He sat there after Doc had left.
Tears were stinging his eyes.
He hadn't cried once in the psych ward—which was a pretty good record.
He rested his head in his hand.
He should go upstairs and find Linda, but he was tired. Gosh, he was so tired.
There was a hand on his good shoulder, and he jumped.
"Easy, Danny, it's just me."
Linda.
He must be really out of it if he hadn't heard her walk in the room.
"Sorry," he whispered.
He sat up, swiped at his face.
She kissed the top of his aching head, then pulled him close.
"What's wrong?"
He let out a shaky breath.
"John Russell's death wasn't my fault. And it wasn't my fault that…I'm the only one who made it home from Iraq."
Linda's arms tightened around him. "No, no it wasn't."
"Why doesn't that make me feel any better?"
"Because you still miss the guys you lost. You can grieve them without feeling guilty for their deaths."
He sighed. "What am I paying Doc for, if you're so full of wisdom?"
She kissed the top of his head. "Because he's a professional; he knows how to help you. Also, there are things you'll tell him, that you won't tell me—which is a good thing." She pulled him to his feet. "Come upstairs with me and take a nap; you're exhausted."
He nodded. Yeah, that's because, in between the nightmares, I was trying to talk myself out of making them stop permanently.
He didn't say it out loud. That wouldn't be fair to her.
He shook his head. "It's 11 a.m., Linda; I got up less than 3 hours ago. I've got homework to do."
"And you can do it later, Danny. Come on, you're still recovering. Don't try to tell me you're not hurting."
He shrugged, winced.
"How 'bout I give you half of the pain pill? Maybe it won't make you feel as lousy."
"Okay, sure."
When he woke up, he was alone.
He couldn't breathe.
What if…?
Something crinkled under his hand.
A piece of paper.
Linda's handwriting.
Sorry, babe, but I had to run over to the boys' school. Your dad and Henry are downstairs.
Which meant he was just as alone as he had been eleven days ago.
He had palmed the half a pain pill Linda had given him.
Going downstairs was definitely out of the question, until his head stopped trying to explode and his ribs stopped stabbing him.
He glanced at the clock.
He'd only been asleep for 20 minutes.
He sat up, reached into his pocket, pulled out the half-pill, dry-swallowed it.
Narcotic on an empty stomach. Just what the doctor ordered.
That was stupid, Reagan.
He stared at the ceiling.
He reached for his phone but his hand brushed a piece of paper.
He squinted at it in the dim room.
His safety plan.
Exercise was out of the question until his ribs and arm and head healed.
Why had been so dumb as to put it down? Hell, why had Doc let him put it down?
He really didn't want to face his grandfather after that chat they'd had the night before.
His dad was at work. No, Linda's note had said he was downstairs. Yet another family member Danny was inconveniencing.
He really didn't want to call Doc, not half an hour after the younger man had left.
That left one person to call.
He found Padre's number in his contacts.
There was no answer, and he closed his eyes, remembering their conversation the other night.
"I've been having that same nightmare…night after night after night…ever since John Russell…killed himself. Every single one of the guys in my unit looks me in the eyes and tells me it's my fault he's dead."
He had taken a shaky breath. "The nightmare's new, but the thought isn't. I've blamed myself since I woke up in that hospital bed in Iraq."
"Did you ever talk to anyone, tell anyone you blamed yourself?"
"Of course not, Padre! Whaddaya think—I wanted to get sent to the department shrink and put on modified for the rest of my life? No, I just did my job harder and walked head-on into danger!"
"That's a rough way to live, Dan."
He had nodded, taken another, shakier, breath. "Everyone…you, Doc, Linda, Dad…keeps telling me that… what happened in Iraq…wasn't my fault. What…what if…all of you…are right?"
"That would change a lot of things for you, wouldn't it, Dan?"
He had nodded, unable to look his former chaplain in the eyes. "Scares the hell out of me, pardon my French, Padre."
"Why does it scare you?"
"Because…I've spent…nine years…trying to redeem myself…thinking I had to justify being alive."
"And now, maybe, you don't have to justify being alive?"
He hadn't known the answer to that.
"Isn't that a good thing?"
He had shaken his head slowly. "I don't know, Padre. I don't know why I'm alive anymore, if not to redeem myself for their deaths."
"Maybe you're meant to live without that burden, Dan."
"How?"
"By finding another reason to live."
He had scoffed. "What are you—my chaplain, or my shrink?"
The older man had smiled at him. "Your chaplain, but I've spent 30 years studying human nature, and I took solid Thomistic psychology courses in the seminary." He shifted in the chair, winced, caught Danny's eye again. "If you're not living to redeem yourself for their deaths…then what are you going to live for?"
"I don't know, Padre!"
"I think you do."
He shook his head. He'd snapped at the priest then, and he was still ashamed.
His phone rang.
It was Padre. "Hey, Dan, sorry I missed your call."
"That…that's okay."
"What's going on?"
"Wanted to apologize for snapping at you yesterday."
"Apology accepted; I forgive you. That's not why you called, though. What's going on, Dan?"
He shook his head. He should have known he couldn't fool Padre that easy. "Just talked with Doc about…not blaming myself for the guys in my unit. I still…he still wants me to come up with reasons for living—that don't include redeeming myself for their deaths. I can't…"
"Do you want to live, Dan?"
"Yes," he whispered.
"Why?"
"Because…"
Damn, this was hard.
"Because…I want to watch my boys grow up."
"That's a good starting-point, Dan. Go finish your homework; I'll try to come see you tomorrow."
"Thanks, Padre."
The priest hung up, and Danny sighed.
He couldn't procrastinate on his homework anymore.
He found the green folder, sat down on the floor.
The last time he'd worked on any of these lists, had been the morning he'd crashed his car.
The list on top was the one he thought he hated the most: REASONS TO KEEP LIVING.
He'd only ever come up with one legitimate reason that he honestly believed:
Because my family needs me/I want to watch my boys grow up.
Yet even that hadn't been enough…not that he'd been thinking about his family that night. All he'd been thinking about that night was making the pain stop.
Stupid, selfish…
"Stop it, Reagan!" he said aloud.
He was supposed to be stopping the "negative self-talk." Stupid psychological jargon.
He took the pen out, thought about throwing it across the room.
But then he'd have to stand up and go get it, and his ribs would hate him.
So instead he uncapped it, doodled as he tried to find words.
They all sounded so fake, so hollow.
Because life will get better.
Because I won't always feel this way.
F-g platitudes.
He wrote them down anyway.
He didn't like them.
Doc probably wouldn't like them, either.
He wrote down the words that Padre and Doc had told him: he deserved to be alive, he needed to have hope that life would get better.
More f-g platitudes.
He leaned his head back against the bed.
Why do I want to keep living? Why did I tell Doc I don't want to die?
He drew a line through all the words he'd written.
This was harder than the paperwork he had to fill out every time he discharged his weapon.
Then he remembered what Jack had said in his presentation.
So what if quoting his kid counted as cheating? Maybe he could convince Doc he really meant it.
Slowly, each word hitting him in the chest like a tidal wave, he wrote:
I want to keep living because my kids still think I can make a difference in someone's life.
The waves receded, taking every bit of energy with them.
He set the pen and notebook aside, crawled back into bed, and pulled the covers up to his chin.
Maybe he could sleep without nightmares, for once.