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Miguel woke slowly. He blinked to clear his blurry vision then saw the doctor standing next to him. He realized they were back at the beach house, only he wasn’t in his own bed; for some reason, he was in the professor’s. Behind the doctor was the housekeeper, Natalie. The doctor looked pleased; Natalie looked as if she had been crying for hours, her eyes heavily red-veined.
The boy felt groggy, like from too many rides on a roller coaster, and his head hurt—a careful examination with his right hand revealed a second bandage on the top of his head, behind a smaller bandage covering the wound where his stitches had been.
He tried to speak but could barely make a sound.
The doctor smiled. “Take your time, young man. You have all the time in the world.”
Miguel tried again. “Water,” he finally managed to say.
The doctor turned to Natalie. “Get him some. Cool, not cold. And only a little for now. I don’t want him to vomit.”
She did as she was told and handed the doctor a small, half-filled glass.
He brought the glass down to Miguel’s waiting lips.
“Can you sit up? Sorry, the bed isn’t adjustable. I thought about moving a regular hospital bed in here but decided it would be best not to change the professor’s room. I want everything to be as familiar as possible. Here, I’ll help you.”
Miguel struggled to rise, finally settling instead for merely lifting his aching head to accept the water.
“You lied to me,” he whispered hoarsely to the doctor. “It does hurt.”
“Oh?” The doctor came closer, looking genuinely concerned. “It shouldn’t, really. I thoroughly numbed the entire area so it wouldn’t. I’m afraid I can’t give you any painkillers. They might interfere with your recovery. The only medications you must take for a while are the antibiotics I obtained. How does it hurt exactly?”
Miguel struggled to find the words to describe his discomfort. “Well, my head feels . . . I don’t know . . . full, I guess. Like a balloon.” He thought of the steel cylinders back at the doctor’s house and wondered if they had anything to do with how he felt.
The doctor’s eyebrows went up. “Really? Interesting, interesting.” He grabbed a notebook out of his briefcase by his feet, hastily jotted down a few words. “You know, it might be beneficial to keep a daily journal about your recovery.” He rubbed his chin as he stared at the notebook. “Yes, this could have some future scientific and historical value.”
“So the professor . . .” Miguel didn’t dare say it.
The doctor looked indifferent as he slipped the notebook back into the briefcase “Yes. I’m afraid he expired.”
Natalie sobbed once then covered her mouth.
Miguel nodded. “So I’ll be as smart as him now?”
The doctor gave a quick, furtive glance back at the grieving housekeeper. “Let’s not talk about that right now. Just rest, and in a day or two you’ll be up and about, feeling just fine.”
Miguel nodded again and settled back on the professor’s pillow.
The doctor smiled brightly again. “Rest now. Rest.” He picked up his briefcase and took the still weepy Natalie gently by the arm to usher her out of the room. “Remember, you have all the time in the world. All the time in the world.”
The boy closed his eyes and drifted back into a deep, dreamless sleep.
****
Miguel was familiar with the church where the funeral was being held. On cold nights there was a free shelter in the basement where he had slept with his friends from the streets, or sometimes his father, if his father was sober and permitted in. But he had rarely been on the main floor where the altar was except to peek in when it was quiet and mostly empty, with only a few old women scattered throughout the pews who occasionally crept down the aisles to drop a few coins in the wooden collection box and light fat prayer candles in their red glass containers.
Today though, the church was jammed, the organ thundered, and the mourners milled about on the front steps for a breath of fresh air or to have a quick smoke. Dorning led him in by the hand—not to pretend he was family but to prevent him from being swept away by the jostling swarm that came to pay last respects.
Miguel was surprised they had reserved spaces so close to the front before remembering the professor didn’t have a family to mourn him. Yet hundreds of strangers wanted to, he thought to his utter amazement as he surveyed the noisy church. He wondered where all those people were when the professor was dying practically alone. Several of the people stared in sympathetic curiosity at the two bandages on his head then whispered to one another and shrugged.
