Linda drove, and he sat in the back so Padre could stretch his leg out.
Padre was telling her a story—more embarrassing to Danny than actually funny—and he shook his head. "Do you remember that, Danny?" the priest asked as Linda chuckled.
He shrugged. "Yeah, sure," he whispered, and squeezed his eyes shut.
The second time he wakes up in the hospital in some nameless town in Iraq, the other bed is empty. He curses, and then shrinks back into the bed when a voice says, "Danny, it's Padre Donovan. Can you hear me?"
He blinks in the too-bright light. His head's killing him and his vision's blurry. Stupid drugs. It has to be drugs, it can't be tears; he's a Reagan and a Marine and a cop, and none of those men cry. "Padre?" he whispers. "Where…where's Jonesy? How's Jimmy doing, and Matt, and…and John?"
"I'm sorry, Danny. I'm so sorry."
He beats his fist against the flimsy mattress, cursing at the pain that shoots up his arm. If they had died, that would mean… "Dammit, Padre, don't tell me that!"
"I can't lie to you, Dan."
He shakes his head, cursing. "Don't f-g tell me that I'm the only one out of thirteen who survived that hellhole!"
He tries to sit up, ready to leave and walk back to the base, find the camp in which they'd been held, and blast the insurgents to pieces; but the room spins and his ears ring with the noise of a million grenades going off; then there is a prick in his arm, and the world goes black.
Someone was rubbing his back. "Breathe, Danny!" He blinked. He was in the car…Linda's car…in Bay Ridge, safe in New York. Linda was sitting next to him, rubbing his back and whispering something. Padre was standing next to the car, leaning in the open door.
"I'm sorry, Danny," Padre said. "If I'd known that seeing me would upset you this much, I wouldn't have come. I should go…"
He shook his head, tried to swallow. "No!" He squeezed his eyes shut, let out a shaky breath. "It's not your fault, Padre. I've been having flashbacks anyway. Just…" He forced his eyes open. "Linda, can you give me a minute with Padre?"
She kissed his cheek. "Of course. Take your time, Danny. I'll go talk to the family." She climbed down from the back seat, walked around to Padre and whispered something to him—probably telling the priest to go easy on him—and went inside.
He swiped at his eyes. His heart was going one hundred miles a minute, and he took a shaky breath, let it out. "Padre, do you remember the night after Jonesy died? You didn't even have to tell me, I just knew from your body language, all four of them were gone."
"I remember, Dan," Padre said sadly.
"How…how long was that? After we'd been rescued?"
"Just a little over forty-eight hours. You and Jonesy had been doing well; and then overnight, he took a turn for the worse—internal bleeding—and they lost him on the operating table. I…didn't want you to be alone when you woke up."
"Padre, they tortured us. Why the hell didn't I die?"
"I don't know, Dan. You'd lost a lot of blood; you were in and out of consciousness. You kept saying Jonesy's name, which is why they put the two of you in the same room."
"He was my best friend."
"I know." Padre put a hand on his arm. "Their deaths weren't your fault, Dan."
He wanted to explode but he was too damned tired. He shook his head. "I wish I could believe you, Padre."
"Try, Dan. Keep talking to your therapist about this. Pray about it. I know for a fact God doesn't want you carrying this burden any longer."
He shook his head. Like God cared. "They're going to send out a search party if we're out here much longer," he muttered, and got out of the car, shakily followed the priest inside his father's house.
Frank frowned when Linda herded Jamie and Erin into the sitting room. "What's going on, Linda?"
She quickly told them. "I'll try to tell Father this, but…keep the conversation as light as possible; no shop-talk, no cases, no arguments. Danny had a bad flashback on the drive home; I think from seeing Father."
"Danny's been fine for the past nine years; why is he remembering everything now? And if he wasn't fine then…why didn't he talk to anyone?" Jamie wondered aloud.
Frank cleared his throat. "He didn't talk to anyone because he didn't want to appear weak. I suggested it to him a couple times, but I was also afraid… if I pushed him, he'd end up…he'd end up in a place where the only way he saw out was to take his own life." Frank sighed. "I don't know he's been fine for the past nine years; I think he's just been throwing himself into work, so he doesn't have to remember. Being a workaholic is a common coping mechanism for veterans."
