He doesn't tell Linda about his father's lecture, just goes back to his m.o. of pretending everything is fine. It's a little harder to do being suspended, because he's home more; but he squeaks by until his return to work the following Wednesday.
There's a note on his desk telling him he has a mandatory appointment with the department shrink.
He curses so fluently, Jackie scolds him. He hands her his weapon and badge, and storms out.
At first he's headed for 1PP and his father's office; then, with a screech of tires, he makes a U-turn and heads home. He's not sure why he isn't pulled over during the entire drive back to Staten Island; he's going 10 over the speed limit, and he runs two red lights.
He slams his fist into the front of the house when the key sticks in the lock. The pain tells him he broke a finger.
The door opens. "Danny! Danny, what's wrong?"
"My hypocritical *** father is ordering me to attend therapy. Son-of-a-***."
He kicks the wall.
Linda looks like she's going to cry, and he leans on the door, suddenly too exhausted to be pissed at anything.
"Let me look at your hand, babe."
He lets her guide him inside, up the stairs to their bathroom.
She says it's broken but not dislocated, and splints it with popsicle sticks.
He shakes his head when she says he should probably go to the ER and get an X-Ray. "I…not now, please. I can't…be around all those people."
"Danny, what did your father say when he was here the other night?"
He opens his mouth, but his chest is tight and he can't breathe and he pulls his tie off so hard two buttons pop off his shirt. "Can't…breathe…"
Linda's arms are around him, pulling him against her chest. "Yes, you can. It just feels like you can't. Breathe with me, Danny. Take a nice, deep breath with me. In…and out."
He feels her chest move and he tries, desperately, to copy her.
He's getting dizzier.
She rubs her knuckles on his chest (which hurts like hell), and he takes a gasping breath, and another.
"Good job. You're okay, babe."
He shakes his head.
When he can talk, he says, quietly. "Dad…tried to apologize. Made it worse. Said what happened in Fallujah is worse than what he saw in Vietnam. Implied that he's stronger than I am, hence why I need to go to a shrink. But he knew a guy who killed himself after talking to a shrink, so…" He shrugs.
"Dammit, Frank! I'm going to kill him!"
"Don't. I need you here, not in jail."
Linda kisses his head. "If I knew of someone you could talk to, who wouldn't tell the department, who wouldn't tell your father, and no one but you, and me, and this doctor would know you were seeing him…would you give it a try? For me?"
"What is there to talk about?"
"Your father and his ridiculous attitude toward therapy; the nightmares that make you wake up screaming; Michael Oates; punching out Cassidy; being the only surviving member of your unit."
He tenses up, clenching his hands, curses when pain stabs his broken finger. "Why?"
"Because maybe you won't break another finger, punching a brick wall."
He shakes his head and goes into their bedroom and lies down.
"What happened to your hand?" Ten-year-old Jack asks at dinner.
He shrugs. "I got mad at a wall and punched it."
"Can you still shoot a gun?" Sean asks.
He shakes his head. "Nope. I'll probably be on desk duty for a few weeks." He's not entirely sure how he's going to do desk duty; he can't type with a broken finger.
"My friend Luke broke his finger playing basketball the other day, he said it hurt worse than getting shots." Sean wrinkles his nose. "Does your finger hurt?"
He shrugs. "A little." He stabs at his chicken.
He zones out to the TV and a beer while Linda helps the boys with their homework. It doesn't make his brain stop churning.
If he went to a shrink and the other guys in the precinct found out…that would be…bad.
Opening up to a stranger, talking about $#!+…would be hellish.
He wishes his mom were still here; she'd tell him what to do.
He sighs and tells himself he's just going to forget about everything, that way he won't have to go to a shrink and spill his guts.