Linda had gone upstairs to check on the boys, and he found himself unsure what to say to his therapist.
"Doc, I know you probably need to get going; but…what the hell am I supposed to do, stuck here at my dad's for the next two weeks? I don't know why I can't just be on modified; it's not like I'm sick!"
"Danny, how much do you normally weigh?"
He frowned. How was that relevant? "160, give or take."
"At the ER last night, you were under 140. Being 20 pounds underweight…that's not healthy, Danny." Doc leaned forward. "As for what you're going to do…I know both your dad and Linda will be taking some days off. Talk to them, let them help you."
He shook his head. "They shouldn't…" He swallowed hard, looked away. "They shouldn't have to worry about me."
"Danny, look at me, please." He turned, flinched at the ferocity of the younger man's gaze. "You are worth worrying about, Danny."
No I'm not! he thought, but knew better than to say it out loud.
"What was that, Danny?"
He frowned, looked up at Doc.
"You just self-censored; I could tell from your body language. What were you thinking, Danny?"
He stared at his sock feet. "I'm not worth worrying about," he whispered.
"Why?"
He blinked. "What…?"
"You heard me, Danny."
He sighed, rubbed at the back of his neck. "Come on, Doc, can't we talk about this tomorrow?"
"No. I'm not going to let you skirt around this issue anymore. Tell me why you think you don't deserve to have others worry about you. Then I'll call it a day."
He glared at Doc.
"Do you remember my bullet analogy?" He shrugged, and Doc went on, "Lodged somewhere under a mass of scar and infected tissue, is the answer to my question. And you need to dig through that mess, pull out the bullet. Talk through it. Tell me why you're so terrified to face it."
He flinched. He wasn't terrified, dammit! "I'm a cop; we protect and serve; we take care of others, not the other way around."
"Being a cop is a job, Danny; it's not who you are as a person. Human beings live in community, not in isolation. If you're 'too tough' to let others worry about you, you end up alone, bitter, turned in on yourself, burying your pain until it reaches a boiling point and explodes in your face. There's nothing wrong with letting people worry about you, Danny."
He cursed under his breath, stood up, took a shaky turn around his dad's living room. Doc was like a dog with a bone.
"Danny, come sit down, please." He sighed, stalked over to the couch. "Your family loves you, right?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
He shrugged. "Because it's what family does."
"Do you love them?"
He shot Doc a look. "Yeah."
"Do you worry about them?"
He nodded.
"So why do you think they shouldn't worry about you?"
"Dammitall! I don't know, Doc!"
"Yes, you do, Danny. I promise, I'll leave you to the unwanted worries of your family as soon as you give me an answer. Let me re-phrase the question for you: You don't want them to worry about you because you think you don't deserve their worry, their concern. Why is that?"
"I've lost too many damn people…family, friends, fellow Marines, fellow cops. The less you worry, the less you hurt."
"You think the less your family worries about you, the less they'll hurt if you get killed on the job?" He shrugged, and Doc shook his head. "What about your brother Joe?"
The wave crashed over him again and he couldn't breathe. He'd only told Doc about Joe…the one time. He had to swallow several times before he could speak. "What…what about Joe?"
"He was your brother. You loved him, you cared about him. I can tell his death still upsets you. Would you prefer if you hadn't loved him so much…because that would make the pain less?"
He whirled, kicked the couch because he'd be in a heap of trouble if he put a hole in his father's living room. "I didn't say that, Doc! Stop twisting my words, dammit!"
"I'm following your logic, Danny. You just said: you're not worth worrying about—because the less they worry, the less they'll hurt if something happens to you. Did I hear you correctly?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. You're so close, Danny…where did you get the idea that others shouldn't worry about you?"
He glared at Doc, stalked over to the couch and slumped onto it. He didn't think he'd always felt this way, but the past four weeks…since John Russell's suicide… "Is it…because I'm depressed? Because the depression's lying to me?"
"Good job, Danny. That's exactly what it is." Doc stood, pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to him.
He unfolded it. At the top it read: "Lies Depression Tells Me."
The first one was "I don't deserve other people worrying about me."
There were a few more, and then there were numbered lines for him to add more. "Homework, Doc, really?"
"Not for now; we'll work on it next week probably. If you're up to it, though…do you remember the homework I gave you last night?"
Those stupid lists. "Yeah."
"Try to work on getting two things on each list, by tomorrow. Can you do that?"
He shrugged. Wasn't like he had anything else to do.
Doc held out his hand. "I'll see you at 10 a.m., Danny. Get some sleep tonight?"
"Thanks."
He frowned when he wandered into the dining room. The whole family was there—except for Nicki, Jack, and Sean. "Where are the kids?"
"In the kitchen," his grandfather said. "This is an adults-only dinner."
He sighed. "Look, guys, you…you don't…"
"Danny…we're here because we want to be here—not because we have to. We're your family, and we love you," Erin said earnestly.
He stared at his plate. He hadn't seen that look of raw pain in her eyes in…years. Not since Joe's death.
"Linda, I'd like you to say grace," his dad said.
He reached for her hand, frowned when he heard himself say, "Actually, Dad, I…I'd like to say it." He cleared his throat, crossed himself. "Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts…" The stupid lump in his throat was back, and he swallowed hard as Linda joined in with him, "Which we are about to receive, from Thy bounty. Through Christ our Lord. Amen."
