Warning: These next words are going to be sad. There’s nothing I can do to make them happy. Sorry.
Okay. Here we go.
If everything always worked right, I would have an older brother named Lucien. He would be almost fourteen. He’d probably tease me about stuff, attack me when I’m sleeping, and brother junk like that. And I’d love it all, while pretending that I hated it, and attack him back whenever I had a chance.
Lucien—Mom chose his name—was born ten months after my parents were married in France. He was born way too soon and was messed up on the inside. He couldn’t breathe on his own for a while, so a machine had to do that for him. Some of his organs didn’t work right, so the poor kid spent more time in the hospital than he did at my parents’ little apartment in Paris.
Mom and Dad tried very hard to fix Lucien, took him from doctor to doctor, but there wasn’t much they could do except give him drugs for pain. My mom wasn’t sure if Lucien really needed much pain relief, though. Even though he was screwed up, Mom said Lucien was almost always a “happy camper,” hardly ever cried or raised a fuss. At least she used to say those things when she talked about Lucien. It’s been a while.
Lucien lived for only fifteen months. Barely had time to look around at the world. He’s buried in a cemetery in Paris called Gentilly. I’ve never been to France, so I haven’t yet visited Lucien, my one and only real brother.
Mom and Dad were planning to stay in France and raise a family, but after Lucien died they decided to start over in New York. They moved here, and eventually I was born. My parents were very happy that I turned out normal. Or, you know, normal enough. And then they decided that having one kid was plenty.
There used to be a big photo of Lucien on the wall in the hallway. But one day about two years ago it went missing. I guess Mom and Dad got tired of seeing Lucien’s picture each time they walked down the hallway. I can understand that, but I also think that kids who lost a brother they never met think differently than parents who lost a son. I keep a small picture of Lucien in a shoe box underneath my bed. I can’t imagine ever getting rid of that picture. What if I forgot what Lucien looked like?
So that is the story of Lucien. It’s the saddest story I know.
And now you might understand why my mom was so upset when she saw that Norman looked a lot like Lucien would have looked if he had been born normal, or if there had been a way to fix him and he was still around.
Me? I don’t mind that the robot looks like my real brother would have looked. Maybe seeing lots of Norman will make me think about Lucien more often. Fine with me. Even though Lucien wasn’t around long, I really like that kid. He was brave.