If he could, Tommy would’ve given all four officers involved in the bust a round of applause. A year ago one of his basketball buddies lost an older brother to a heroin overdose. Tommy had a theory about drug dealers and users. The dealers should serve a decade minimum. Maybe more. Something severe enough to make people think twice about selling drugs for a living.
The users should get a mandatory three years in a lockdown rehab facility.
Tommy had written a paper on it after the death of his teammate’s brother. Hard prison time for the dealers to cut off supply, and forced help for the user—to remove the demand. He got an A on the paper, but if he got a job with the police department, he could work to see his ideas become reality.
After the arrests in Haughville, an emergency call came in. Children in danger at a home near East Thirty-fourth and Sutherland Avenue. Another area Tommy and his friends avoided—especially after dark.
Tommy watched from the passenger seat of the squad car as Detective Lockwood approached a shirtless man stumbling near the front porch of a dilapidated house. “Them are my children!” No question the man was drunk. Or maybe on drugs.
Again backup had been called, and another two cars appeared on the scene at the same time as the angry citizen noticed Detective Lockwood.
“No!” The shirtless man was losing his shorts, but he didn’t seem to notice. He pulled a knife from his pocket and waved it at the detective. With his other hand he made something that looked like a gang sign. Tommy couldn’t tell. Then without warning the man began running down the street.
Other officers were out of their cars by then and suddenly a chase was under way. Tommy couldn’t believe it. The action was playing out on the sidewalk right in front of him. Detective Lockwood might’ve been in his forties, but he was faster than lightning. During the chase, even from the police car Tommy could see the man shove a small plastic bag into his mouth. He rolled down the window so he could hear better.
At the same time, Detective Lockwood reached the suspect and handcuff him.
Tommy wasn’t sure what had happened to the knife.
“Spit it out, man.” Detective Lockwood shouted. “That stuff will kill you.”
Another officer reached the scene and Detective Lockwood shouted. “He has the drugs in his mouth.” He turned to the suspect again. “I said spit it out! I’m begging you, man. Don’t kill yourself.”
Finally the man spit the plastic bag from between his teeth. The other two officers took the suspect to one of the waiting patrol cars. Tommy watched the detective jog back to the house and up the steps. He knocked on the door. “Police. Open up.”
Tommy was gripped by the scene. What had happened inside the house? Detective Lockwood knocked a few more times, announcing himself again and again. Finally he tried the door. It must’ve been unlocked because the detective hurried inside.
A minute later, on the radio, Tommy heard Detective Lockwood call for an ambulance. Maybe two minutes after that, the detective walked out of the house. He had a little boy on his hip and a baby cradled in his other arm. He handed the infant to a female officer who had just arrived on the scene, but the toddler stayed with him.
The child was sobbing, crying so hard Tommy could easily hear him. But the detective—one of the toughest men in the precinct according to Tommy’s father—held the child to his chest and whispered to him until the boy stopped crying. An ambulance showed up and paramedics rushed into the house and then back out with a woman on a stretcher.
Not long after, another car joined the scene. Tommy could hear from the radio that the people who approached the house next were from social services. The children were headed for foster care. Tommy didn’t need training to understand that much.
For ten minutes Detective Lockwood held the little boy, while the toddler clung to his neck. After he passed the child to one of the social workers, the detective jogged back to the squad car. From a box on his backseat, the detective pulled a teddy bear and ran it to the child. Tommy couldn’t hear Detective Lockwood, but his actions said it all.
Detective Lockwood cared about the child. As if the boy were his own.
Something else. The fact that here, on one of the worst nights in the toddler’s life, the detective was ready. Not with a sharp word or a mere callous arrest. But with a teddy bear. A toy so the little boy wouldn’t feel so sad and alone.
Back in the car, Detective Lockwood explained the situation to Tommy. “The suspect hit the mother of the children. Square in the face. Knocked her out. Then he called police as if he were the victim.” The detective sighed. “They were both doing meth. Poor kids.”
Before the ride-along was finished that afternoon, Detective Lockwood answered a call about a confused man. They found the older gentleman wandering in the middle of a busy intersection. As soon as they stopped and parked, the detective was out of the car. He put his hand on the man’s shoulder and coaxed him into the squad car.
“You trying to get home?” Detective Lockwood checked the rearview mirror. “Your daughter called in. She’s looking for you.”
“That’s good.” The man tried to laugh. But fear filled his voice. “I’m looking for her, too.”
Tommy shifted so he could see the gentleman. He was in his eighties, at least. His eyes were wide, and he clutched a worn hat in his hands.
The detective entered an address in his GPS and took off toward the man’s home. “Tell me about yourself, Abraham.”
“Well… I’m married to a good one. Fifty-three years now.”
Detective Lockwood smiled. “You’re a blessed man.”
