“Now, Jane, we’re going to lift you up so we can clean you,” a nurse would tell her while she was unconscious. The nurses talked to the little girl constantly to let Jane know that she wasn’t alone. They even painted the toenails on her remaining foot while she was sleeping.
Denise Richard, on the other hand, wondered if she was being told the truth about her own injuries. Nina Marchese had taken Denise to a small coffee shop in the lobby of the hospital where the day’s newspapers were filled with stories of the bombings and the aftermath. Denise noticed her son’s photo on the cover of one paper and asked to read it. Thus far, friends and family, including Larry and Nina Marchese, had done everything they could to shield Bill and Denise from the intense media coverage.
“Can I get a copy of the paper?” Denise asked Nina.
“Sure,” Nina replied, although she was unsure it was the right decision.
Denise read the cover story about her family and commented on the photo of little Martin. Her reading was slowed by the heavy bandage over her right eye. She paused halfway through the article and looked up at Nina.
“This article says that I have brain damage,” Denise said. “Nina, do I have brain damage?”
“No,” Nina Marchese replied. “No you don’t. That report is false.”
And it was. A projectile from the pressure cooker bomb had damaged her optic nerve but had stopped short of her brain. Denise Richard was relieved. Despite the enormous pain her family had endured, she also knew that she would have to be a strong mom for her eldest son, Henry, and her daughter. When little Jane Richard was finally brought out of her coma, she looked around the room and stared up at the ceiling.
“Martin, where are you?” she asked.
The Richard family would have a flood of support flowing from people all over the world who had been touched by their plight and by the photo of Martin holding his hand-drawn sign that read: No More Hurting People — Peace. Boston’s professional sports teams, which are ingrained in the character of the city like few other places, also stepped up to help.
On April 17, just two days after the bombings, the Bruins invited Martin’s older brother, Henry, to a game against the Buffalo Sabres at the Garden. It was a great opportunity to help the grieving boy and get him away from Beth Israel hospital, if only for a short while. Larry Marchese and his son, who was Henry’s age, accompanied the boy to the game. It was the city’s first major sporting event since the tragedy, and emotions were raw. Fans flooded the Garden wearing Bruins jerseys and carrying American flags. Some players had written the words Pray for Boston on their skates. During a pregame ceremony, everyone paused for a moment of silence before a tribute video played overhead on the Jumbotron. The team had consulted with Marchese ahead of time about the tone of the video, knowing that young Henry would be watching the game from a luxury suite. The team opted not to show a photo of Martin Richard in the video out of respect to the family. Moments later, Rene Rancourt, a singer who had been belting out the national anthem at Bruins home games for thirty-five years, took the ice with microphone in hand. As he warmed up his voice in the hours before the game, Rancourt kept tearing up. I don’t know if I can get through this thing, he thought.65
He began singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” just as he had done more than 1,400 times before, but this night was completely different. On this night, the anthem meant more to the city of Boston than it ever had. “O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light,” Rancourt crooned passionately. As he began the next verse, the Garden faithful joined in. “What so proudly we hailed, at the twilight’s last gleaming.” Rancourt dropped the microphone to his side and allowed the thousands of fans in attendance to finish the anthem. Fans and players wept as they sang, their harmonies rising high above the Garden ice into the building’s rafters. “O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”
The next morning Rancourt, a resident of Natick, Massachusetts, spoke to talk show hosts John Dennis and Gerry Callahan on WEEI radio. He said the Bruins had decided ahead of time to make that night’s anthem a group sing-along. The decision was music to the singer’s ears as he felt that he could not get through it alone. “I was very nervous, what if you stop singing and nothing happens? The sound was carrying me, lifting me up in the room. It was something that was indescribable.”66
Meanwhile, the Celtics were playing their season finale in Toronto that night. Before tipoff at the Air Canada Centre, players from both teams gathered at center court. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we are all Boston fans,” the public address announcer said. The night before in the Bronx, the New York Yankees set aside their heated rivalry with the Red Sox by playing Neil Diamond’s classic tune “Sweet Caroline,” which has long been a staple at Fenway Park, after the third inning.