He heard the front door open, and he walked into the kitchen to greet his son's former chaplain.
He winced when he saw Danny. His son's face was ashen, his eyes glassy and red-rimmed. He was moving slowly, as if he hadn't fully come back from the flashback.
He shook the priest's hand. "Thanks for coming over, Father. Please, come in." He walked the priest into the sitting room, where Linda began introductions, then went back into the kitchen.
Danny stood at the kitchen sink, splashing cold water on his face. He was groping for the paper towels when Frank pressed some into his hand. "Linda told us what's going on. We're not in a rush."
"I hate this, Dad! I was f-g fine for nine years!"
"Burying the pain isn't the same as being fine, Danny."
Danny shook his head, leaned on the sink. "It was a helluva lot easier than flashbacks."
He put a careful hand on his son's shoulder. "I'll try to stall a bit, but Jamie and Erin will need to come back in here to finish dinner."
He nodded. He wanted to skip dinner and sleep, but that would be an open invitation to nightmares. So he needed to get himself under control before his siblings came back in. "I need to go put a clean shirt on; can you send Linda up?" He asked, and headed for the stairs.
He'd sweated through the dress shirt he'd worn to Mass. Stupid flashback.
He stripped, washed off the sweat, and was putting on deodorant when he heard a knock on the bathroom door. "Danny?" He unlocked it, let Linda in, and didn't resist as she pulled him in for a hug. "Feeling better?"
He shrugged. "No. Feeling cleaner, though. Can't I just skip dinner, tell the family I've got the flu or something?"
She shook her head against his chest, ran her finger along the scars—thankfully without asking about them. He didn't think he could handle that conversation. "You know the rules, Danny. And I talked to Padre; he'll keep the conversation light. Though he did want to know…if the boys ask how he knows you…"
"Tell 'em the truth. They already know I'm screwed up."
She turned his face towards her, looked hard into his eyes. "No, they do not. They know you saw a lot of bad stuff in Iraq; they know you're in pain. They know sometimes your brain plays tricks on you and makes you think you're back there instead of safe at home. They do not think you're 'screwed up.'"
He nodded and went into the bedroom to put on a clean shirt. His fingers fumbled with the buttons, and Linda came up to him, deftly buttoned them. "It's okay, Danny."
He shook his head. "How are we going to get the boys to school?"
"Jamie will take them in the morning, and I'll pick them up."
"That's a lot of driving."
"It's okay. We'll make it work, Danny. All you need to focus on is working with Doc, and doing your homework."
He let her fix his tie, and followed her downstairs.
Padre led grace, and then the questions started—everyone talking over each other. His grandfather shushed them all, and Jack piped up, "Father, how do you know my dad?"
"I was his chaplain on his second tour in Iraq."
"O cool!" the young teen said, and Danny flinched, set his fork down. He saw the priest wince a little, too, and wondered how he was going to answer his son. "What was Dad like?"
Danny shook his head, leaned his chin in his hands. This was going to go worse than he'd thought. He should have gone to bed.
Father Donovan shrugged slightly. "Pretty much like he is now—hot-headed, loyal to a fault, determined."
Erin smirked and Jamie shook his head.
Padre looked hard at the boys, then at Nikki. "Jack, Sean, Nikki…I'm sure your parents have told you this, but I want to listen carefully to me. War is not 'cool.' It's ugly, it's tragic, and it's sad. Serving your country is honorable, but war for the sake of war—is horrible. And killing people—even though it has to be done in the line of duty—is always, always a tragedy. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Jack frowned, thinking hard, then nodded. "I think so. Dad saw a lot of really bad things."
"Yes, he did. But now's not a good time to talk about that." Padre sipped at his water. "Frank, what's your favorite part about being the police commissioner?"
"Probably getting to know my officers on a personal level. It doesn't happen as often as I like, but when it does, I'm generally pleased. Although there was this one time…"
His dad told the story, with his grandfather and Erin chiming in, and Danny picked up his fork, moved the salad around his plate. It had always worked before to make his family think he was eating; only person he had never been able to fool with that trick had been his mother, God rest her soul.