“I am.” The man’s fear eased. “That I am.”
Abraham’s daughter was waiting for him outside her house. She helped her father inside and then thanked the detective. “My mother died three years ago. Dad hasn’t been the same since.”
On the way back to the station, Tommy let the ordeal sink in. He had expected to see a string of arrests and traffic tickets, maybe a few foot chases. But he had forgotten one obvious aspect of the streets.
Just like in Thailand, people needed help. Trafficked kids, and old folks like Abraham. Police officers were often the only people willing and able to help.
Tommy was still thinking about all he’d seen on the ride-along when he arrived at the hospital. Annalee wasn’t doing well. Her parents went home to shower, and Tommy stayed. He held a cool cloth to her head and grabbed a basin when she needed to throw up. None of it helped. She fell asleep looking sicker and weaker than she had yesterday.
Can’t you hear us, God? Everyone’s praying for her, so why is she so sick? Tommy stared at Annalee. What did she do to deserve this?
The babies in the drug house and the old man wandering the street—police could do something to help them. But not so Annalee. Only God could stop the side effects of chemo or the deadly power of cancer left untreated.
And for some reason God wasn’t answering.
When her parents returned, Annalee was still sleeping, so Tommy left. Tears clouded his eyes all the way home. Please, God, hear me. Help Annalee. He couldn’t stand seeing her so sick. I believe in You, Lord. You can get her through this. Please.
Tommy wanted to turn his car around and take Annalee from her hospital bed, drive her as far away from here as a tank of gas could get him. But it wouldn’t matter. The disease would follow them. There was no outrunning it. And until God decided to help them, things would only get worse.
Darkness had long since fallen over Indiana by the time he pulled into the driveway at ten o’clock that night. He could see his parents in the living room, so Tommy took the back stairs. He didn’t want to talk with them. Didn’t want to visit or share about the ride-along or give them an update on Annalee.
Besides, the ride-along hadn’t made him afraid of being an officer. It made him want to apply tomorrow. He’d be nineteen soon, so maybe he’d start his law enforcement career in Florida. Where age restrictions weren’t as tough. Of course, that would on
ly make his mother more upset.
Malin and Johnny were in bed, so Tommy was quiet as he changed into shorts and a T-shirt. He strapped on his boxing gloves and slipped down the back stairs, all the way to the garage. A punching bag had hung from the far bay since Tommy was sixteen.
For the next thirty minutes Tommy tore into the bag without taking a single break. Over and over and over again he hit the bag, lit into it with everything he had. Even with the gloves he could feel his fingers bruising, feel his tendons stretching. But he didn’t care.
Punch. Punch. Punch.
He was exhausted but for these few minutes Tommy was at least doing something. Make it go away, God. Make her well again. Please fight for her. Silence echoed through the garage. Fine. If God wouldn’t get rid of it, then Tommy would.
Punch. Punch. Punch.
Yes. This was what he needed to do. One jab after another and another. His breathing came harder and faster, but he kept hitting the bag, kept fighting. Destroying Annalee’s enemy one sharp jolt at a time. Until he was too tired and broken to hit the bag one more time.
Tommy stepped back, his sides heaving, and he crumpled to the floor. There on the cool cement, the tears came. An ocean of them.
Sobs seized him and he covered his face. “No! Not Annalee. Please, God.” The words seethed inside him and filled the air around him. And then Tommy wept like he’d never done in all his life.
At that instant, the garage door opened and his dad saw him. From his place on the cement floor, Tommy could see the shock on his father’s face. The fear. “Tommy!” In a rush his dad was beside him, helping him up. “Son… we didn’t even know you were home. What… what are you doing?”
Tommy was still gasping for breath. “Beat… beating it!” They were the only words he could say. The only thing he wanted to do.
His father pulled him into his arms and held him. For a long time.
And even though he was exhausted and hurting and brokenhearted, Tommy had the sense he had done good here tonight. Gone twelve rounds with his invisible enemy, the opponent that had haunted him since the doctor called with the news. The one he alone would never defeat, no matter how many times he ripped into the punching bag.
Annalee’s cancer.
14
Her hair was everywhere, and Annalee couldn’t stand it.
She didn’t want another morning of finding blond silk clumps on the pillow or watching her pretty hair fall to the floor when she crossed the room. She didn’t want to see it scattered on her bathroom sink or dropping in sections at the dining room table.
This was Day 10 since her chemo began and it was time.
Annalee had made the plan with her mother yesterday, and now—Saturday afternoon—she was ready to see it acted out. Gathered in her family’s great room was everyone Annalee loved. Her parents and her brother. Her aunt and uncle from Bloomington and Tommy’s parents. Also two of her closest friends from school.
And Tommy.