On Saturday, April 20, the Red Sox held their first post-bombings game at Fenway Park. The Cathedral of Baseball, as it’s been called, was perhaps the only “church” in the city big enough for thousands of Bostonians to pray and to heal. Taking a cue from their hockey cousins on Causeway Street, the Red Sox asked fans to sing the national anthem before the game. Boston police, state police, firefighters, and first responders stood on the field in salute with Commissioner Davis and also with Governor Patrick, who had postponed a trip to his retreat in the Berkshires to attend the game.
“This past week has been unlike any other in the history of Boston,” the public address announcer told the crowd. “This week has also brought out the best in Boston…. We are one. We are Boston. We are Boston Strong.”
These words drew loud cheers from the Fenway faithful. Photos of Martin Richard, Krystle Campbell, Lingzi Lu, and Sean Collier appeared on the Jumbotron. Fans then observed a moment of silence for the fallen and all those injured and still hospitalized. A massive American flag was unfurled along the Green Monster. A microphone was then handed to Red Sox star David Ortiz.
“Alright, alright Boston. This jersey that we wear today doesn’t say Red Sox, it says Boston,” Ortiz told the crowd. On behalf of the team, he thanked Mayor Menino, Governor Patrick, and members of the various police departments for their hard work. Once again, fans applauded in appreciation. The slugger paused for a moment. And no one in attendance or watching on television could have predicted what came next. Ortiz, like all Bostonians, was a jumble of raw nerves. He was heartbroken. He was angry. He was defiant.
“This is our fucking city!” Ortiz shouted into the microphone. “And no one’s gonna dictate our freedom. Stay strong!”
The crowd, already on its feet, broke out into thunderous applause.
“I didn’t know what I was going to say before I went out on the field,” Ortiz wrote later in Sports Illustrated. “I wasn’t trying to be that hero . . . I was looking for a hero to protect what was ours. Our city. Our marathon. Our way of life. When I said what I said and saw the look in people’s eyes, I knew we would be alright.”67
The Red Sox would continue to play a large part in the healing of the city throughout the 2013 season.
Following the game at Fenway, the governor got back on the Massachusetts Turnpike headed west toward the Berkshires. Everyone was running on fumes, including the state’s chief executive. He arrived at his palatial country home surrounded by apple trees in the small town of Richmond, where he went for a quick swim. He was then driven to West Stockbridge for a bite to eat. His favorite restaurant in town was Rouge, known for its grilled Faroe Island salmon and braised free-range duck. Patrick loved the place because it was quiet and the owner, Maggie C. Merelle, always took good care of him. With his reading glasses and a biography of Deng Xiaoping on his iPad, the governor was led to a table in the back of the restaurant. Patrick looked haggard, and he was. He also had not eaten well over the past week, even missing out on his Thai food with his wife and daughter. Seeing this, Merelle — in quite motherly fashion — brought out dish after dish for the governor to nibble on. Patrick ordered duck confit, a bowl of soup, a plate of salad, and a stack of Fre
nch fries. Each dish was accompanied by a glass of red wine.
“I had a little buzz,” the governor remembers. “I felt mothered, not bothered.”
When he went to pay the bill, Patrick reached for his wallet but quickly remembered he had left it at home. Sheepishly, he asked Maggie if he could stop by in a day or two to settle his tab. She said yes, and he made good on his promise soon after.
A week after the Boston Marathon Bombings, the city was slowly returning to some sense of normalcy, although it would never be the same. The wind quietly swirled in the eerie calm on Boylston Street, just feet away from where an innocent, gap-toothed eight-year-old boy and two beautiful young women lost their lives to terrorists’ bombs. Boston firefighters, police officers, and EMTs, state troopers and National Guardsmen lined up along the sidewalk in front of the bombing scene and made an L shape across Boylston. Inside the L, Mayor Menino sat in his wheelchair, flanked by Commissioner Davis, US Attorney Carmen Ortiz, Suffolk County District Attorney Daniel F. Conley, FBI Special Agent in Charge Rick DesLauriers, and several top military commanders.