His grandfather and sister had cooked his favorite Friday meal…cod, potatoes, and green beans…and he took generous portions, hoped the anti-nausea med would work and he could clear his plate.
Jamie and Erin were trying to hard to keep the conversation light, but that wasn't distracting him from the fact that everyone kept glancing at him.
Finally, the fifth time Jamie shot him that damned sideways glance, he'd had enough.
"Will you all stop looking at me as if you think I'm gonna stab myself with this knife?" he exploded, then cursed when Erin burst into tears.
She pushed her chair back and fled, and his grandfather glared at him. "Daniel. That was uncalled-for. Go talk to your sister."
He glared back, but stood up, went into the kitchen. There was no sign of Erin, but Nikki pointed to the stairs, and he trudged up them.
He found her in her old room, head buried in an old coat in the closet.
"Erin, look…I…I'm sorry." He touched her shoulder, but she flinched. "I didn't mean it. I just…"
"Didn't mean it? Like you 'didn't mean' to go up on the roof of your therapist's office and nearly jump off?" She whirled, slugged him in the chest, and he grabbed her hands to still them. He couldn't afford another bout of bruised ribs—not when the occasional twinge still took his breath away.
She buried her face in his chest. "I can't lose you too, Danny," she sputtered.
He brought his arms around her in a hug. "I…I'm sorry, Erin," he whispered.
When she had cried herself out, she looked up at him. "What happened, Danny? Doc said you panicked, but…"
He shook his head. "Later. Or else they'll send a posse to get us."
He followed her downstairs, sat down with an apologetic shrug to the rest of his family.
He poked at his food until everyone else was finally finished.
"You two, dishes," his grandfather said, and he trudged into the kitchen behind his kid sister.
"I'll wash, you dry?" she offered.
He shrugged, grabbed the towel.
After the third knife slipped out of his hands and clattered on the floor, he picked it up, threw it in the sink.
Then he sighed, threw the towel down, and leaned on the counter. This would be a lot easier if his grandfather and father weren't sitting at the table behind them. "Dad, Pops, can you give us a minute?"
"Come sit down, Danny," his grandfather said.
He shook his head. He didn't want to be looking anyone in the eyes while he had this conversation.
"This is between me and Erin, Pops. All due respect, we don't need you and Dad refereeing us."
"Danny, I've barely had a chance to look you in the eyes and talk to you since last night. Come sit down, and talk with us. Please."
He couldn't argue when his dad used that tone, so he turned, stalked over to the table, and sat down.
At some point, four beer bottles had materialized on the table.
His dad nudged one over to him, and he took a cautious sip. He knew about the "no alcohol on the happy pills" thing, didn't he?
It wasn't bad, but it definitely wasn't beer. "What the hell's this?"
"Ginger beer. Completely alcohol-free."
He sighed, took another swig.
He'd been having one conversation with Erin; now his grandfather and father wanted in on it? What the hell could he say to them?
"Danny, it was bad enough you were even considering it two weeks ago, and then you were trapped in the middle of a flashback. Last night…"—Erin's voice broke—"last night, you were in your right mind, and you…"
"I wasn't in my right mind, Erin! I'd just had a flashback. I couldn't handle the…the pain; I couldn't breathe. So I bolted."
"I didn't know. I'm sorry," she said. "What…what can I do, how can I help?"
He sighed. "I don't know. Doc probably told you all the things to do and not to do, starting with not leaving me alone for even one second."
"We're not trying to smother you, Danny; we're trying to keep you safe from yourself," his dad said.
He shook his head, pulled his badge out of his pocket, and slid it across the table to his dad, who pocketed it.
"You honestly think I'm going to get back to full duty?"
"In time, yes."
"Dad…I'm on an anti-depressant and now a med for freaking anxiety; I nearly jumped off a roof last night because I couldn't handle the pain; I'm having nightmares and flashbacks—I can't do the job like that!"
"How many weeks of modified do you have left?"
"Four."
"How many weeks of sick leave before you return to modified duty?"
"At least two." Why was his dad asking? He knew all this…unless it was another trick like Doc used, asking twenty questions to get him to realize something.
"That gives you six weeks—for the anti-depressant to work, for you to talk with Dr. Dawson about ways to lessen the flashbacks and the nightmares; for you to do everything you need to do in order to be ready to be back on the job. You will get through this, Danny."
"You don't know that, dad! Maybe I'm not gonna pass the psych eval, maybe I'm not cut out to be a cop anymore!"
"Danny…don't worry about that now."
"How the hell am I not supposed to worry about it? What am I gonna do if I don't get back on the job?"
"Danny, I spent 12 years taught by Jesuits. Somebody—I think it was Ignatius of Loyola—said something to the effect of: don't make a decision in the midst of 'desolation'—the 16th-century term for what today we call 'depression.' In other words: this is not the time to make a decision about your future. Wait out the six weeks, let therapy and medication start to get your head on straight again."
"You're telling me to be a good little patient and take my pills and go to therapy? Come on, Dad! All three of us"—he gestured to his father and grandfather—"saw the same crap in the military. I know your attitude toward therapy and medication! How the hell didn't you two go off the deep end, end up in therapy, drunk, or worse?"
"And I told you a few weeks ago, I was wrong to have that attitude," his father said mildly.
"There but for the grace of God," said his grandfather. He rose. "It's late, Danny. Go find your wife; you should be spending Valentine's Day with her, not with me and your father."
They disappeared into the living room, and he rose to find Linda.