Long Mile Home: Boston Under Attack, the City's Courageous Recovery, and the Epic Hunt for Justice

by Helman, Scott

  Crossing the finish line was emotional, there in the sunshine in the middle of a bustling Friday, at the very spot where evil had visited his beloved race. Because of all the hoopla, though, it wasn’t quite the cathartic experience he had envisioned, or needed. “That special moment never came,” McGillivray said. He was too busy trying to shrink from the spotlight, fending off requests for interviews from the TV cameras. He slipped into the front seat of Nemzer’s car, the cameras trained on the passenger window as if he were a criminal or misbehaving starlet. The memory was one he would not soon forget. He was usually accessible to the press, but not today, not like this. And yet the act of running, of completing the marathon course once again, just like he had done for more than four decades, had still been important. With this run, this personal feat in defiance of the bombing, Dave McGillivray wanted to make a statement. “I felt, I can’t let this act of violence deter me from doing what I usually do,” he said. Much of Greater Boston felt the same.

  • • •

  Even with panic and fear still fresh, runners vowed, soon after the attack, to return for the next Boston Marathon, on April 21, 2014. Indeed, it was hard to find any who planned to stay away. NPR host Peter Sagal articulated the prevailing conviction this way: “Goddamn it, I’m not going to let these guys ruin the marathon.” More than one political leader promised that the next year’s race would be “bigger and better” than ever. It was easy for them to say, though. They weren’t the ones who had to pull it off.

  To McGillivray, Grilk, and other race organizers, it was clear immediately that staging the 2014 marathon would be a massive undertaking. The number of prospective entrants would spike. The crowds would swell. Security would have to be tighter than ever. Amid all these demands, organizers would need to strike a delicate balance. How would they both pay tribute to everyone affected by the bombing and preserve the essential character of the Boston Marathon—the competition and athletic excellence, the remarkable spirit of inclusion? In other words, how would the 2014 race at once look back and ahead? “We want to do the best job we can to give appropriate recognition to everyone who was affected,” Grilk said. “And then move on.” In practice, the task was monumental, and much of it lay at McGillivray’s feet.

  One of the first things he and other race organizers did, a month after the stunted marathon, was to grant automatic entry to any 2013 runner who hadn’t finished but had made it to the halfway point or farther before the race was stopped, around 5,600 people in all. More than 80 percent of them chose to re-up. “That’s a strong statement to me,” McGillivray said. “They’re saying, ‘We’re coming back, we got invited, we will not be denied.’” That sentiment drove Amy Formica, a runner from near Pittsburgh, to reserve her hotel room for 2014 within weeks of the attack. Not having made it across the finish line nagged at her. The kindness she experienced from strangers amid the panic and confusion only strengthened her desire to come back. “You’re not going to scare me or my family away,” she said. Formica, her husband, and their two sons planned to stay in Boston even longer this time. The BAA ultimately announced that it would allow an additional nine thousand runners in 2014, raising the cap from twenty-seven thousand to thirty-six thousand entrants. At the starting line, instead of three waves of nine thousand runners each, there would be four. The only other time the Boston Marathon field had been this big was in 1996, for the one hundredth anniversary race. Race organizers also announced in November 2013 that they would open the 2014 marathon to a limited number of nonelite runners who could show that they had been “personally and profoundly” affected by the bombing.

  Not that it was ever easy to put on the Boston Marathon, but when the field size, course, and security blueprint stayed more or less the same year to year, it was a little bit like “add water, you got soup,” McGillivray said. After 2013, race organizers and public safety agencies had to almost start over. Everything had to be reevaluated, from spectator access along the 26.2-mile course to how the finish line layout would look. One of the biggest changes they began planning for was a prohibition on bags. If the early plans held, runners would no longer be able to bring bags out to Hopkinton. Spectators would no longer be able to get near the course with bags, at least not in areas where big crowds gathered. Adding nine thousand runners presented a host of new considerations, too, including how to handle more trash, where to put additional portable restrooms, and keeping roads closed longer to accommodate the fourth wave of competitors.

