Lucas

by Eden Wallace


I look down at the paper in my hand.


“Do not worry,” I say to Lucas,

but really to myself.

“We will practice these rules.”


I try not to use contractions when I talk to Lucas.

He does not like them.

Sometimes, if he is tired,

or already upset,

he will repeat the words over and over.

If I say, “Don’t…”

he will say “Do not, do not, do not, do not…”

until some unknown switch suddenly flips,

and he stops.


These rules we are practicing

come naturally to other children,

but to Lucas, these rules are mysteries.

So Mrs. Goldmann has written them down,

and she will add to them over the school year.

There is nothing mysterious about a list of rules to Lucas.

He loves rules.

You simply memorize them,

then do what they say.


“Lucas, rule number one:

You must make eye contact.

That means you must look at the other person’s eyes.

I know this is hard, and I know it burns.

But it is the rule.

You must make eye contact for five seconds.

You can count to five in your mind

then you may look away.”


“We will practice.

Okay, look at my eyes!

One⎯two⎯three⎯four⎯five.

Look away.

Good!”


There are two more rules I am to practice

with Lucas this week.

The second rule is about maintaining personal space.

Lucas is not conscious of personal space.

We practice saying,

“Iceberg ahead!” to remember

to stand one arm’s distance away

from other people.


Last week was the first week of school.

Lucas hit a girl in his class

because she grabbed his arm.

She fell and hit the side of her head on the table.

She was not badly hurt⎯thank God,

but we practice what to do

if another student touches you.


“Lucas, you must immediately walk away

to the other side of the room.

You must count to thirty,

then you may go and tell Mrs. Goldmann.

You must not hit other students.”


We practice each rule several times,

then Lucas walks away to the bookshelf.

He picks up his red alarm clock

and holds it to his ear.

The rhythmic tick⎯tick⎯tick

soothes him.

I want to go over to him,

to hug him tightly,

but I know he does not like to be touched.


He pulls one of his books about the Titanic off the shelf.

He has twenty-seven books,

nine DVDs, three posters,

four puzzles, and seven models

of the Titanic.

If you ask, he will tell you

everything there is to know about it.


I look at Lucas for a long time.


I think about dreams,

about how they die a slow death

one doctor’s appointment

and one specialist at a time.


I look back down at the paper in my hand,

and I am suddenly overwhelmed.


Again, as my tears fall down my cheeks,

as I slowly lift my hand

and wipe them away,

again, I do not know if I am weeping

from wild despair

or wild love

that Lucas is mine.

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