Menino, who had just days before checked himself out of Brigham and Women’s Hospital where he was being treated for a broken tibia, sat solemnly, his eyes slightly squinted against the sun, which was now and again peeking through ominous clouds that only added to the somberness of the moment.
Just a week earlier, as Boylston Street prepared for the marathon, the street was its normal beehive of activity, the entire city blissfully unaware of the evil lurking in its shadows. Mothers pushed strollers. Business suit-clad men and women hustled to power lunches at hotspots like Abe & Louie’s, Forum, Atlantic Fish Co., and Solas, texting as they walked. Tattooed bike messengers whipped in and out of traffic, racing to deliver documents to the Prudential Center and John Hancock Building. Cabs honked, pedicabs stalled traffic, delivery trucks double-parked, and tourists strolled the busy street, soaking in all the energy and vibrancy of a typical Boston spring day.
But on April 22, 2013 — seven days after two homemade pressure cooker bombs tore through life and limb, shattering Boston’s peace and reminding the nation that terror lurks among us — Menino sat in his wheelchair in the middle of car-free Boylston Street in silence. An unnatural calm, accentuated by the dark, cold sky above, cast a pall over the stoic uniformed platoon of first responders.
The four-lane thoroughfare runs from Massachusetts Avenue to Boston Common and is the busiest street in the city on a normal day. But on this day, at this moment, the only sound were the boots and solemn directives from two police honor guard officers as they folded an American flag.
Menino gazed over the honor guard and beyond the line of public safety officers. High above them in the background were the terrible reminders of the tragedy that had taken place just a week earlier.
Windows at a LensCrafters store were blown out three stories high. The front windows of Marathon Sports were shattered and partially boarded up. Above Sugar Heaven — where just a week earlier, seconds before the bombs detonated, parents were taking their kids for treats — a banner cheering on marathon runners waved in tatters, partially torn by pellets packed into the explosives.
Behind the mayor and immediately outside the glass doors of the stately Boston Public Library, an American flag flittered at half-staff in honor of the dead and injured.
The honor guard’s flag was folded in military burial fashion and was handed to Menino as he sat in his wheelchair, a final formality as the FBI officially turned the crime scene back over to the city so that the healing could truly begin. The flag given to the mayor was originally hoisted by race organizers at 6 a.m. on the morning of the bombings.
The lines of public safety officers broke into quiet applause. Carmen Ortiz leaned over and gave the venerable, seventy-year-old mayor a soft kiss on the cheek. Davis, DesLauriers, and Conley shook his hand. A military commander gave the mayor a pat on the back.
High above the scene, the clouds parted slightly and the sun shone through, casting rays upon some of the officials gathered below and spreading shadows across the sidewalk in front of the century-old library.
“Boston is the strongest city,” Menino told the troops, his voice slightly cracking with a raw emotion that the city’s longest-serving mayor rarely displayed. “Thank you.”
“Boston was changed forever at 2:50 last Monday,” he continued. “I’d shake all your hands, but I’m in this chair here.”
The last comment drew a slight laugh. It was classic Menino: streetwise, humble, and self-deprecating, but always in charge. It’s a natural trait he’s used throughout his impressive political career, propelling him from backbencher on the City Council to the most powerful politician in Boston — and many argue, Massachusetts — for two decades.
Commissioner Davis stepped forward beside the mayor. He told the line of troops that President Obama had called him that morning, thanked him, and told him to be sure to thank all the officers and public safety personnel who dashed into action during and after the attacks.
“The cooperation and intense work that was done here, gives us a chance to put this city back together,” Davis said. “I, too, thank you all.”
