The days ran into each other.
He went to group therapy sessions and never said a word.
He talked with Doc and Padre.
Took his pills like a good patient.
Walked his laps.
Went to art therapy and glared at everyone because he couldn't participate—hello, broken left arm!
Showered—always with someone in the room.
Ate the bland meals with the dull spork.
Tried to sleep.
It was Monday.
That meant it had been ten days since he tried to end it all.
At 9 a.m., they told him to go to the conference room behind the nurse's station. At least he got to skip group therapy.
Doc was there, along with a doctor whom he vaguely remembered seeing. It wasn't the one he'd clobbered. "Danny, this is Dr. McLaughlin. He's been talking with me about your progress. How you holding up, Danny?"
He sat down, shrugged, winced.
When the stabbing pain in his ribs had eased, he said, "A little better, I guess."
McLaughlin launched into some script of ten million questions: his goals, his plans, did he still feel like hurting himself, how was the medication treating him.
He wanted to go home, to see his family, to put this behind him and get better and get back to the job. No, he didn't want to die anymore. The medication was peachy. He had thought they had taken him off the Zoloft but he had misunderstood (stupid concussion). Instead they'd increased it, and the dizziness and nausea were absolutely f-g peachy.
"We're going to make a safety plan for you, for when you go home," Doc said. "The plan is to discharge you this afternoon."
He couldn't breathe. "But I can't…I'm not…"
Doc locked eyes with him. "Danny, you have to return to your life at some point; you can't hide away in the safety of St. Victor's forever."
He kicked the table leg. "I'm not hiding, dammit!"
"I know. So tell me why you don't want to go home."
His breath caught.
He couldn't go home.
He couldn't face Linda, or his dad.
Doc whispered something to McLaughlin, and the older doctor left.
"I'm listening, Danny," Doc said quietly.
"I…I can't…they're all going to be mad at me. What am I going to do if it happens again?"
"I've had a lot of conversations with your family over the last few days. None of them is mad at you, Danny. They're worried about you. As for what you're going to do if you start feeling suicidal again, I'm going to help you make a safety plan."
What felt like hours later, he was back in his room, staring at a piece of paper.
He scoffed.
This piece of paper was supposed to be his lifeline the next time he was drowning.
First was a list of signs that he needed to be aware of: being alone, thinking about hurting himself, having a flashback or nightmare.
Second was a list of things he could do alone to distract himself from thoughts of suicide. He'd had a lot of trouble putting things down. He didn't think he trusted himself. But Doc had encouraged him to put three things down, and he finally wrote: "Exercise. Hit punching bag (when arm and ribs are healed). Read a book."
Third was a list of ways he could distract himself by reaching out to other people. Helping the boys with homework, playing chess with his grandfather, helping his dad or grandfather around the house. (Doc wanted him to keep staying at his dad's, and Danny was too tired to argue.)
Fourth was a list of family and friends he could reach out to: his dad and Linda.
Fifth was a list of professionals he could call: Doc and Padre.
Sixth and last thing on the list was the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255.
It was 4 p.m. when the doctor came back, with Doc. "Danny, you're going home," Doc said
Awkwardly—again, broken left arm!—he scribbled his name on ten million pieces of paper.
Doc's hand was warm on his arm. "What are you going to do if you start thinking about hurting yourself?"
He stared at his hands. The paper, folded neatly, was burning a hole in his pocket. "Do something to distract myself. If that doesn't work, spend time with the boys or Pops. If that doesn't work tell Linda or Dad."
"And if none of those things help?"
"Call you or Padre."
"Good. I'll see you tomorrow, Danny."
The two doctors left, and there was a knock on the door. "Hey, babe, can I come in?"
He turned as quickly as he could. "L…Linda?"
He stood up, buried his face in her shoulder. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he sobbed.
"Shhh, Danny, I'm here, I love you."
Linda had brought in a bag of clothes. His zip-up USMC hoodie—with the string removed, of course.
She helped him put it on, leaving it loose over his left arm.
It was warm.
It was also ridiculously loose.
How the hell much weight had he lost?
He held Linda's hand tightly as they walked down corridors, rode down the elevator, walked out of the hospital and into the parking lot.
His head was still killing him.
"Who's at home…?"
"We're going back to your dad's for a while. Erin's there. The boys are in school; Jamie's going to take them to a movie, and then bring them over for dinner."
He shook his head. He couldn't see them.
"Your dad wanted to know if it was okay if we had family dinner tonight."
He froze, his hand on the door-handle. "I thought everyone would be mad at me," he whispered.
"Danny, we're worried about you, but we're not mad. We love you. We're sorry that you're hurting so bad, and we're glad you got help. Pops wants to talk to you when we got home."
He got in the car, buckled his seatbelt. "It's not his fault."
"I know, but he still wants to apologize."
He nodded. "Sure. Can we go home now?"
Linda kissed him and started the car.