Danny fell asleep before Padre came in. When he woke up the priest was sitting in the chair next to him, reading quietly.
He blinked, sat up, cursed under his breath. Dammit, he was hurting.
"Sorry about that, Padre. How long was I asleep?"
"It's okay, Dan. About two hours. This is the first time in four days you've gotten real sleep—they've been sedating you the last few nights."
He stared at the scratchy blanket. "You've spent the nights with me, haven't you?"
The priest shrugged. "I don't sleep much anyway; you know how it is, Dan."
He nodded. Yeah, he d-n sure knew how it was.
"What…what's today? What time is it?"
"It's Tuesday, February 25, a little after 1 p.m. I can't chat long, because you have group therapy at 2."
Great. Just what he wanted.
Padre pulled a bag out from under his chair. "Linda sent some of that roast chicken you love."
"Thanks, but I'm not hungry."
"Dan, Dr. Dawson told me you'd lost twenty-five pounds in the last six weeks. A home-cooked meal has to taste better than whatever it is they're feeding you here."
He shook his head, rubbed the back of his neck. "I know you want to interrogate me, or chew me out, so get to it," he muttered.
"Dan, I'm not going to interrogate you; I just want to talk, if you're up to it."
He nodded. "Can…can you hear my confession?"
"Of course." Padre reached into his pocket, pulled out a thin purple stole. He kissed the cross on it, slipped it around his neck, made the Sign of the Cross.
Danny closed his eyes. His head was killing him. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's…I don't know, three weeks?…since my last confession. I…tried…twice…to kill myself." He sighed. "I'm going to hell, aren't I?"
Padre sighed. "No. You weren't in your right mind. Your PTSD, your depression, lessen your culpability."
He let out a shaky breath. "I know I've…committed other sins, but…I can't…remember them."
"It's okay, Dan. Are you sorry for all the other mortal sins you've committed since your last confession?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
"You know you'll have to confess them when you remember them, at your next confession?" He nodded, and Padre continued, "For your penance, pray Psalm 69." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Here's a copy. This is not part of your penance, but I think it would be good for you to memorize verses 1-3 and 13-18. Now make an Act of Contrition."
Danny swallowed hard. "O my God, I am heartily sorry…"
He choked on the words. Had he really meant them when he prayed them right before crashing his car into the barrier?
"For having offended Thee," Padre prompted.
Slowly, repeating the words after Padre, Danny finished the prayer.
He felt a weight come off his shoulders when Padre prayed the words of absolution.
He prayed Psalm 69.
He opened his mouth to ask Padre about what Dawson had said, but the older man handed over a still-warm Tupperware container.
This time he didn't argue.
Linda's roast chicken—which he normally loved—tasted like sawdust. But sawdust still tasted better than whatever they'd been feeding him the past few days. With the help of three cups of water, he managed to choke down all of the small portion Linda had sent, then set the container on the bedside table.
"How are you doing, Dan?"
"I…I don't know. Doc thinks I need to talk to you about feeling like I don't deserve to be alive."
"We'll get there, but can you tell me what happened Friday night?"
He shuddered, stared at his hands. "It was a normal, boring Friday. Had a session with Doc. Did a few things around the house for Pops and Dad. Talked with Linda. That evening, it was just me and Pops; we had dinner; he said something; I had a flashback. Went up to my room to calm down, and then I heard Pops grumbling about being out of milk. I thought it would do me good to get out of the house, so I went to buy it. Then I got back in the car, and I just…I thought to myself that I could go home, or…I could make the pain stop. So I drove…aimlessly. Wound up near the pier. Prayed the Act of Contrition right as I pointed the car toward the concrete barrier. Hypocritical, I know. Can't be forgiven for something you haven't already done."
"What do you remember next?"
He was shaking.
Padre stood up, slowly, put a hand on his arm. "You're safe, Dan. Take your time."
He nodded, numb. "I…I heard the crash. And then…the next thing I remember, was waking to find Trautman sitting there."
"The doctor you hit with the IV pole?"
He nodded. "I'm tired, Padre! I want to go home but I don't think I'm ready."
"Why not, Dan?"
He picked at a loose thread on the blanket. "I'm afraid…that everything will be too much and that I'll start wanting to end the pain, again."
"Has Dr. Dawson talked to you about what to do when that happens?" He shook his head, and Padre asked, "What do you think he would tell you to do?"
He shrugged, cursed at the pain in his ribs. "Call someone, not be alone."
"Those sound like very good things to do. Be sure to talk to him tomorrow."
His old chaplain shifted in the hard chair. "Dr. Dawson talked to me briefly. I could tell you all the theological reasons why you deserve to be alive, but I don't think they'd help. You need to believe it here"—he tapped his chest—"not just here"—he tapped his head.
"Not too big on faith, Padre. I mean, I do all the Catholic things—Mass, confession—but my faith slipped away sometime after I got home. I'm no better than Jimmy or Matt or Jonesy or the rest of them! I have a temper, I cross the line at work, I cuss, I'm not a good person, Padre! Why am I alive, and Jonesy and the rest of them aren't?"
Padre sighed. "I don't know, Dan. There's no easy answer to that question—plus, you'd clobber me if I just gave you an easy answer. But you are alive. And killing yourself…won't honor their memory, it won't bring them back. You deserve better than that."
"How do you know that?" he whispered. "Everyone keeps saying I deserve healing, I deserve happiness…what if I don't? What if …?"
Padre shook his head. "Dan, you're a good person. You do bad things, but we all do—that's fallen human nature. But that doesn't make you a bad person, it doesn't mean you're intrinsically evil."
He groaned. "Please, skip the million-dollar words, Padre."
"Your life is not yours, Dan; it's not something you own and can get rid of on a whim. Your life is a gift from God. He's the only one Who can decide when it's your time to die."
He nodded. "Yeah, yeah, picked all that up in those twelve years of Catholic school."
"Do you believe it?"
He kicked the bed railing. "Dammit, Padre, I already told Doc I don't wanna die!"
"Good. I'm glad. But you need to have a reason to live, and the basic, most fundamental reason is knowing that you deserve to be alive."
He flinched. "I thought you said you weren't gonna give me an easy answer, Padre. Sounds to me like that's all you're saying!"
"Dan…if you were meant to die in Fallujah, if that had been God's Will, then you would not be sitting here talking with me. You deserve to live; you deserve a future. I have gotten letters from Marines who have been exactly where you are, who have told me: 'Padre, I'm glad I didn't succeed in killing myself. I got help, I'm happy.' I want that for you, Dan."
"Forgive me, Padre, but go to hell!"
Padre locked eyes with him. "From what you told me about Corporal Russell, you two sound pretty similar: more than one tour, you both lost your best friends. He broke down because he couldn't handle his PTSD. The difference right now is: you're still alive, so there's hope. You tried to offer John Russell hope. You promised you'd help him. Why do you think your life has less value than Corporal Russell's? He thought his life would be better if he jumped. You knew that wasn't the answer. Why isn't that the case for you?"
He couldn't answer that.
Someone knocked on the door-jamb. "Danny, it's time for your group therapy."
He sighed, slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed. He caught his breath.
When his ribs had stopped throbbing, he stood up. "I'll catch ya later, Padre. Thanks."
As he walked out of the door, he muttered—loudly enough that Padre, and the orderly, and the doctor walking by, could hear him—"First day of group therapy. It's gonna be f-g awesome."