Only Saints

« xv. »

I am definitely not traumatized. I don't know what Drew learned on his psych rotations that leads him to think that I am; all I know is that I only fit a few of the diagnostic criteria for trauma disorders, and there's no way I'm going to admit to him that I fit even one. He'll latch onto it and never let it go.

Still, after a couple glasses of rum and a few episodes of The Price Is Right—Bob Barker era, because there is no other host, as far as my family is concerned—I'm feeling a little more comfortable in my own skin. I can relax sitting next to him on Old Mère's couch. I can breathe. I can try to forget the awful conversation we had a few hours ago and let it be washed away by the warmth of alcohol deep in my chest.

I had a really bad panic attack. Now it's over. Now I can relax.

Why am I not relaxing?

I glance over my shoulder. There's nothing there but the back of the couch and the floral wallpaper, looming so close it feels like the vines are reaching out to twist around my throat. I would welcome it at this point, I think, because at least it would stop me from thinking about my grandmother every time I so much as glance at the front door. I can't help but think she'll come walking through at any moment, well-worn red leather purse slung over one shoulder, and stare with those beady hard eyes at the glasses in our hands.

What would Old Mère think of me now? Would she be proud of me or disappointed?

I can't help but think she'd be disappointed.

"I tried to—" I nearly confess to Florie that I tried to make a spell last night. I nearly tell her that's why I had my panic attack, even though I know that's not exactly the truth, because I was freaking out a couple hours before that.

Then I remember that Drew is sitting next to me and I change my sentence to something a little more innocuous: "I looked through some of my old sewing last night. I still can't do a straight seam," I say with a bright laugh.

"Oh, my God. You remember how mad—how mad Old Mère used to get at you for that?" She stumbles over her words just a little bit; on the whole, both of us are relatively more coherent with a couple of drinks in us. Florie goes to pour a little more rum over the ice in her glass. "What did she say? 'You must be—'"

"'Deliberate,'" I finish for her. "She was always on me about being deliberate. Like—I get it, you know? I was a kid. Of course I wasn't going to have straight seams, I could barely fucking sit still." I try to make it a joke, but there's something like discomfort running under my skin at the thought. Am I actually complaining about this?

Am I not grateful for her taking the time to teach me magic?

Am I a bad grandson? A bad heir?

A bad witch, if I even am a witch any more?

Florie tips her head back with a bright laugh. "Oh, my God, yes. What do you get when you toss two kids who, let's be real, we both totally had ADHD—"

"Autism for me," I correct her with a grin. "Diagnosed when I was...thirteen. The year after I left." And my neuropsych had expressed disbelief that no one else had ever pointed it out to me before. It was so obvious, she said, that my parents—or whoever raised me—must have purposefully overlooked it. Ignored it. Decided it wasn't that big of a deal.

I have to wonder how much of that is because of the magic, and how much of the magic is because of the patterns always stitching themselves into my brain.

"Oh, man, you're legit?"

Drew leans hard into my shoulder. He smiles through a sip of his drink and adds, "He's legit. Paul has more diagnoses than anyone else I know—"