He flinched when Linda slipped her arm around his waist. "Frank, are there any home repair projects Danny and I could help you with while we're here?"
"Oh, you don't need to worry about that, Linda."
"Come on, we'll be here for two weeks, let us help."
"Why are we going to be here for two weeks?" Sean asked.
His fork slipped out of his hand at that question. He had thought they had answered that to the boys' satisfaction. "Because your dad's screwed up," he muttered under his breath.
Linda rubbed his back. "We already told you this, Sean. Dad's not feeling well, and he's off work till he's feeling better, so we're taking a little family vacation."
"We never had to take two weeks of vacation at Grandpa's before," Sean sulked.
"Are you saying you don't like staying here?" his dad asked.
"Sean, Jack, take your plates and go into the kitchen," Linda said sternly.
"Aww, don't send the kids away," Danny muttered. "I'm the one responsible for this mess."
He pushed his chair back, bolted blindly for the back door and his mother's garden.
All he did these days, anything he did, he screwed up. He'd screwed with his boys' schedules and lives, with his wife's work schedule, with his dad's. Maybe it was a good thing for him to be at his dad's for two weeks, but had he given a thought to his boys, to his wife? Maybe his dad and grandfather didn't want him and his wife and their grandsons underfoot for two weeks.
No, all he did was think about himself. Stupid, selfish man.
You don't deserve this family.
"Why are you so angry with yourself?"
It was his dad, and he whirled. "O come on, Dad! Why do you think? I've messed with everyone's schedules; my kids are mad at me; I'm being a burden to everyone…"
"We're your family, Dan. It's okay to lean on us. Every one of us wants you to find healing, and we want to help—that's why Pop and I suggested you stay with us."
He shook his head. "Maybe you can't help! Maybe I can't 'find healing,' Dad; maybe it's too late."
"You're still alive, Dan; it's not too late. But you have to be willing to get better—not for our sake, but because you deserve to get better! Which means facing all of this head-on."
"O, go to hell. You think I asked for this, you think I f-g like the flashbacks and the panic attacks and being in so much pain I want to kill myself?"
"I didn't say that, Danny. What would you tell Jamie if he were in your shoes?"
His breath caught. "What?"
"You heard me, Danny. If Jamie were depressed and suicidal and told you that he didn't deserve to be alive…what would you tell him?"
"Well, first, Jamie wouldn't feel that way, and secondly, he'd never confide in me. That's what he had Joe for."
"Hypothetically, Danny, what would you tell Jamie?"
He kicked at the low brick wall surrounding the garden. "I don't know."
"Think, Danny. Your brother's life is in danger from his own hands…what would you tell him?"
He shook his head. "I'd tell him…that he wouldn't always feel depressed, that things would get better. And it would just be a whole bunch of platitudes that wouldn't help."
He shuddered. His dad nodded. "Those are the exact same things we're trying to tell you, Danny; and they're not platitudes. Why won't you believe us?"
"Because I'm not the golden boy! I'm just a f-g grunt!"
"You are much more than just a grunt, Danny. And you deserve as much healing and happiness as Jamie would, if he were in your shoes."
He shook his head, flinched when his dad put a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, it's cold out here, let's go inside."
Reluctantly, he followed his dad inside. Everyone had finished dinner, and Padre was telling the kids a funny story. He grabbed his still-full plate, carried it into the kitchen, scraped the food into the garbage can.
Erin had made coffee, and he sat back down next to Linda, who reached for his hand, squeezed it.
Padre finished his story, and Jack said, "Dad's been home from Iraq for like forever, and he's never had someone he knew back then over for dinner. So why'd he invite you?"
Padre was quiet for a long minute, then said, slowly, "Because I'm a priest, Jack, I was able to be there for your dad when no one else was."
Jack frowned. "What do you mean, Father?"
Padre glanced at Danny, who shrugged. "On his second tour, all the guys in your dad's unit were killed. Your dad is the only one who made it home."