  The most delicate planning involved the tributes, the emotional cornerstones of what was sure to be the most poignant Boston Marathon ever. McGillivray, Grilk, and their team envisioned a series of special events leading up to Marathon Day, beginning with a large gathering on April 15, 2014, six days before the race, perhaps at the same time that the bombing had happened. The event, likely at the nearby Hynes Convention Center, would draw in victims, family members, police, firefighters, and other first responders, and probably a host of political leaders. Afterward, according to the early plans, guests would join together in a procession down Boylston Street to the finish line. Then, on the Saturday before the marathon, the BAA would host its typical premarathon 5K race, but with a bigger field, maybe ten thousand runners in all, to accommodate those taking part as an act of healing or remembrance. Following that race, an invitation-only run or walk—perhaps a modest loop around Back Bay—would bring bombing victims, their families, first responders, and hospital staff to Copley Square.

  After that, the focus would shift to putting on a stellar marathon, to restoring its glory. There might be a moment of silence at the start or another acknowledgment of the tragedy, but race organizers hoped to leave much of the sentiment for the tribute events. What they couldn’t control—and, to a degree, what they feared—were well-meaning but misguided attempts along the sidelines to honor the bombing victims. Would spectators try to write messages on the course using paint that became dangerously slick in the rain? Would they hang balloon arches over the road but not anticipate high winds bringing them down? Would novices set up new water stations in dangerous locations? The list of unknowns was endless.

  For many other marathons, including Chicago and New York, making big changes is easier because the course lies within a single city. The Boston Marathon snakes through eight communities; only the final leg is actually in Boston. That means race organizers must coordinate with eight different municipal police departments, eight different public works departments, and so on. Emerging from the early planning meetings for the 2014 marathon, McGillivray was struck by how much work it would take to bounce back from 2013. “The magnitude of it just hits you in the face,” he said. He became so caught up in the next year, in fact, that he lacked the time and space to reflect on the bombing and everything it meant. That would have to come later.

  In the running community, it’s widely believed that McGillivray is the man you want in charge of the marathon; Grilk said he doesn’t know if anyone else even has the capability. McGillivray likes to joke that he’s never had to worry about someone taking his job, because no one else would want it. But more than ever, as they looked ahead toward 2014, McGillivray and Grilk were feeling the weight of expectations. They would never please everyone. Not everything would be perfect. They were buoyed, though, by all the expressions of support from around the world. “When that many people are pulling for you, it matters,” Grilk said. “The challenges have been severe, but it really helps you get past all that stuff, and it leaves you with a very strong sense of stewardship, of privilege, for being at the center of something that has so many people’s attention. And you want to get it right.”

  Before they turned to 2014, race officials had to carry out one of their most important postrace rituals. Every year after the marathon is over, they pull up the 3M adhesive strip that’s laid across Boylston Street for the finish line; it’s not the kind of thing that can just be left there year-round. The finish line is such a Boston land
mark, though, that they paint it on the road for show, typically the day after the race. With Boylston closed for days after the attack, that wasn’t possible. But on the night of April 29, two weeks later, they were finally able to bring out the stencils and the blue and yellow paint, giving the iconic band a fresh coat that it needed more than ever.

  • • •

  McGillivray is often asked: Why are so many people running these days? His answer is that the sense of intimidation has fallen away. They see that running is not just for the smug kale-buyers at Whole Foods, that being a runner requires little more than decent shoes and the discipline to get out the door. They see the value in leading a healthy life. They want to feel good about themselves. They see their neighbors doing it. More a lifestyle than a sport, running satisfies a craving for physical, mental, and emotional lift. McGillivray figured that out as a kid—his first race came at age five or six—and he’s been a running evangelist ever since. “It gives you so many things that you can go out and do other things as a result—be a better parent, be a better teacher, be a better worker, be a better tuba player,” McGillivray said. “It’s just like, ‘I can run a marathon? I can do this.’”

