A/N: Tag: chapter 58 of "Drowning."
Suicide Lifeline Number: 800-273-8255.
Please reach out if you need help!
Linda goes back to work part-time after they get home from vacation, and despite trying to talk her way out of working nights, she gets scheduled to work one a week. That's 12 hours—more like 14, with shift change and traffic and all that crap—away from Danny, leaving her still-vulnerable (she'd never say that to his face) husband home alone at night, with their not-quite-14 and 12-year-old boys the only other people in the house.
Danny's still on modified duty—which is good for him, but not good for them because that one morning a week he's already left for work when she gets home at 8 a.m.
So she's surprised when she gets home on a Tuesday morning in the third week of August and sees his car in the driveway.
"Danny?" she calls as she unlocks and opens the door, trying to choke down the fear that something has happened—no, the fear that Danny has done something, and that she isn't going to find her husband alive.
"Dad's asleep," Jack says from the kitchen table where he and Sean are eating cereal. "He was walking around down here loud enough to wake the dead at like 2 a.m., so we figured we'd let him sleep. After breakfast, can we go hang out with Michael? Mrs. Keenan will be home."
She says yes without really listening, runs up the stairs and opens the bedroom door, dropping her purse and keys in the hallway. "Danny?"
He's sitting on the floor next to the bed, his phone in his hand. He's shaking.
She rushes to him, careful to clear her throat and cough loudly, so she doesn't startle him—though if he's having a flashback, that's a moot point, because he won't hear her anyway.
"Danny, babe, what happened?"
He looks at her as she sits down on the floor, then crumples into her chest. "I…I…I had to…call the suicide hotline. I…I'm sorry. I couldn't…nothing else was working, and I didn't wanna bother Dad or Jamie, and Doc's on vacation, and Padre's sick, and…I…I'm sorry."
She kisses the top of his head, feels his tears soaking her scrub top. "Hey, it's okay, Danny. I'm proud of you. You did the right thing, babe."
"You're not mad?"
"No, babe…why…why would I be mad at you for…taking steps to save your life? You made the right call, Danny. How long have you been sitting here?"
He shakes his head, hands her his phone.
He'd made the call at 7:09 a.m.
It had lasted 15 minutes.
So he's been sitting here, crying and alone, for 30 minutes.
She swallows a yawn. Danny needs her more than she needs sleep.
"Do you wanna tell me what happened?"
"I…don't know, Linda. I was up and down all night—nightmares I can't even remember—and the last one…I woke up feeling so…pathetic, and I couldn't breathe, and I tried every single relaxation thing Doc taught me, and none of them were helping, and then I saw that"—he points to the laminated safety plan taped to the headboard—"so I called the hotline."
He takes a shuddery breath, and she kisses his head. "I'm proud of you. Did it help? Talking to the person on the other end?"
He nods.
She doesn't want to force him to talk—that will only make him shut down—but if he needs to talk and he's just dodging…
"Of course, Danny. Is there anything else you need to tell me before we go to bed?"
"Can you try to get out of working nights? Please?"
She says she'll try, and coaxes him back into bed.
She wakes up to him whispering into her hair. She sits up, kisses him. "What time is it?"
"About 2."
She yawns. "How long have you been awake?"
He shrugs. "Not long. Sorry I woke you."
She rubs her face. "You know it's a lot easier to have a conversation with me when I'm awake and can hear you, babe. What's on your mind?"
"This isn't the first time I've called the hotline. Two weeks ago…you'd just gone back to work, and… everything was…too much. When I started trying to figure out where you'd hidden the knife block, I called the number—talked to somebody for 10 minutes. Apparently, I convinced them I wasn't crazy enough that they had to call the cops."
"Danny, babe, please stop calling yourself names! You are depressed, you have PTSD, you are in mental pain—but you are not 'crazy'! What was it Doc wanted you to say to yourself when those self-loathing thoughts started pulling you under again?"
He rolls his eyes at her allusion to Doc's metaphor but doesn't pull away. "He wanted me to say something positive about myself," he sighs.
"Okay. I'm listening, Danny."
He huffs. "I…made the right decision—it was the prudent and smart thing to do to call the hotline," he says, then sits up and pads into the bathroom while Linda watches him go and prays this isn't a relapse.