The light at five o’clock in the morning was a bruised purple, the kind of chilly dawn that makes you want to curl up in bed. My foot snagged on something heavy and giving way when I went out onto the porch in my slippers to get the newspaper. A man was snuggled up against my front door when I almost fell over him. He was a huge man, dressed in leather that had been worn by the road, and he smelled of old rain and gasoline. He breathed in short, rattling breaths, and his gray beard was covered with dried blood.
My initial reaction was one of icy, piercing panic. I wanted to lock myself inside and call 911, so I went for the door handle, but then I noticed his hand. Cradled securely around a crumpled piece of paper, it was enormous, grizzled, and grease-stained. The message said, “Mrs. Elizabeth Chen – PLEASE READ BEFORE CALLING POLICE,” in large, wobbly ink.
As I delicately pulled the note out of his hand, my heart pounded against my ribs. He didn’t move; instead, he appeared to have simply ran out of road rather than to be sleeping. “Mrs. Chen, I knew your son, David,” was the succinct message that struck me like a physical blow. When he passed away, I was in Afghanistan with him. I made him a promise. I apologize for the twelve years it took me to fulfill that commitment. Don’t allow them to take me to the hospital, please. I just need to relax. I’ll explain after that. Thomas Morrison, a retired staff sergeant
David. The Army had reported “instantaneous IED explosions” and “minimal suffering” during my son’s twelve-year absence. It felt disturbing to see his name here on my porch, held by a man who appeared to have experienced his own war. My mother’s intuition, which had been dormant since the day the guys in dress blues knocked on my door, advised me to wait even though logic told me to call an ambulance. I went inside, got a first aid kit and some blankets, and sat on the chilly porch boards to tend to my boy’s wounds.
Thomas Morrison moaned and opened his eyes as the antiseptic came into contact with a cut on his forehead. They were exhausted and bloodshot, bearing a burden that could not be lifted by rest. “Mrs. Chen?” he sounded. “I’ve spent a lot of time searching for you.”
I was bandaging his ribs when the story started to flow. David’s squad had been led by Thomas. According to him, the official report was a sanitized version of the truth that did not respect a soldier’s reality and was intended to save a mother’s feelings. David had not passed away right away. After the explosion, he survived for two hours in Thomas’s arms while they awaited a medevac that was unable to get to them due to the flames.
With a cracked voice, Thomas muttered, “He wasn’t afraid.” “All of the morphine was used. He merely spoke. He talked about you, how you read him, and the peanut butter and banana sandwiches you used to make. The Hobbit during his illness. He insisted that I personally deliver a message to you. Not by mail. Hand in hand.
Thomas produced an old, sweat-stained envelope from within his waistcoat. I instantly recognized the hasty, disorganized scribble. David had penned a note within that resisted death. He assured me that I could believe Morrison if I was reading this. He brought up the wooden box that David had placed into his sergeant’s equipment on that last day, which was concealed in Thomas’s storage container.
I assisted Thomas into my car despite his injuries—he had been jumped at a truck stop by some individuals who thought he was someone else. On the outskirts of town, we drove to a modest storage facility. A little wooden chest, sealed with heavy-duty tape, nestled in the rear of a unit full of old uniforms and motorbike parts.
There was a journal, another letter, and a silk-wrapped Purple Heart inside. The medal belonged to Thomas. I found out that Thomas had presented it to David months ahead of schedule as a way to reassure a young, disheartened soldier that his efforts were valued. However, the journal held the true revelation. For years, David had learned that Thomas had been covertly giving me half of his combat salary, handicapped by the death of his own young kid at the hands of a drunk driver back home. He had used a front company to set it up as an increase in military death benefits.
I glanced at the shattered man next to me. “It’s been twelve years since you sent me money?”
Thomas finally looked up at me and said, “I couldn’t save him.” However, I could ensure that his favorite woman would never have to work two jobs again. I didn’t believe I was worthy of telling you. I thought I had let him down.
I held the journal close to my chest and said, “You didn’t fail him.” When he most needed a father figure, you provided it. You are the greatest man he has ever known, and he wrote it right here.
Thomas and I returned to my home. His three days of recuperation in my guest room served as a link between the past and the present. He informed me about his membership in a veteran motorcycle organization called the “Guardians.” They were not the dreaded outlaws; rather, they were men and women who protected Gold Star families and victims of abuse by using their motorcycles and camaraderie. They were a group of wounded people that helped other wounded people.
Thomas didn’t truly go when he eventually got on his Harley and went off. He became a regular part of my life. He presented the other Guardians to me; they were giant-looking guys who spoke with the gentleness of those who had witnessed too much. They started coming over on the weekends to mow my grass, mend my roof, and join me for Sunday dinners. Suddenly, the sound of laughing and the boom of engines filled my house, which had been a tomb of sorrow for twelve years.
Forty motorcyclists rushed into the cemetery on the thirteenth anniversary of David’s death. The neighbors gawked at the sight of a little sixty-five-year-old woman standing amid a sea of bikers wearing leather. “Mission complete, soldier,” Thomas said as he stood by the gravestone and gave a stiff salute. She is aware. She is secure.
I received a leather vest from Thomas that evening. The words “David’s Mom” were embroidered on the back. I can’t quite put into words how proud I am to wear it. I might seem like a strange addition to a biker gang to the outside world. In the dirt of a faraway nation, I feel like I am at last a part of the family my son has chosen for himself.
That’s when I understood that angels don’t necessarily have wings or wear white. Sometimes, in order to honor a twelve-year-old vow, they collapse on your porch in the middle of the night, wear scuffed leather, and bear great loads of guilt. Even though my kid is no longer with me, he is still keeping watch over me through Thomas and the Guardians, making sure I never have to travel home alone.