A/N: I didn't realize until I looked at my timeline for this story, and the 2016 calendar, that the bulk of this chapter would take place on Sunday, September 11, 2016.
Trigger warnings: discussion of 9/11, PTSD, survivor's guilt.
"Today was…the first good day I've had in a while," Danny says as he puts the stupid night splint on his ankle and props it up on pillows before lying down next to Linda.
"I'm glad, babe," Linda says, and snuggles into his chest. "The boys enjoyed it, too."
They'd gone to the zoo; Danny had agreed to a wheelchair and then they'd ridden the train around the zoo looking at all the animals. He'd promised the boys they'd come back once he was off crutches. His favorites had been the little orange monkeys; Linda's, the seals; Jack's, the elephants; and Sean's the lions.
After lunch, they'd gone home and just hung out, then had pizza and a movie night.
Danny kisses the top of her head. "Mass and family dinner tomorrow?"
"If you think you're up to it—and the barrage of questions from your family asking why you haven't come before."
He sighs. He's not ready to be interrogated by his family, but he thinks he can make it. "I guess we could try it. If we need to leave, the family cripple can come up with plenty of reasons to leave."
Linda punches him in the shoulder gently, and he yelps. "Ouch! Don't hit the crippled guy!"
She kisses him. "Don't call yourself a cripple, then."
"But I…" He trails off when she kisses him again. There is one thing he isn't crippled at…
Trying to keep his ankle up during Mass is a pain—literally. After ten minutes of shifting around, he ends up sitting sideways in the pew, his ankle propped up on hymnals. His back is going to hate him when Mass is over.
He's a little confused when the entrance hymn is "God Bless America"—and then he looks at the date on the program. The bagel he'd eaten for breakfast churns uneasily in his stomach.
Today is the fifteenth anniversary of 9/11.
How the hell had he not noticed or paid attention to the date? Of all the days for him to go back to Mass—he picked this one? Stupid…
He wants to bolt—well, crutch/hobble/limp—out of church. But he can't reach the crutches, and that would make a scene, and he'd forgotten his pain pill that morning and the ankle's hurting like a word-he-shouldn't-think-about-in-church.
He can't reach Linda's hand, because she's standing at the end of his stretched-out leg. If only he hadn't sprained it almost two weeks ago, then he'd be standing and maybe he could reach her hand.
He listens a little more closely to the readings than he otherwise would, and is grateful the liturgical calendar doesn't change the readings according to the civil calendar. He has nothing against "God Bless America" or any of the other feel-good patriotic hymns—but he's dreading the sermon.
The priest launches into a sermon about patriotism, and Danny moves his ankle in every direction he can, so he can focus on the pain and not the words.
How the hell had he not noticed the date when he decided today was a great day to go to Mass and family dinner? Today would have been a great day to stay home and drug himself into oblivion.
After everything that has been stirred up from Fallujah in the last—he counts on his fingers before getting the right number—9 weeks, he does not want to hear a sermon praising the cops and first responders and everyone who gave their lives. He's grateful—he is—but he's selfish enough that his own tortured memories make it hard to think of the guys who gave their lives so he could sit here in this pew and worship God in peace and freedom—because he doesn't feel worthy of their sacrifice.
The Offertory hymn is "Eternal Father, Strong to Save," and he puts his stupid ankle on the floor and pulls Linda close and hopes she doesn't feel his tears.
Her hand rubbing his back, tells him she does.
He stays seated for the rest of Mass. He can hear his mother scolding him, like she did when was a boy: "Daniel Fitzgerald, we do not slouch at church! When you're kneeling, you're kneeling—not leaning on the pew like you're 95!"
He doesn't go up for Communion. He doesn't feel like moving, and he hasn't been to confession for 2 months—maybe 3. His grandfather squeezes his shoulder when he walks past him on the way to Communion, and he gives the old man a watery smile.
When the priest invites all the military members and veterans who were present on 9/11 to stand for a special blessing, he grips the arm of the pew so no one can pull him to his feet. (His boys think it's awesome when Dad gets a special blessing.) He has never—never—been so glad to be on crutches as he is at that moment. He sees the shuddery breath his dad takes before he stands, and takes one of his own.
Danny doesn't cross himself for the blessing.
The recessional hymn starts with the same tune as "Eternal Father, Strong to Save," and he grabs the program, confused. Maybe it's a mistake—they're not gonna play the same tear-jerker of a patriotic hymn again, are they?
Apparently they are—the program lists "Alternate Fifth Verse" as the recessional hymn.
He skims the words, and bites his lip. Dammit.
Eternal Father, grant, we pray
To all Marines, both night and day
The courage, honor, strength, and skill
Their land to serve, Thy law fulfill
Be Thou the shield forevermore
From every peril to the Corps.
He takes a shaky breath. The last time he'd heard this verse had been at the funeral for the three guys in his unit from New York.
Why had he let Linda pick the pew where they were sitting? She'd chosen the pew with his dad and grandfather—too near the front for comfort.
His face is wet.
He swings his leg down from its hymnal perch.
He has to get out of here.
Why had he let Linda pick the pew where they were sitting? She'd chosen the pew with his dad and grandfather—too near the front for comfort.
His back feels like it's on fire with five hundred lasers—the eyes of every parishioner in the pews behind him.
If he leaves, everyone in church is going to see him leaving, see him…
Gentle arms come around him, keeping him from bolting. "Breathe, Danny," Linda whispers. "Just breathe. Listen to my voice, and just breathe."
He shakes his head as tears flow down his face.
She whispers how proud she is of him, and how much she loves him, and how strong he is.
The words are nice but they're doing nothing to keep his tears back—because he isn't strong. Sitting here crying over a hymn is proof of that.
He kicks the pew in front of him with his walking boot.
The lance of pain just makes his tears flow faster.
His father says something in a quiet rumble.
Linda pulls him closer in the pew.
When he's cried himself out, he looks up.
His dad's security detail is surrounding them—one in the aisle, one in the pew behind and in front of him—trying to keep prying eyes from seeing him.
Nuciforo is great and all, but the idea of his dad's detail witnessing his breakdown, is embarrassing as all get-out.
He gets his handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes his face.
He's going to ask Linda to take him home. There is no way he can face anyone at family dinner—not after having the meltdown of the century.