“People will be back here walking up and down the street, and the terrorists will understand that they cannot keep us down,” Davis added. “This area will be opened back up to businesses.”
Davis pushed Menino in his wheelchair over to the blast site. A bouquet of flowers marked the spot where the first bomb went off. Sugar Heaven and Marathon Sports both still showed signs of the carnage. Tattered marathon banners hung from windows by race fans that day blew silently in the breeze.
“The blast went up at least thirty feet,” Davis told the mayor, pointing up at the bombed-out LensCrafters windows.
Menino sat silently in his wheelchair. The mayor had been in the midst of national terrorist acts before, including on the morning of September 11, 2001, when two planes left Logan International Airport in his city, bound for suicide attacks in New York and beyond.
But these bombs ignited in his city, just blocks from his office at City Hall, killing his fellow citizens — a young boy, an international exchange student, and a young waitress, all precisely the kind of everyday people that Menino had battled for throughout his political career.
Within days of the bombings, Menino’s focus was two-fold: ensuring victims and survivors got the aid they needed, and making sure Boylston Street and the surrounding neighborhoods got back to normal as quickly as possible.
“This city was knocked down but we stood right back up, on our feet quickly,” Menino said, speaking to business leaders in a packed hotel conference room two weeks after the explosions. “That fateful afternoon, Boston Marathon volunteers rushed in to help their neighbors…. It’s who we are.”
“I have never been prouder of our city,” he continued. “When the world turned its eyes to Boston … they saw greatness everywhere. They saw it in the skills of our police. They saw it in the speed of our first responders. They saw miracle after miracle. They saw it in our ambulances and our hospitals. They saw it in our city workers, putting a neighborhood back together. They saw it in our business community and its generosity. When the world looked, they saw greatness in a spontaneous memorial.”
The mayor made reopening Boylston Street a priority in those first weeks. He worked closely with Councilor Mike Ross and business leaders in the neighborhood to help get the restaurants and stores back open. It was important to the mayor — for the image of the city — to have the main drag bustling once again.
Three days after Menino received the flag from the Feds, he returned to Boylston Street to have lunch at Solas, an Irish pub at the Lenox Hotel. He invited the media along in a show of strength to demonstrate that the neighborhood was back in business. Walking with crutches, he made his way from his black SUV to the outside patio, where he sat and enjoyed fish and chips. He took pictures with customers and wait staff alike. He was emotional.
Just across the street, Marathon Sports manager Shane O’Hare was equally reflective as he and his staff reopened the store.
“We’re all pretty emotional,” he said as lines of customers bought marathon-related gear. “There’s a lot that went on that day. Everyone has their moments…. I hope it’s a healing process.”
The city sent grief counselors into the neighborhood to help traumatized workers — the waitresses, busboys, concierges, cashiers, and many others who witnessed the destruction and human toll of that dark day. Some left their jobs and didn’t return. Others came back but clearly needed assistance.
“They’re dealing with some really unfortunate things … and we’re concerned about them,” Sheila Dillon, head of Menino’s Department of Neighborhood Development, said. “We want to make sure everybody gets the services they need.”
O’Hare spent that day selling scores of Boston Strong T-shirts, hats, and bracelets. His eyes filled with tears as he talked about the outpouring of support.
“I hope it helps the victims,” he said. “I’m walking and I’m moving. But they’re still in hospitals and having surgeries. I feel bad for them.”
Just down the street in Copley Square, symbols of remembrance piled up on the grass in front of Trinity Church. Since the day of the bombings, mourners had been leaving personal notes, flowers, teddy bears, and hundreds of running shoes, most of them personally inscribed with messages of loss and hope. White wooden crosses bearing the names and photos of Krystle Campbell, Lingzi Lu, Martin Richard, and Sean Collier were erected on the street and surrounded by bouquets of spring flowers. Equally drawn to the memorial were those who had breathed in the smoke from the bombs and those who were altogether spared the violence at the finish line. All had been part of the same community before April 15, but all were even closer now.
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