"Parent-teacher conferences are Wednesday. I think it would be good if you came; Jack's grades have taken a nose-dive, especially in science."
He sighs, rolls his neck around as she starts working out the knots that he gets from using the stupid crutches. "First it was math, now it's science? Is he gonna need tutoring again?"
"It's not that bad yet; I think he needs some one-on-one time with dad."
"Homework and I aren't exactly…"
"I'm not asking you to teach him physics, babe; I'm asking you to spend some time with him; knowing you're—interested, invested, in what he's learning in school, might be what needs."
He sighs. "I haven't worked in the past…nine weeks. I've been home time with both of them. But, okay, I'll sit down with him tomorrow after school."
"Thank you," she says, kissing him.
He rotates his ankle in the warm water, winces. "That's not what you waited to talk about 'till we were in the tub, and I can't see your face. So what is it?"
"Just the past nine weeks since you broke your ankle. You…you didn't sleep last night. And…I've never seen you cry in public before except at funerals."
Guilty as charged, he thinks, but doesn't say it out loud. "Linda, just ask me whatever you wanna ask me."
She pulls him closer, starts massaging the front of his shoulders and chest. He winces. There are more knots, and they're more painful than the other ones. "Why do you blame yourself for everything?"
"What the hell are you talking about, Linda? I don't…"
"I know you blame yourself for breaking your ankle. And it's not like you woke up that morning and said: 'I'm gonna break my ankle and cause myself months of physical and emotional torture'!"
"I wasn't paying attention, and if I'd broken my ankle, I wouldn't have had to go through these weeks of flashbacks, so of course I blame…!"
His words are interrupted when she stands up, steps over him, and sits down facing him. She raises her hand like she's going to slap him, and then she kisses him passionately. "Stop, Danny, okay! Just…shut up! It's not your fault! You're just making this harder on yourself than it has to be! It's not your freaking fault you broke your ankle! Do you hear me?"
He nods. Mental note #1: don't let Linda know I blame myself for my ankle.
"And don't you do that, either—that thing where you wallow in guilt and try to hide it from me! Because I can see when you're doing it! You didn't say it, but I can hear you thinking it! Just…stop! Please! For my sake?"
He nods, hating that she's teary now, and it's…
Nope, he's not supposed to think that.
"I'm sorry, babe. I'll stop. Anything else you want me to stop doing?"
"Blaming yourself for Fallujah, for what happened to your buddies, for both the things you have and haven't told me about what happened over there."
He looks down, not wanting her to see in his eyes. He scolds himself mentally for not having any reaction to her sitting there, naked, in the tub in front of him.
He startles when she cups his face in her hands. "Where's your head at, babe?"
He shrugs.
"Did you push your buddies in harm's way to save your own life?"
"Of course not!"
"Then their deaths weren't your fault!"
It's the same thing Doc's been telling him for…years. It's ringing a little differently now, coming from her, here, on this day.
"Is Doc still having you talk back to that evil little voice in your head?"
He shrugs. "Sorta."
"Then you listen to me, you nasty little voice!" she says, using her "Nurse/Mom Voice"—the one the boys know means "Mom means business. "You stop telling my Danny all these lies about how every freaking thing that happens is his fault! Stop telling him it's his fault he broke his ankle! Stop telling him it's his fault he came home alive and his buddies didn't! Stop…just stop torturing my Danny!"
He smiles—he can't help it—seeing in his mind an image of this big, black shadow of…he guesses it's his PTSD, or something…cowering and then running away in fear as Linda yells at it. He's going to have to remember that the next time he's having a bad day.
And he's definitely not gonna tell Doc about that tomorrow…
He pulls her close, kisses her, and deepens the kiss when he feels her respond. He can't find words to tell her what he's thinking, but he sure can show her.
Later, his ankle propped up on pillows with another stupid ice-pack on it, he's running his fingers through her hair. "Thank you, Linda."
"For what?" she asks sleepily.
"For what you said…in the tub. I guess I…hadn't realized how much all of this $#!+ was hurting you, too. I'm going to try to get better, I promise."
"Thank you," she says, no longer sounding sleepily. "That's all I wanted for you—to try. Get some sleep, babe."
He nods, and holds her a little tighter, and hopes tomorrow, with its double therapy—physical therapy and head-shrinking therapy—will be a better day.