The TV glowed as the man sat alone in the living room. It was nearly midnight and the rest of his family was asleep. Sleep had evaded him. Now, it was him, the cable news anchor and his memories. Memories triggered by what he saw on the television. Blood was on the streets of Boston. The bomb’s concussion brought back that dark day in Iraq. Boom. Boom. He felt himself gripping the arms of his chair tighter. PTSD wrapped its dark tentacles around him.
A small figure silently walked into the room. The boy, five, had been born while his dad was overseas. The child had never seen his father with legs.
“Are we going to be OK, dad?”
His dad jumped. He didn’t like being surprised, but quickly recovered when he saw his little boy standing there. Blue-eyed and blonde, his son was a splitting image of him. He sighed. How could he answer that? He had seen the violence and hatred first hand. It had cost him his legs. It had cost him so much more. So he fibbed a little bit.
“Oh course,we are going to be OK, Daniel.”
The little boy climbed up in the recliner and into his lap. “I’m scared, dad.”
The dad pushed the boys bangs out of his face. “I’ll protect you. Promise.” Once again, he couldn’t tell his son the truth. It was a question he really couldn’t answer. He (of all people) knew there was no protection from this sort of random killing other than vigilance and luck.
But he knew there was one thing he could do. He looked at his son. He knew he had to raise the boy not to hate. Not to have a dark heart like the bomber or all the shooters he had seen on TV. It was all he could do.
“How will you protect me, dad?”
Sometimes questions at midnight were the hardest to answers.
“I just will, Daniel. I will protect you and your mother.”
Of course, he had not been able to protect his men who lost their lives that fateful day. Why did he survive and they died? That was a question that rattled in his head occasionally. Survivor’s guilt they call it. He was sure the folks in Boston would feel it too.
“Will the mean men win?”
This was a question the dad could answer.
“No. And let me tell you why. Did you see all the people who rushed to help the victims? Did you see the runners run past the finish line to give blood? Did you see the city pull together? Did you see that? That’s why the bad guys will never win. When things get bad, we get good. They want us to be afraid. And maybe we are a little bit. But we’re stronger now. We get up and finish the race. The mean men messed up. They picked on the wrong people.”
“Like they picked on you?”
“Yes, son. They messed with the wrong guy when they picked on me. Now, let me go tuck you in. We have a busy day tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.” It was one of the gifts of raising a son in the South. He loved hearing “Yes, sir.”
“Now goodnight, Daniel.” The dad leaned over and kissed his son on the forehead. “Night, dad,” the little voice called out to him.
He walked out of the room and back into the living room. And over on the left, on the table by the foyer was a piece of paper. He picked it up and held it to his chest. It was a marathon number. His marathon number. Tomorrow he’d run his first one since the IED exploded. He’d run it for his men. He’d run it for Boston.
He had gotten back up and was now going to finish the race.
Placing the number on the table, he smiled. The mean men had picked on the wrong man. Just like they messed up when they picked on Boston.