He sat down stiffly in the pew, fidgeting with his tie.
Dorning leaned over to help him loosen it a bit. “It is a little warm in here,” he said.
“I’ll tell you something if you promise not to laugh. I never wore a tie before,” Miguel confessed.
“That would have been my guess,” Dorning replied.
From where he sat, Miguel could see only the professor’s hands folded peacefully on his chest above the top of the open gold-colored casket in the center aisle.
The minister arrived from a side door near the altar and climbed the steps to the pulpit that towered imposingly over the crowd. He stood silently until the animated conversations and even occasional laughter died down as people realized he was waiting.
“My friends, today is both a sad and joyous day, on Earth and in Heaven.”
The speakers high on the wall squealed hideously; hands throughout the crowd flew up to cover ears as the minister pushed the microphone back in its holder. The screeching faded away.
A few of the mourners resumed fanning themselves with church bulletins left behind from the early morning services.
“Today is the day God shows us no matter how intelligent, how beloved, or how important someone is, when He calls us home we must heed His call, no matter who we are or who might grieve our passing. Percival Marlowe was a giant in the scientific community, but in God’s eyes, all of us are equal, and all of us must contemplate the end of our existence in this world, whether we’re rich or poor, famous or forgotten. Only by admitting our mortality can we be humbled, only by realizing our time is limited can we understand the importance of living according to His word every precious day. But grieve not for Percival because the end here is only the beginning there, in the company of those who went before him. Percival had a rewarding life, a full life, and so was blessed by God, who meant for him to achieve those great things he achieved and now has brought him forward to his next life, a better life by far. We may grieve the loss for mankind, yet we must also celebrate God’s will has been done according to His plan for all of us, as this is how God meant for it to be no matter who we are. He did not mean for us to live forever; He meant for us to share in the heavenly glories that await those who accept His plan, who live each day with the knowledge that it might be their last. That day finally came for Percival Marlowe, and at the end, God’s plan was fulfilled. Percival has moved on to a life that finally frees him from the physical infirmities that inflicted him in his old age, and for that we should be thankful, for God’s plan is a merciful plan, and we can think of Percival Marlowe not as he was, but how he is right now, renewed and at peace, no longer a prisoner of the daily struggles he faced but released from the years of suffering and cruel constraints he so courageously endured. Praise be to God.”
Dorning glanced at Miguel sitting quietly next to him, then answered with the rest of the crowd.
“Amen.”
The minister climbed down from the pulpit, and the organ came back to life. The ushers signaled to the front rows to line up for one last view of the professor.
“What happens after this? Are we going to the cemetery?” Miguel asked above the organ music.
“No. I think it’s more important you go home and rest.”
They made their way slowly down the aisle to the front. When they finally passed by the casket, Miguel saw the professor looked remarkably lifelike, as if only asleep.
“He doesn’t look dead,” he said only as loud as necessary to reach Dorning’s ear.
“No, he doesn’t,” Dorning agreed as they headed out the church down a side aisle. “They did a remarkable job on him. And thanks to the extreme care I took, they never even knew I . . .” The doctor stopped, letting the rest go unsaid.
They found Dorning’s car in the jammed parking lot, got in, and headed for home.
“I hope you didn’t find that too disturbing,” the doctor said.
“No. I’ve seen dead people before. Homeless people mostly.” Miguel yawned and rubbed his eyes.
Dorning nodded sadly. “I should have known. That could have been your fate, but fortunately the professor needed you. In that regard, you literally owe him your life. I hope seeing him today reinforces the promise you made to remember him. You heard what the minister said we should do. He said, ‘Think of Percival Marlowe, think of Percival Marlowe.’”
“Yes,” Miguel answered. He made a fist, brought it down repeatedly onto the palm of his other hand. “I will remember him. I will. I will. I will.”
Dorning settled back in his seat, pleased with the boy’s answer and resolve. “Good, very good. I knew we could count on you, Miguel. I knew it all along.”