Page 45 of Saint
Dinner was uneventful for the remainder of the night. We finished with apple pie and rolled ice cream, courtesy of the kitchen’s chef. Mrs. Miller cringed when her husband introduced their staff member as such. To her, Chef Will was merely her kitchen assistant. It was Mrs. Miller’s recipes that graced our tongues for the evening. She adamantly made the distinction
After dinner, the woman of the house made her way to my side. Her demeanor bore evidence of contrition, but my better judgment told me she was the type to forgo an apology in favor of offering a plate of food.
“Let me holler at you on the patio, Victoria,” she requested of my presence.
Jesus, be a fence, abeg. Again, I sent a prayer to the heavens, beseeching peace that surpassed understanding. My tongue was only getting warmed up, and the night was coming to a close. I didn’t want to have to read Mrs. Miller her rights, but I would if she pushed me far enough.
I followed her out to the backyard patio, which was equally as stunning as the interior. The same elaborate flooring lining the driveway in the front of the home was in the backyard as well. A seating area was situated in the middle of the yard with a fire pit in its center.
“You have a lovely home, Mrs. Miller.”
“Oh, cut the shit, girl,” she tossed, spinning to face me with curious eyes.
“Ain’t no shit. If your house looked a mess, you wouldn’t receive any compliments from me.” Swift with my tongue, I dismissed her concern.
“I like you,” she grinned, causing my brows to hike upward.
Considering her current treatment, it mattered less whether or not she liked me. Despite the rocky beginning to our evening, her admission still managed to trigger my shock. She sat on one of the couches, prompting me to follow suit across from her. A bottle of wine was on ice with two glasses not far away. I hadn’t witnessed anyone arrange the setup, but it was apparent there were staff on the grounds lurking in the shadows. The residence was far too large and too well-kept for her and her husband to manage it alone. Mrs. Miller uncorked the bottle and began filling both empty glasses. Once satisfied with the amount each housed, she pushed a glass in my direction.
“Saint…” She started after sipping from her glass. “He isn’t like the rest of my kids. I’m sure you’ve noticed. He isn’t like anyone I’ve ever had the pleasure of crossing paths with.”
“No. He’s not,” I agreed, taking a sip and staring off into the distance as I waited for her to make her point known.
“So you can imagine, as a mother, when I heard that he got married, I was shocked, hurt, confused, and curious…” Freely, she called the list of overwhelming emotions she’d harbored about me and Saint’s nuptials. The presence of alcohol wasn’t required to loosen her lips. She was jumping right into it.
“I’m the closest person to my son in this family, Victoria. I know he has conversational barriers, but I expected that he’d at least share this new life he’s taken on with you.”
“Mrs. Miller–”
“I look at him, and I look at you, and it’s difficult for me to accept that he’s no longer under my wing, but as the night continued, I understood why I didn’t know about you. My son loves you and your dirty draws. I’ve never seen anything like it. He’s never brought a girl home, much less a woman.
“And you...” she continued, causing me to brace myself for whatever her next words would be. “I’ve never witnessed anyone stand up for my son like you have all evening. My family… They don’t understand him. We all love him equally in our own way, but he’s different. He’s always had his unique way of carrying on.”
“He’s autistic,” I corrected.
“Autistic?”
Shock and confusion held Mrs. Miller’s features hostage. The lack of understanding was potent on her face. I couldn’t believe she’d given birth to such an astute specimen and wasn’t aware that he was autistic.
“He has Asperger’s,” I explained, giving her a brief, run-of-the-mill explanation of Saint’s uniqueness. If she desired to learn more, Google was free, and so was a conversation with her son. “Have you never received this information from a doctor when he was growing up?” I pried, seeking to satisfy my own curiosity.
“No,” she shook her head with glazed rounds, meeting me. “I just loved him the way a mother should. I never sought out any diagnosis for him. Back then, things were different. Autism wasn’t so wildly called, and doctors weren’t so quick to issue diagnoses like candy. Putting a name on it didn’t matter to me, and I thought it shouldn’t matter to the rest of the world.”
She stared off for several seconds. “But it did.” She returned from that world, blinking to ensure her continued presence in the current one. “And sometimes I feel like he resents me for it. Like I never tried to fix him, so he keeps his distance.”
“Mrs. Miller…” I rose to my feet, glass in tow, and planted myself beside her. “I don’t think that’s it.”
“He didn’t start speaking until he was five,” she sniffed, recollecting the memory. “I thought he was mute. Hell, he would ignore me and his father unless he was seeking physical comfort, but the doctors told me he was fine. I would watch him as he played as a child, and he wouldn’t even play with toys the same way Supreme or Sincere did. He would sort them out by color, size, or shape, all in a line. It was evident that he knew what he was doing. From a young age, he’d been particular about the way things ought to be. He’d catch a violent tantrum, too, if you moved his toys.
“There were a few times I had to stop Ramsay from taking a belt to his behind.”
My eyes bloomed at that confession. At the look on my face, Mrs. Miller attempted to explain.
“You have to understand, back in those days, that was the way parents handled their kids. Ramsay was doing what he knew was best. It took him longer than I did to adjust to Saint’s eccentricities, but eventually, he did.” Recalling the past, she shook her head.
“It took me some time, but then I realized that not only was he different, he was super intelligent. Smarter than the rest of those rascals I gave birth to,” she laughed. “He loved dinosaurs, machines, and the aquarium... My God, we must have had three or four fish tanks.” She shook her head reflectively.
“He loved to learn how things worked. It was a pleasant challenge for him to figure the small things out…” She reminisced of a younger Saint, and I smiled thinking of my man.