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CHAPTERONE
Steve
“No, of course, I won’t forget.”
Looking out the fortieth-floor office window, light and silent snow drift past me like tiny, winking mirrors. I remind myself not to forget.
Not at Christmas.
Not ever.
“You paid us a visit personally the year before last, and it would mean so much more to the kids at the hospital to see you this year,” Sister O’Halloran says in a near whine, making me grip the phone a little harder.
It’s not like I have anyone waiting for me, either.
Not today or any other day.
The office has wound down for the year, just basic staff for the next few days until Christmas, and then I’ll haunt the place like I always do.
My usual Christmas dinner was a cold turkey sandwich from the hospital shelter and coffee from the machine.
Like the good old days.
Days I thought I’d have grown out of by now, having a family of my own, kids, and a wife by my side.
I dealt with my Catholic guilt years ago, but there’s something in Sister O’Halloran’s voice that gets me, today of all days especially.
Donation day.
There’s so much more I owe the hospital she helps run than just money.
I was a very poor, sick kid myself once, and the sisters of Saint Rosemary’s took me when nobody else could or would.
I never forgot that, but sometimes I do forgetthe little things.
Like calling up to say hi, or even turning up in person when I know she thinks it would help the hospital.
Having kept a few vows of my own once I left the nuns, I make sure I give back every year.
Making sure they get a little bit of everything I earn – every dime since I was old enough to ride a paper route or be a busboy.
I’m forty-two now, and the only sickness I’ve known as an adult is what other people feel when they hear how much money I actually make in a year.
I buy and sell businesses. Big ones, usually. That’s my business.
The hospital’s one of the biggest in the city now, and Sister O’Halloran still runs the old orphanage we managed to save from demolition.
Nowadays, the place I grew up in has been converted to a specialty children’s ward for kids with nobody else to help them, which she helps run and is mostly paid for by yours truly.
A homeless and battered women’s shelter runs through the same channels too.
Yeah, I admit. Sometimes I forget to turn up or drop in on the nuns, but I’ve never forgotten to keep trying to pay the debt that money could never match.
It’s the least I can do, and I can certainly afford it.
Glancing at my newest Rolex, my early Christmas present to myself, I watch the snow-powdered scene outside shift as I stab my head in a nod.
“I tell ya what,” I almost sigh, trying not to feel guilty after all. “I could head over soon-ish… I’m kinda done for the day, and you’re right. It’s much better to say hi than just write a check.” I admit, and not only because it’s useless to argue with a nun.
