"I heard you and Erin talking last night," he says carefully when Linda's stopped at a red light. They're going to pick up some things he needs for his PT exercises at home, and then get the boys from the Keenan's. The plan for the day is board games and a "picnic" lunch in the living room.
Linda frowns. "What do you mean?"
"What you said about…being fed up with me wallowing in pain and not trying to get better."
"Danny, I don't…"
"You were tipsy, Linda—I could tell by the way you were slurring your words. But you also said you just wanted to see me happy and healthy and not…not self-sabotaging."
"Well, I do. That's true, whether I'm tipsy or not."
"I assume you don't remember your 4 a.m. drunken confession that you want me around, no matter how frustrating I get?"
She shakes her head. "No, but it's still true."
He takes a shaky breath. "It got me thinking that…I know I've been pushing your buttons lately, and I really stink at being a good patient, but…I want to get better, Linda. I think Nate is gonna be a real help as far as PT is concerned, but there's still the bigger question of…"
He rubs the back of his neck, rotates his ankle. It's sore after PT, but not excruciatingly painful like when he puts more weight on it than he's supposed to.
"Nate thinks there's some 'mental block' that I have to get past—something that happened in Fallujah that I'm repressing or some such $#!+—before I'll start actually working at my exercises; he wants me to talk to Doc about it."
"He might have a point, babe. I'm proud of you," she says, and reaches across the console to kiss him, until the car behind them honks angrily.
It's been a fun family day of Monopoly, chess, and Scrabble, and Danny is doing a few pre-bedtime exercises—which means the boot is off. He misses the support it gives his ankle, and wonders if maybe it would be okay to skip them tonight. No, he promised Linda, and besides the boys are excited to help him do the ones that use resistance bands.
Sean has a yellow band wrapped around his arm, and is flexing his bicep and grunting like an orangutan while Jack films him.
Linda is upstairs showering, and Danny is thinking of her in the shower and hoping for the day he can actually take a shower without a shower chair. He never dreamed he'd wish for grab bars in the shower at the ripe old age of not-quite-43.
He finishes the seated exercises, and grabs his crutches to stand up. The day he can finally throw away the crutches and the boot, he's going to do something for Linda—something so romantic his face is heating up thinking about it.
The band snaps out of Sean's hand and hits the table, sending papers flying.
Danny sighs and gets to his feet—well, foot.
He's shifting his weight onto his left foot when something rolls under it, making his socked foot slide on the hardwood.
He grasps for something to steady himself, but there's only air, and the crutches are useless against the sudden, stabbing pain as his ankle twists.
He can't hold back the yelp of pain as he falls back onto the couch.
The room sways crazily, and he gasps. It hasn't hurt this bad since…
It's almost five a.m. when they get home from the ER. Linda is grateful for Frank's steadying presence as they help a drugged Danny into the house and into bed. X-Rays confirmed he had only twisted his ankle, not re-fractured it. A few days of ice, elevation, and no weight-bearing or PT; and he'll be back to where he'd been the previous morning.
Their neighbor, who'd come over to watch the boys, leaves with a quiet promise to bring dinner, and Linda goes upstairs to check on the boys.
Sean's asleep in his sleeping-bag on Jack's floor—proof enough that this had rattled them. She's going to have to talk to them—better yet, she's going to have to ask Danny to talk to them once the narcotics wear off.
She gently takes the book off Jack's face and puts it and his glasses on his nightstand, turns the light off, then goes back downstairs.
"Thank God he didn't break it again," she says, and takes the cup of coffee Frank hands her. "I've told the boys they can't leave stuff on the floor—not with him on crutches!"
Frank's arms come around her. "Stop, Linda. This isn't the boys' fault. Sean called me while we were in the ER. It was an accident. Danny's going to be okay."
"He was doing so well," she sniffles. "He'd started working with a different PT—he sounded like he wanted to get better, and now…"
"This isn't the end of the world, Linda. You heard them—a couple days of ice and immobility, pain medication, and he can go back to physical therapy."
"It's not that, Frank! I know he's going to get better physically. It's…what this is going to do to him psychologically."
"What do you mean?"
She shakes her head, pulls away from Frank, sets the mug down. "Never mind. I've said too much. Thanks for coming. I'll call you tomorrow—well, later today—and let you know how he's doing."
When Danny starts groaning in his sleep around 8 a.m., she wakes him up, gives him some peanut-butter toast and a pain pill, and gets him a cold ice-pack, before lying down next to him again.
It's after 1 when she wakes up next, and she hopes the boys have managed okay.
They're in the living room eating sandwiches and playing video games.
Jack looks at her. "Is Dad okay?"
"Yeah, he just twisted it. He'll be fine. Are you two supposed to be eating in here?"
Sean shakes his head. "Is Dad mad at us?"
"Why would he be? It's not like you deliberately put the pencil on the ground under his foot."
Sean bites his lip. "But if I hadn't been goofing around..."
"This isn't your fault, Sean. Or yours, Jack," she says, meeting her oldest's eyes. "Accidents happen. Dad's gonna be fine."
"Can we see him when he wakes up?"
"Yeah. Now take your lunch into the kitchen and vacuum up all these crumbs."
When she goes back to their room, Danny's sitting up slowly. "Hey."
"Hey, babe, how are you feeling?"
He shrugs, winces. "Like I twisted my ankle, and like I was drugged."
"How's it feel?"
He moves his ankle slowly, curses. "It's about an 8."
She looks at him and raises her eyebrows.
Danny pulls his knees to his chest with a groan. "Yes, Linda, I'm sure it's an 8. 10 was when I broke it. This is just an 8."
"And it would probably be a 4 if you'd taken the pill I gave you at breakfast instead of palming it—I found it on the floor here."
"I don't like the narcotic, Linda! I told you that!"
"Is that why the bottle they gave you post-op is still half-full?"
He looks at her. "You counted my pain pills?"
"Yes, Danny. With where your head was most days, I wanted to make sure you weren't taking more than you should have."
"Well, I wasn't. So can we change the subject, please?"
She shakes her head and counts to 20. She's frustrated, but she has to remember he's in pain.
"You told me yesterday you wanted to get better, Danny. Part of that—right now, after this unfortunate little setback—means taking your pain medication."
"Do you remember the case with the homeless vet? Michael Oates?" he asks quietly.
She nods, looking at his face. His eyes are filled with pain—not just physical pain, but a much deeper pain—and she reaches for the hand where they'd put the IV at the ER, holds it to her lips.
"His girlfriend said he got addicted to pain pills after…the war. Some because of his injury…some because it numbed him, made him…forget what happened over there," Danny whispers.
He shifts his ankle under the now-melted ice-pack. "I don't want…I don't want that to happen to me."
"If you take them as prescribed, Danny—not waiting until the pain is too bad—then it's very, very unlikely you'll get addicted. There is a difference between being physically dependent on them because you're in pain, and being addicted. You need them right now."
He holds his hand out, takes the pill she hands him, and swallows it with a big gulp of water. "I…I'm sorry, Linda. Will you…keep the bottle in my lockbox, give me one when I'm due for one?"
"Of course, babe. Let me go get you another ice-pack," she says with a kiss, then leaves the room, taking the bottle of pain pills and the melted ice-pack with her. Maybe, miraculously, something she said actually got through to him!