Where there is hatred, let me sow love

I can hear my father talking to a lawyer. I'm not supposed to be able to hear because I'm in my bedroom with the door closed. Before the accident, that would have been enough to make the voices no more than white noise.

Now, every word is as clear as if it were being spoken next to me.

"All I'm saying, Mr. Murdock, is that somebody should pay for the pain and suffering you and your son have experienced."

"Won't give Matty's eyesight back." Dad's voice sounds tired. I'm a handful these days, and I know it.

I sit back on my bed and try to tune out the rest of the conversation, even though it's impossible. My brain feels like it's cooking.

I wonder if I should be angry, angry that a truck filled with chemicals happened to converge with an old man's daily walk and that I happened to be the only one there to keep him from being killed. Am I supposed to be mad that a guy on his first job as a professional truck driver didn't know how to stop in time?

"It's ok to hate them, Matty." That's what my aunt said the night she came to see me in the hospital. The pediatrician's office sent a psychologist by. He said pretty much the same thing.

Sometimes I'm sad. Usually I'm scared. I don't know what to do because the voices keep getting louder, and the sheets get heavier, and I can smell dinner cooking three apartments over and a floor up. But I'm not mad. I don't want anybody else to suffer.

That's why, when the lawyer is gone, I pad across the carpet and into the living room. My father looks up. I can hear his bones move.

"You ok, Matty?" He puts his arm out and pulls me in close. He's more affectionate than he used to be because he thinks I can't see him. And I can't—sort of. I don't know how to explain the part of me that knows exactly how fast his heart is beating and what aftershave he used three days before. Touch is overwhelming these days, but it's good overwhelming. I like it. It makes me feel a little bit less alone.

"Dad, I don't want to sue anybody."

"You weren't supposed to hear that," he replies. I don't tell him that I can't help hearing everything. "Doesn't matter anyway. We can't afford the lawyer. Now go to bed. You've got to work on your reading tomorrow." He hugs me again, and I feel the slight unevenness of his skin through his shirt where his last fight's bruises are healing.

Until recently, I've never thought about what I actually want to do with my life. Sure, when I was little, I wanted to be a fighter like my dad, then an astronaut and a fireman. Kid stuff. It's been a while, though, since the teachers started saying I'm smart—gifted. That I can do anything I want.

I think, maybe, I want to be a lawyer. Not the kind who keep knocking on our door, trying to get us to sue. I want to be the kind of lawyer who helps people who can't afford one who deserve to be helped.

I want to help people. It's that simple and that complicated. In school, just before the accident, my teacher asked us to write about what we want to do when we grow up. Lots of kids said they wanted to own businesses, make money, get out of Hell's Kitchen.

But I want to stay. The best place to help people is the place where they need the most help.

I know I'm not Bruce Wayne or Clark Kent. I don't have a cape, and I can't even see any more. But I can remember the things I read, and I don't want anything more than I want to give my life to other people. Maybe that's stupid, but it's what I want.

Father Lantom came to see me in the hospital, a couple of days after the accident. He didn't tell me to be angry, to hate. He just sat down beside the bed and took my hand.

"Matthew," he said, "I reckon this can go one of two ways. Either you grow up bitter and angry and put out the light inside you, or you let forgiveness be a window for that light to shine through. It's up to you."

I'm not sure how to be a light, really. But I'm sure as heck going to try.