When she's sure Danny's asleep, Linda gets up and tries to tiptoe out of the room.
She can't…lie there and will herself to fall asleep.
And she doesn't want Danny to hear her crying. That will only make him feel more guilty, when he has nothing to feel guilty about.
She winces as she pads down the hallway and the creaking stairs. It's impossible to move around in this house at night without waking anyone up… Frank really should get the stairs fixed.
She sighs when she sees Henry sitting at the kitchen table. She'd hoped to be able to sit and cry alone…
She gets a drink of water from the kitchen sink.
"You okay, Linda?" her grandfather-in-law (is that even a thing?) asks.
She shrugs. "Couldn't sleep," she says, and sits down next to him.
"Want some whiskey, or I think we have that wine you like."
"No thanks, I need to be alert in case Danny…"
"Francis didn't go into detail, but, I take it Danny's having a hard time?"
"Yes, but that's…we're here because I was afraid…"
"Of him?"
"No," she sniffles. "He…remembered something that happened in Fallujah—something really, really bad. And I…was afraid if he had a bad flashback, I wouldn't be able to talk him down. It's so lonely sometimes when he's in that dark headspace."
"I'm glad you're here. It'll be okay. Danny's stronger than you think."
She wipes her eyes, sighs when the Reagan patriarch stands up. He puts the tea-kettle on, and gets down a box of chamomile tea. "He's gonna be okay—both of you are, Linda," he says, and goes upstairs.
Linda lays her head on the kitchen table and lets the tears flow until the kettle starts whistling.
She gets up and turns the stove on, makes herself a cup of tea, and prays the whistle hasn't woken up the house.
Two cups of tea and an ocean of tears later, she's calm enough to go upstairs.
The light's on in Danny's old room, and she curses, rushes down the hall.
He's sitting up in bed, his shirt on the floor, the covers twisted.
"Danny, are you okay? I'm here."
He nods. "Nightmare. And my ankle's killing me."
"Can I look at your ankle?"
He nods, and she pulls the covers off, palpates it gently. It's slightly less swollen than it had been when they went to bed. "You can't have another pain pill yet. I'm going to get you some more ice packs, okay?"
He grabs her arm—gently, like he needs her to stay, not like she's the enemy in a flashback. "Don't leave, please."
She nods, slides into bed next to him and pulls the covers up, puts her arms around him. "I'm here."
He takes a shuddering breath. "You've been crying. It's because of what you read. I'm sorry."
"Danny, it's okay. Really. I…I've begged you for years to tell me…"
"So you can…pity me for…what I went through?"
"No, Danny, no! Never that! So that I can…share your pain."
"It's not fair to you. Everything I've put you through the past…couple months. And you having to know about…that…on top of everything."
She kisses him. "It's okay, Danny. I…forgive you for everything you've said out of pain or frustration or under the influence of pain meds. And…if my knowing what happened…makes it easier for you to bear…then…"
She chews her lip. "I'll listen anytime. Always."
"I don't want to talk about it or think about it. I can't anymore. Just…please help me sleep."
"Let me go downstairs and get you an ice pack. That'll help your ankle."
"I don't like being cold," he whines.
She kisses him. "I'll hold you and warm you up if you're a good patient for your nurse."
"Fine," he half-pouts/half-scowls.
The ice packs are buried under beef, lamb, and ice cream, and by the time she gets back upstairs, Danny's in tears. She carefully gets his ankle propped up again and iced, then lies down and pulls him close. "Shhh, just breathe, babe. The pain'll ease up."
He shakes his head. "No…the kids…I saw them…"
"Is that what your nightmare was about?"
He nods, and she rubs his back. Someone needs to write a user's guide for how to support your husband when he's confronting a repressed memory. "It wasn't your fault, Danny."
"But…"
She puts a finger on his lips. "No. You were a captive, you were being tortured…if you had tried to escape, to save those kids, or your buddies…you would have been killed. And I don't even want to think about…life without you. Ever."
"I hate this, Linda," he says, his voice breaking. "I was fine—I was *** fine—for years, and then I go and break my ankle, and all hell breaks loose, and then that stupid song at Mass yesterday…"
He takes a shuddering breath.
She kisses his head. "Danny, babe…you weren't fine. You were just shoving everything down and trying to forget—which didn't work, as you found out after Corporal Russell. And everything with your ankle, has just…stirred up more $#!+. But you're doing so well. I'm so proud of you."
"What the hell for?" he whispers through tears.
"Because you're talking to Doc, you're talking to me, you're not shutting down, you're not bolting…"
"Can't bolt when I can barely *** walk."
She smiles a bit, seeing his sense of humor coming back. "You're gonna get through this, babe."
"How do you know that?"
"Because you and I—together—have gotten through every *** thing we've had to face over the last almost twenty years, and I'm not going anywhere."
He nods his head against her chest, and she holds him until she's cried himself to sleep.
She wishes she could have five minutes alone with those filthy insurgents in Fallujah….