"That's awful!" Jack said, and stood up, ran over, and tackled Danny in a hug.
He brought his arms up to hug his boy.
He blinked furiously. He couldn't let Jack see his tears. He tried to swallow, but the lump in his throat was choking him.
His phone rang just then—saved by the bell, he thought—and he pulled away, stood up. "Sorry, kiddo, gotta take this. Excuse me, Padre, Dad."
He walked into the kitchen and closed the door. "Hey, Doc."
"Hey, Danny. How are you?"
He shrugged. "F-g great. I bumped into my old chaplain after Mass. Had a long talk with him. It was almost like a session with you, with a bit more faith thrown in."
"You know, Danny, if it would help, we can talk about your faith in these sessions. You've never brought it up, though, so…"
He shook his head. "Nah, I'm good, Doc."
"Okay. I won't keep you long. What's going through your head right now?"
"I'm tired. I'm hurting my family, I know I'm hurting them; I'm being a burden to them; and no matter how much everyone f-g tells me that I need to heal for my own sake, I don't…" He shook his head. "I'm f-g sick and tired of being depressed, but trying to heal just sounds like it would take too much work, and I just want to crawl under the covers and go to sleep."
"I'm sorry to hear that. If I promised you the pain would end, that you would not be depressed for the rest of your life, would that give you a reason to keep living?"
"If I believed you, maybe."
"Would I lie to you, Danny?"
"No," he whispered.
"I want you to work on your homework tonight: add three more things to that list of the lies depression tells you, find two reasons to keep living, and two things you like about yourself. Will you do that for me? That's seven things; it shouldn't take you more than ten minutes."
"Sure." Anything to get Doc off his back. It wasn't going to help, though; he wasn't going to find any reasons. "Thanks, Doc," he said, and hung up.
He turned from the sink to see Jack standing there, shaking. "I wasn't eavesdropping, I promise!" the teen said, with tears in his eyes.
"Come here," Danny said, and held his arms out.
Jack rushed at him, threw his arms around his waist. "I'm sorry, Daddy!" he said, the words muffled against Danny's chest. "I'm sorry all your friends died! But I'm so glad you came home!"
"Yeah, and why is that?" the words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them.
Jack pulled away, looked him in the eye with a fierceness Danny had never seen before. "Because you're my dad. And I love you. And I don't want you to die!" He burst into tears then, and Danny pulled him in for a hug.
"I'm sorry, kiddo. I'm so sorry," he murmured.
When Jack's sobs had slowed, Danny led him over to the table. He sat down, and Danny got the milk out of the fridge, rummaged around till he found the bottle of chocolate syrup. He made them two glasses of chocolate milk, then sat down. He handed Jack his glass. "I'm sorry, kiddo," he said again. "How's school?"
He half-listened as his boy told him all about school, until Linda walked in. "Sorry to interrupt, but Padre needs to get back to the rectory. Jack, go change out of your church clothes. Uncle Jamie's going to take you boys to shoot some hoops."
Linda parked, and he got out, walked the priest to the rectory door. "Thanks for the chat, Padre."
"You're welcome, Dan. I have one question for you."
He winced. He wasn't going to like this. Padre had always had a way of saving hard truths for last.
"What would Jimmy Beale—God rest his soul—say to you?"
He caught his breath sharply. Corporal Jimmy Beale had been a friend, and a brother; he'd saved Danny's life three…no, four…times in Iraq, and the bullet that ultimately killed him had been meant for Danny.
"He'd tell me to get my head out of my you-know-what. And that killing myself would be the same as letting the insurgents kill another Marine."
"And he would be right. They would win if you killed yourself. And you would leave another family—your family—grieving."
Images flashed through his mind…Linda in black, the boys in shock, Jamie beating the punching bag until he broke his knuckles, Erin working around the clock, Nikki crying herself to sleep, his grandfather suffering another heart attack, his father thinking about eating his gun…
Padre gripped his hand, pulled him in for another half-hug. "Listen to your doctor, Dan, do your homework, lean on your family, and call me any time, day or night, if you need to vent. Okay?"
He nodded. "Thanks, Padre."