  Naturally, the more people who took up running, the stronger running communities became, in Boston and around the world. The spike in interest spawned all manners of running clubs and just about every themed road race imaginable, from Ontario’s sweet-filled Chocolate Race to the James Joyce Ramble outside Boston, in which costumed actors read Joyce’s work throughout the route. Almost four months after the 2013 marathon, McGillivray oversaw the cherished Falmouth Road Race on Cape Cod, a seven-mile competition among 12,800 entrants along a stunning seaside course. Shortly before it started, he watched two acquaintances and running enthusiasts get married on a little patch of land near the starting line. When they were officially man and wife, McGillivray yelled, warmly, “Congratulations, now get out!” With that the wedding party, decked out in wedding-themed running gear, took off down the course. Seven miles later at the finish line, the groom picked up the bride and carried her across to wild applause.

  Around the country, that spirit, following the Boston Marathon attack, proved to be stronger than fear. Even with security at unprecedented levels, road races were selling out at record pace. Not only was there no retreat, runners appeared to be flocking to mass public events. Runners even had their own “Boston Strong” uniforms—their marathon jackets. On April 16, the day after the Boston race, marathoner Vicma Lamarche and her husband left the city for Mexico’s Isla Mujeres; she had promised him the trip for putting up with her five-month-long training regimen. Lamarche, part of a running club called Black Girls RUN!, grabbed her marathon jacket as they left. Her husband was a little unnerved. He worried that she was making herself a target—and they were headed to an airport, no less. Lamarche didn’t care. It was a badge of pride. When they got to Logan Airport, it was full of runners. They all had their jackets on, too, a small but meaningful expression of unity. Peter Sagal was moved to do the same. That first week after the bombing, he wore his jacket everywhere. “Because I wanted people to see it.”

  CHAPTER 19

  GIANT STEPS

  Standing tall, Heather forges ahead

  It had been almost one month since the marathon. Heather Abbott was back at Fenway Park, standing on crutches at the edge of the storied ball field. She wore a Red Sox jersey, her last name emblazoned on the back in red, the middle letters hidden by her long blonde hair. Waiting to be waved forward to the pitcher’s mound, she struggled to calm her nerves. She hadn’t been this anxious since the first moments after the bombing: In another minute, the thirty-eight-year-old would crutch across the grass in front of more than thirty thousand people. Then she would balance on one crutch, raise her right arm, and throw out the ceremonial first pitch. Sox catcher Jarrod Saltalamacchia would try to catch it. There was no guarantee she wouldn’t fall. Or that she could throw it far enough. Instinctively, she understood the weight of the moment—not just for her, but for the city. Television cameras would capture her appearance and deliver it to a world craving proof of hope. Everyone in the park was willing her success on this overcast Saturday in May. It was a feeling she would come to know well in the months ahead, a potent blend of expectation and goodwill.

  Heather had practiced for this day. At Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital, where she had been since leaving Brigham and Women’s on April 29, she had gone outside in the sunshine with her friend Roseann Sdoia—whom she had known before, coincidentally, but who had also lost a leg in the bombing. Together, they practiced hopping across the spring grass on their crutches. Heather tossed a ball to Roseann, coached by their physical therapist. The transition to Spaulding had been hard for Heather—leaving the nurses she knew and enduring three or four hours of painful, strenuous physical therapy each day. The rehabilitation hospital, newly opened on the Charlestown waterfront, was sparkling, but the staff was still smoothing out rough edges. It could be hard to find a pillowcase or a water pitcher. And the attitude was no-nonsense: no relenting, no taking it easy, no cutting corners. You were supposed to work through the pain. When Heather was seized by doubt about her Fenway invitation, and suggested rolling out to throw the first pitch from her wheelchair, therapist Samantha Geary was adamant. “Don’t you dare,” Geary told her. “You take your crutches and you hop out there. Everybody needs to know you’re okay.”

