A/N: This chapter contains my second original character; he walked right onto the page and wouldn't go away.
They were walking out of church the next morning when a priest—not much older than him, but walking with a cane—came up to them. "Danny Reagan?"
He frowned. The priest looked awfully familiar, but it couldn't be…he hadn't known…but he'd heard about the explosion and the resulting limp, the scarred face… "Padre…I mean…Father Donovan?"
"In the flesh, Danny."
He held out his hand; the older man gripped it, pulled him in for a half-hug, pounded him on the back. "Your dad told me you'd come to Mass with him today. How've you been?"
He shrugged. "You know how it is, Padre." He cleared his throat. "Linda, this is Father Thomas Donovan, the older brother of our pastor. He was our chaplain on…my second tour. Father, my wife, Linda."
"It's an honor to meet you, Father. Thank you for your service," Linda said, and Danny saw the priest flinch.
She put a hand on his arm. "I'll let you two catch up; take your time, Danny. I'll be in the car."
He nodded, squeezed her hand, then sat down in the back pew with the priest. "How long have you been back in New York? Last I heard you were in rehab in New Jersey."
"Just over a month. But I didn't come over here to tell you about rehab. How are you doing?"
He froze, and the priest said, "I'm still on sick leave. I have time to talk, Danny."
If his dad had set this up… He would have cursed if he hadn't been in church. "What did my dad tell you?"
"Nothing; he just said you'd be glad to see me. Honestly, how are you doing?" the priest asked again.
Same old, same old was on the tip of his tongue, but he'd always been honest with the priest during his time in Fallujah; he couldn't lie now… "Not too good." He sighed. "Shoved everything down for nine years. Told myself I'd gotten over it. The nightmares…told me I hadn't."
He let out a shaky breath. "Five weeks ago...I caught a case...an Army vet had beat up his wife and kidnapped his kid. He had...untreated PTSD. It took three, four days to find him. My partner and I found him five weeks ago today, on a roof with his 8-year-old kid. We got the kid to safety. I tried to talk John down, but...he killed himself, Padre. I...saw him...fall."
"I'm so sorry, Danny."
He nodded.
"Sent me into a f-g tailspin. Flashbacks, nightmares, depression, suicidal thoughts. Ended up on a rooftop Thursday night, until my shrink talked my down. I'm on at-home suicide watch now."
"Dear God," the priest whispered; and it was a prayer, not a curse. He held his breath, waiting for the older man to tell him that he was going to go to hell for even thinking that. But all Padre said was, "I'm sorry you're in so much pain, Dan. Forgive me for asking, but…do you still want to kill yourself?"
He flinched. "Part of me wants to just get up and start walking, and not stop until I walk off a bridge or into the Bay. I can't shake the thought that the pain will stop if I…ended it all." He shook his head. "I haven't had five minutes to myself since Thursday night, which is probably not a bad thing. It's…easier. But there's only so much talking I can stand, and everyone's hovering, and they think if they keep talking it'll keep me safe."
"Your family loves you; that's why they're doing that."
He shook his head. "Why did I find John Russell alive…and then have to stand there and watch while he let himself fall backwards off the roof? Why the hell didn't God just let all thirteen of us die?"
"I don't know, Dan. But you can ask Him those questions. That's what prayer is—talking to Him just like you're talking to me right now."
"I don't think 'God, help me,' counts as a prayer—not when I'm saying it in the middle of Mass because the only thing keeping me from getting up and walking into the Bay is Linda holding my hand, and the boys on the other side of me."
"That most certainly is a prayer."
He shook his head bitterly. "I should've died over there—more than once. You know that, Padre!"
"Humanly speaking, you should have died—I agree with you on that. But obviously, God thought that it wasn't your time." He was quiet for a moment, then said, slowly, "It's not your fault you survived and the rest of your unit didn't."
He kicked the pew in front of them. "How the hell do you know that?"
"Because you and I had a lot of conversations in those last few weeks, after you returned from the hospital and before the end of your tour. You told me everything that happened. Are you telling me you forgot our chats?"
He shook his head. "I remember just fine. Can we not…?"
"You need to know it's not your fault."
"My shrink's been telling me that for weeks; it hasn't helped."
The priest gripped his shoulder. "When we talked all those years ago…I didn't get it. I understand, now, some of what you were going through. The grenade that left me…like this?"—he gestured to the cane, his leg, his scarred face—"I'd gone into town to administer the Last Rites, and then I caught a ride back to base with some of our men; a grenade hit our Humvee. I was the only survivor."
