He was shining his shoes before Sunday Mass when Linda sat down next to him. "You didn't sleep last night. Nightmares?"
He shook his head. "No. Memories. It's been four weeks since John Russell killed himself."
"It wasn't your fault, Danny."
He threw his shine brush across the room. "It was my fault! I didn't follow protocol; I didn't wait for ESU or HNT; I just…charged in there, thinking I could talk him down!"
"Danny…you don't follow protocol on your good days; that wasn't one of them! You did everything you thought was best to try to save Corporal Russell's life. You saved his son's life."
He shook his head. "But I couldn't save John Russell!"
She took his face in her hands. "Danny, babe, you have got to stop blaming yourself. What would you have done? Grabbed his leg and tried to pull him to safety? If he'd fought you, you both could have gone over the ledge, and…and…the boys and I couldn't have survived that."
She kissed him; and he clung to her, and didn't let go until Jack hollered from downstairs that they were going to be late.
He was glad that Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows offered last-minute confessions, and he slipped into the box, crossed himself. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's two months since my last confession. I lost my temper with my dad, my sister, a lotta perps, and other drivers, on a daily basis." Deep sigh. That was the one that always got him.
He rattled off the usual litany of venial sins: cursing, lying, gluttony, impatience, not praying, etcetera, etcetera, in saecula saeculorum (forever and ever), amen.
Another sigh. He'd left the biggie for last. "I've been…struggling with suicidal thoughts lately. I had…a case…couldn't save this army vet from committing suicide. It stirred up my PTSD, and it got so bad that two weeks ago I was really thinking about ending it all. I was also just diagnosed with depression. Is…having suicidal thoughts…a sin?"
He heard Father Donovan let out a long, slow sigh. "No, thoughts are not sinful. A mental illness such as PTSD does lessen your culpability. Are you getting professional psychological help?"
"Yes, Father. I'm also on an anti-depressant."
"Good. Keep both of those things up, and be honest with your therapist. Are you married?"
"Yes, Father. Sixteen years. Two kids."
"Think of your family, how devastated they would be if you took your own life. They need you in their lives, just like you need them. Lean on your wife and your other adult family members; don't make them your therapists, but don't shut them out."
"Yeah," he whispered.
The priest paused. "I'd like you to spend five minutes a day in prayer; the Psalms are a great place to start, because it seems that David struggled with depression, with feeling his life had no meaning. He cried out to God in them, trying to find hope, something to cling to. I'd like you to read Psalm 69 later today. For your penance, say the Our Father five times, and now make an Act of Contrition."
He sighed in relief when he left the confessional. He'd expected to get lectured on how suicide was a mortal sin, told he was going to hell for even thinking about it; instead, Father Donovan had been understanding, compassionate.
He knelt, stood, sat, and sang as usual during Mass; but during the sermon, his mind went straight back to Fallujah, and he only stood for the Creed after Linda had jostled his elbow three times.
After Communion, he knelt down in the pew, covered his face with his hands, and hoped no one could see his shoulders shaking. But then Jack pressed himself against his right side, and Linda's arm came around his shoulders from the other side.
He was shaking, he was not crying, he would not cry anymore; and if he hadn't been in church, he would have cursed when he felt a few rebellious tears leak out.
After Mass, while the boys threw snowballs at Jamie, he slowed his steps, pulled Linda close. "I don't think I'm gonna make it to family dinner; I'm not hungry."
"You know the rules, Danny; you have to come. Besides, they all know you're on modified, so you can't use work as an excuse." She put her arm around him. "This isn't just about you not being hungry, is it?"
He shook his head. "I won't be good company. Also, I…I don't want a repeat of last week's disaster."
He tensed, remembering Erin's painful fury. The week had dragged on; forty hours chained to a desk felt more like eighty; six or so hours of broken sleep each night. During the other fifty hours, trying to be present to his boys and his father and grandfather, and then Linda when her night shifts ended, but more often than not feeling as if he were watching everything from underwater.
Even cheering at the boys' hockey game on Saturday had felt like he was cheering on auto-pilot; stuck behind a two-way mirror where he could see but no one saw him.
She let out a slow breath. "Is the dizziness any better?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Except when I stand up too fast."
She rubbed at his back. "Do you think it's safe for you to drive?"
"I think so; Doc didn't set a time limit."
"Okay. If you want…if you take the kids to the bakery, I'll talk to Jamie and Erin. Just so they know not to push any of your buttons right now."
He nodded. "Sure. Thanks."
So while he took the boys and Nicki to pick up dessert from the bakery, Linda got a ride back to his dad's.
He put off coming to the table as long as he could, finally stalking in with a muttered "Sorry I'm late."
His father glanced at him. "It's your turn to say grace."
He was too tired to argue, so he said it half-heartedly, but not quickly enough to merit a rebuke.
Jamie told them about some absurd things he'd seen on the job. Pops threw in his two cents, and they bantered back-and-forth. It was almost as if they were trying to keep the conversation light for his sake—not what he'd meant when he agreed to let Linda talk to them.
His stomach was churning and his ribs had picked up their throbbing; and as the rest of the family passed around the cheesecake, he was still staring at his almost-full plate.
He shook his head when Linda offered him a slice of cheesecake, and she slipped her arm around his waist. One of the knots in his stomach untied itself, and he poked half-heartedly at a potato, choked it down.
Somehow, he managed to finish all the salad, most of the potatoes, and half of the meat.
He was on dish duty that night, and he was scraping off the last plates when his dad came in. "Hey."
"Hey, Dad."
His dad walked over to the fridge, took out two bottles of ginger ale, opened them, and sat down at the table. After a minute, Danny joined him.
"What happened in Iraq, Danny? I know you're the only one who made it home…was it a firefight?"
He shook his head. "No," he whispered. He took a swallow of ginger ale, then quietly told his dad what had happened. He was too tired to argue with him when his dad told him—again—that it hadn't been his fault.
The boys were finishing a card game with Pops, and Linda was having a quiet conversation with his dad (he was pretty sure it was about him) as he shrugged his jacket on. Erin walked in the kitchen then, closed the door behind her. "We need to talk. You've been avoiding my calls."
He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "That's 'cause I don't know what to say, Erin! Between desk duty, attempting to sleep, and spending time with my boys, I've been kinda busy."
"I've been calling because I wanted to see if my big brother would meet me for lunch."
He shook his head, felt his shoulders slump. "Oh. I wouldn't be very good company. Plus, my appetite hasn't been great."
"Could a hero tempt your appetite?"
He forced a smile. "Maybe."
"Good. Then I'll meet you at the precinct tomorrow."
He nodded as cheers erupted from the next room. "Sounds good. I should get going; I'll see you tomorrow."
She smiled, put a gentle hand on his arm, and slipped out of the room.
Sean had won the card game; and after a round of high-fives, Linda joined them and they headed home.
While Linda was in the shower, he picked up the Bible, thumbed through until he found Psalm 69.
Save me, O God, for the waters have come up to my neck.
I sink in deep mire, where there is no foothold;
I have come into deep waters, and the flood sweeps over me.
I am weary with my crying out; my throat is parched.
My eyes grow dim with waiting for my God.*
Dang, it was like David had read his mind. Or maybe Dawson had been reading the Psalms that Sunday afternoon four weeks ago. He looked down at the footnote, which described David as "figuratively drowning."
He grabbed a pen off his bedside table, pulled a blank sheet of paper from the back of the Bible, and scribbled the first two verses down: "…the waters have come up to my neck…the flood sweeps over me."
*Psalm 69:1-4.