  Now another physical therapist, Dara Casparian, was beside her as she started forward across the soggy infield. The Fenway fans were on their feet, cheering and yelling her name. She stopped at the appointed spot, handed one crutch to her therapist, and took the baseball in her hand. She threw it at once, before she had a chance to lose her nerve or her balance: arm up and back, then the forward motion, then the release. For a split second, the stadium held its breath. Then the ball was snug in Saltalamacchia’s glove, and the crowd emitted a roar, a sudden wall of noise that enveloped her. It was the sound of affirmation: See there, it’s just as we thought—she will, they will, we will all be okay. It wasn’t that simple, of course, but the leap was hard for people to resist. It felt good. Back on the edge of the field, Heather’s parents were waiting, beaming, along with her friends from Newport who had been with her at the marathon. She let herself be swept up in the collective embrace. The biggest star on the team, David Ortiz, had signed a ball for her. The team’s manager of pregame ceremonies, Dan Lyons, would e-mail her later and call her appearance one of the best moments of his thirty-year career. Heather knew she would always remember this feeling. It felt like a celebration, and it was. She had checked out of Spaulding that morning. When she left Fenway, she was finally going home.

  • • •

  She was happy and excited on the drive to Newport, still feeling the warm approval from the Fenway crowd. And there was more to look forward to—she couldn’t wait to be home again. She had not anticipated the mix of feelings it would bring, though, or the memories. Her apartment was like a time capsule. Everything was just where she had left it on the morning of Marathon Monday, rushing out the door to catch the train to Boston. The last minutes of her old life, perfectly preserved. She looked around, taking it all in. Then, in her bedroom, she saw a waiting stack of packages. It took her a minute to figure out what they were, and when she did, it felt like a punch in the gut. Before the marathon, Heather had ordered some new spring clothes. Sometime in the past month, they had been delivered. Someone, her parents or friends, had carried them inside for her. There were several pairs of stylish high-heeled shoes in boxes, and a couple of short dresses for the beach. The sight of them gave her an unexpected jolt. It had been just weeks ago that these things had been so natural and easy: shopping for shoes, looking forward to spring, dreaming of summer. It would never be that way again. She sank onto her bed and wept for everything that had ended.

  • • •

  “Heather! You’re Heather, right? You look great!”
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  Some people rushed right up to her on the streets of Newport. They had seen her on TV; they wanted to wish her well. Others stared at her from across the room, studying her face, her leg. “Yes, it’s me,” she wanted to say. On good days, the attention was strange but nice. On bad days, it could feel intrusive and overwhelming. Some people didn’t think before they greeted her, and then they froze, unsure how to proceed. It was up to her then to end the interactions gracefully. She tried to remember that they all meant well.

  Her mother stayed with her at the apartment for six weeks. It was helpful, but also challenging, for someone so accustomed to living on her own. She was still getting used to her prosthetic leg. It was a temporary one—the socket would be recast again and again during the first months, to ensure a good fit as her leg, still healing, continued to shrink and change shape. The first time she tried it on, her disappointment was keen. In the hospital, experienced amputees had given the bombing victims pep talks, telling them how they would one day do everything they had done before. Putting on her first prosthetic leg would be a life-changing moment, Heather had thought, a leap toward normalcy. Then she stood up and felt how hard and painful and uncomfortable it was. It’s not my leg, she thought. My leg is never coming back. It was obvious, yet somehow the surreal and hectic early weeks had blurred the permanence. For someone in recovery, she was surprisingly busy. She had hired a financial adviser, who was going to project how much her disability would cost over her lifetime. She had interviewed nearly a dozen companies before deciding which one would make her prosthetics. She was weighing whether to accept any speaking engagements. There was lots of mail still coming in, and invitations. There was a homecoming party in the ballroom at Newport’s Rosecliff mansion, organized by friends and attended by both Rhode Island senators. There was physical therapy and doctors’ appointments. It was almost like a full-time job. How she would balance it with her real job, once she went back to work, she wasn’t sure.