparent. Didn’t you know that? That’s your reward for the inconvenience. And thanks to my textbooks, which are still quite popular, it’s a considerable amount.”
The boy didn’t understand. “Your hair? Like, on your head?”
“No, no. My heir, like a family member. The one who will inherit everything I own.”
“Don’t you have a family?” Miguel asked.
“Nope. I’ve outlived them all.”
“So I’m like . . . your son?”
The professor considered that. “According to Dr. Dorning, it’s even better. You’re going to be me.”
Miguel thought a moment. “How can two people share one brain? That doesn’t seem possible.”
Marlowe laughed once and set the glass down. “Well. Out of the mouths of babes. That’s exactly what I always thought.”
Miguel shifted uneasily. “So you don’t think Dr. Dorning’s plan is going to work?”
The professor paused. “No, not really. At least not the way the doctor thinks it will work. I’m afraid I don’t share his unbridled confidence. All his test results so far show very limited success. I just don’t see how he’s ever going to do any better than he has.”
Miguel was silent a few seconds. “Then, why am I here?”
“Because . . .” Marlowe’s voice dropped. “Because if you can retain even a few vague memories of how I used to be, and can share those memories with others for years to come, it will all be worthwhile. Worth every penny.”
Miguel slumped a bit further. “And you think that’s all that’s going to happen?”
The professor grinned but there was no joy in his expression. “My boy, you aren’t going to wake up and suddenly know astrophysics. That’s just not going to happen.”
“Will I at least be any smarter like Dr. Dorning said?’
The professor looked at the boy. Now his expression was one of amusement. “I think you’re already pretty smart. You asked some intelligent questions. With some schooling and some life experience, you’ll do just fine.”
Miguel looked down, feeling strangely disappointed. “But I wanted to be as smart as you.”
Marlowe laughed robustly, then sputtered a bit at the effort. “You and all my competitors. I mean colleagues, of course.” He gave a sly wink.
Miguel had another thought and gasped, surprised that he hadn’t considered it before. “Will anything bad happen to me if it doesn’t work?”
The professor emphatically shook his head. “Absolutely not. Either the procedure will work—to some small degree—or it won’t, and that’s it. I’ve read every single one of Dorning’s test results, even though he doesn’t think I care much for the details of his research. None of the subjects he’s experimented on have ever shown any ill effect whatsoever. If they had, if there was even the slightest doubt as to its safety, I would have put a stop to this immediately.” He sat back and shrugged. “Besides, he was a highly regarded neurosurgeon who had a substantial reputation, so I guess we should give him some credit for knowing what he’s doing.”
Miguel nodded, reassured.
Natalie came into the bedroom. “Are you two finished eating?”
Before either could answer, she yanked their nearly empty plates away.
“Good. You two can keep visiting but don’t tire the professor out, young man. He had quite a scare last week and needs his rest.” And she marched away with the dirty dishes.
Miguel remembered his beach collection, his reason for wanting to dine with the professor in the first place. “Would you like to see what I found outside on the beach?”
“Why, sure.”
Miguel ran to his room, pulled a box out from under his bed, and then raced with it back to the professor.
“See?” He proudly pulled out a piece of driftwood and handed it to the professor.
Marlowe grinned. “Why, it’s beautiful.” He held it up for a closer look.
“I’ve got more, and seashells too. Here.” He carefully poured out the contents of the box on to the professor’s tray.
The professor’s expression turned brighter still. “Wonderful, wonderful.” He picked up a shell, cradling it in the palm of his hand.
Miguel was pleased the professor liked his offerings and stood proudly with his arms folded on his chest. “I can get you more anytime you want,” he promised.
Marlowe carefully set the seashell down and buried his face in his hands. He began to sob—deep, wracking sobs that rocked the wheelchair.
“Thank you, thank you. They’re all just beautiful.”
Alarmed, Miguel couldn’t think of anything else to do but pat the professor on his spiny back to console him. “There, there,” he heard himself say.
The housekeeper appeared at the door and clamped her hands to her face. “What’s happening here? Are you all right, Professor?”
The professor looked up, tears running down the creases under his misty eyes. He turned his head to Miguel, who was still patting him kindly on the back.
“Just try to remember me,” Marlowe said plaintively. “Please, just . . . try to remember.”
Miguel stopped patting and took a step back. He balled his fists in sudden determination.
“I will. I swear, I will.”