Page 59 of PSYCHOlogical

“How long does it take you to count it all, when you’re close to the end of the year?”

“An entire weekend.”

“How long have you had this ritual?”

“Since I was a kid,” he said. “I used to save my change, and I’d sort it to make it easier to count. I separated it by year, just because it took more time, and I had plenty of time to waste back then.”

I envisioned a child saving his money and dreaming of a new life. It saddened me to think he grew up in an atmosphere where counting his coins and contemplating a better life was enough of a common occurrence that he carried that tradition on into his adult life.

“So, what do you think?” he asked.

I realized I’d drifted off in my thoughts.

“About what?” I asked.

“About my ritual? From a psychological standpoint?”

“Oh.” I set my chopsticks down and acted as if I was thinking, even though I really didn’t need to. “It started as a way you could see yourself being in control of something because you felt that you were incapable of controlling your life, I suppose. At least as a child. Now? Now it’s more of a ritual than anything else.”

He aimlessly poked at his sushi. “That’s pretty much what I figured. My childhood was a disaster.”

“What were you going to do with your money? In your mind, what were you saving for?”

The corners of his mouth lifted a little. Just enough that I sensed pride. “A house.”

My heart palpitated upon hearing his response. A homeless child saving to buy his mother a place to live. To take her away from the harm he felt the streets provided. As I suspected, he was dreaming of a better life, and hoped to provide it for someone he cared for.

Vincent had been a protector since he was a child.

“The last thing we want to do when we love someone is to see them in pain,” I explained. “You were saving money in the hope of ending your mother’s pain. To save her from any more harm.”

“I saved everything I could.” He lifted his brows and looked away. “It wasn’t enough.”

“Her destiny was out of your control,” I said. “No amount of money could change that.”

“I won’t argue that,” he said. “Saving her from the clutch of death would have been impossible. Not saving her got me here. In the end, I guess I ended up right where I needed to be. I hope she’s proud of me.”

“I’m sure she is,” I said with a smile.

“Do you think she’s up there looking down here right now?” he asked. “Do you believe in all that?”

“I like thinking that way,” I said. “About my parents, at least.”

“I do, too. Ever since I was a kid, all I wanted to do was have her be proud of me.”

I felt awful about what he’d been through as a child. I decided to steer the conversation in a different direction—one that would resurrect good memories, not bad ones.

“What’s your fondest memory of it?” I asked. “Your childhood, that is?”

He looked right at me and grinned. “An ice cream cone.”

“What was special about it?”

He coughed out a laugh. “It was ice cream. At that point in my life, ice cream was a pretty big deal.”

“Why’s that?”

I no more than asked and regretted it. It was easy to forget that Vincent’s childhood was nothing short of a disaster. Ice cream was probably something he was rarely able to enjoy.