"But it wasn't your fault!"
"Logically, I know that, Dan. Just as you logically know that it wasn't your fault. But emotionally… you think I don't still blame myself? Because I do…every day."
He stared at the priest's cane. "And you're functioning? The guilt hasn't eaten you alive, paralyzed you, made you think that you might as well be dead?"
"I've struggled, Dan; I still am, every morning I wake up. But my Faith, and a good therapist, and wanting to get better…has helped." He cleared his throat. "How's your prayer life?"
He shrugged. "Non-existent. I go to Sunday Mass, confession semi-regularly. I was going through the motions for years. Tried a bit harder, after…my younger son Sean was in a bike accident; coma; talk of brain swelling. I prayed…well, I talked to my brother Joe, asked him to put in a good word with the Big Guy for me. These past five weeks…I'm angry with God."
"There's nothing wrong with being angry with God, Danny. He's a big God; He can take it. Just as long as you keep talking to Him."
"How?" he whispered.
"The Psalms are a good place to start; David's own prayers to God."
"Funny. Your brother told me the same thing in confession two weeks ago. He also recommended some Psalm about drowning, which was weird, because my shrink…recognized I was drowning before even I did."
"God can work in strange metaphors. Psalm 69 is a good one. Have you put my brother's advice into practice?"
He hung his head. "No. Everything's been so hard lately. Just trying to keep my head above water, has taken…all of my energy."
"I'd like you and Linda to take five minutes a day, reading the Psalms. You don't have to go in chronological order; you can look up a theme online, and find one that way. Start with Psalm 69, if that's the one that speaks to you right now. Read it slowly, and talk to God about it—out loud."
He shot a sideways glance at the priest, who smiled. "What? Who says Catholics can't pray out loud? Tell God you're drowning, tell Him you're ticked at Him, tell Him you blame Him—just open the door a crack. Will you do that for me?"
"I'll…try," he whispered.
"You mentioned you're in therapy. One thing that I hope your doctor has asked you—and if not, I'm asking you—do you want to get better?"
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" He glanced at the priest, then the Tabernacle. "Sorry."
"Recovery hurts, Dan. Facing the memories, not burying them…hurts like a you-know-what. But you have to be willing to endure that pain in the hope that, eventually, you will heal. And healing means being able to look back on your time in Fallujah and say: 'That was hell, but I survived, and I'm alive, and I'm grateful I'm alive.' To stop burying the memories and be able to face them without having a panic attack. Do you want to get better?"
He shuddered. On one hand, he just wanted to bury it all back down in the box he'd kept the memories in for so long, throw away the key, and go back to normal life before John Russell, where he tried his hardest to not think about Fallujah during the day, and only had to face those demons in his nightmares. But on the other hand, talking, telling other living, breathing human beings, about the worst years of his life, was making the pain a little better.
"I…I guess so. But I'm afraid that if I 'get better,' I'll forget, and that would be worse than…"
"You don't have to live in pain in order to honor the memory of the guys you lost," Padre said quietly. "You'll always remember then, Dan."
He shook his head, feeling the tears pricking at his eyes. How had Padre known…? O yeah, that whole connection with God thing where Padre seemed to know what to say when he himself couldn't find the words.
"I'm tired of the pain, Padre," he whispered. Tired of Fallujah always in the background, haunting him, threatening to rise at any moment and pull him under.
"Talk to your doctor about ways to still honor their memory, Dan. Also, if you want"—he reached into his pocket, pulled out a scrap of paper and a pen—and jotted a number down—"here's my cell phone number. Call me any time, day or night; I still have at least six months of sick leave left."
He took the paper, nodded. "Thanks, Padre. Excuse me for just a second." He walked outside, called his dad.
"Hey, Danny, what's up?"
"Is there room at family dinner for Father Thomas Donovan?"
"Of course. I'm glad he found you."
"Thanks, Dad," he whispered, and hung up.
He went back inside, sat down. "I should get going, but…if you're free, we'd love to have you at family dinner."
The priest hummed. "I don't know, Danny…"
"Please, Padre! My family would love to meet the priest who kept me Catholic during—and after—my second tour."
The priest glanced at his watch. "O, all right, Dan."
He rose, genuflected; and they walked out of the church to where Linda was waiting.