She had planned what to say, so she walked to the front of the room, where a sheet was spread out over the carpet. Every step was like trudging through knee-deep snow and her nausea was like a fog. Pressing in around her.
When she turned and faced the group, her eyes found Tommy’s. For a long time she only looked at him. His handsome face and clear blue eyes. How kind he had been to her these past two weeks, standing at her side, sitting at her hospital bed. Praying for her. And believing she would get through this. That most of all.
She cleared her throat. “My hair… it has to go.” What remained of it was in a ponytail. Annalee removed the pink scrunchie and slipped it onto her wrist. If she’d thought of this a week ago, she could’ve donated it or had a wig made from her hair.
But she didn’t have enough left for that now.
For the last time in a long time, Annalee felt her hair spill over her shoulders and around her face. The feeling was all she’d ever known. She breathed deep and took a pair of orange scissors from the barstool next to her. “I asked you here to help make me bald.” She smiled, but there was nothing funny about the moment.
At the back of the room she saw tears gather in her mother’s eyes. Same with her aunt and Mrs. Baxter. Be strong, she told herself. Jesus, give me strength, I beg You. A calm came over Annalee. “Rather than seeing my hair fall out piece by piece, I would like each of you to cut a section from my head.”
The room was silent.
Annalee swallowed. Don’t turn and run to your room. You can do this. God, help me do this. “Last, I’d like Aunt Lily to shave my head.” Lily owned a beauty salon in Bloomington. She would be best able to shave Annalee’s head when the cutting was over.
Annalee had saved the best part for last. “What will make today different, is that as you each cut a part of my hair, I’d like you to pray for me. Out loud. So that this”—she ran her hand through her hair and came out with a knot of blond—“this isn’t something happening to me against my will. But something I release… to God… while each of you prays.”
“Like a holy time.” Her dad added his voice like a coda. “I think we’re each honored that you asked us to be here, to take part in this, sweetheart.”
Everyone in the room nodded. Some had tears, but a few of them smiled. Not because there was anything happy about this moment, but as if they were trying to comfort her. Agree with her plan.
“Are you ready?” Her mom came to her side. “And are you sure?”
“Yes.” Annalee hoisted herself onto the stool. She used her phone to start a playlist of worship music. Songs she had chosen yesterday, specifically for this time. “Way Maker” by Leeland came on first. It was one of Annalee’s favorites. She slipped the phone into her sweater pocket.
Before anyone moved or started cutting, Tommy took another barstool from the kitchen and brought it alongside Annalee. Then he reached for her hands and locked eyes with her. “Right here, Annalee,” he whispered. “Keep looking at me. I won’t let you fall.”
Only then did tears fill her eyes. But they weren’t tears of sorrow or defeat. They came from the overflow of her heart, from the place that belonged to Tommy Baxter alone. He was struggling with this. Wondering why God wasn’t helping her. But he did his best to hide his frustration from her, especially now. Of course he wasn’t going to let her fall. She squeezed his hands and faced him.
In the background the first song played on. It sang of God being the way maker, the miracle worker, the promise keeper and the light in the darkness. It was true. God was with her. He held her life and the number of her days and He would make a way for her. He would work a miracle out of this nightmare. And He would keep His promises because He was the light both in and around her.
He was good. Even if she didn’t survive this cancer.
Her mom took the scissors first, and stood next to Tommy. She looked straight into Annalee’s eyes. “It will grow back, sweet daughter. The hair I’ve combed and braided and curled since you were a little girl… it will grow back.” She kissed Annalee’s forehead. “I believe that.”
Annalee nodded. Her throat was too tight to speak. Her mom lifted the scissors to her hair and cut a section. But she didn’t let it fall to the ground. Instead she kept it wrapped tight in her hand.
“Father, we come to You in acceptance of Your will, Your plan.” Her mother’s voice was soft, broken. But it grew steadier with each word. “At the same time, we thank You for the healing You are giving our girl.” She cut another small section. “Like trees pruned each autumn, we believe you will restore Annalee’s body and energy and health. And yes… even her beautiful hair.”
Then, her mother stooped down and set the pieces of Annalee’s hair on the sheet. Like they were too precious to just let drop. The song was reaching Annalee’s favorite part and all around the room the people she loved began to sing along.
These were the lyrics Annalee clung to, the ones that sang about God working even when they couldn’t see Him or feel Him. The sound of their soft
voices breathed peace through Annalee. The same way Tommy’s hands around hers did.
Next came her dad. “Hi, honey.” He put his hand alongside her face and looked long into her eyes. “You probably don’t remember when you were a little girl. Three or four years old.” He laughed, blinking back tears. “At bath time you absolutely hated having your hair washed.” He ran his thumb over her eyebrow.
“I do remember.” Annalee felt two tears spill down her cheeks. “I was afraid the soap would sting my eyes.” A quiet laugh came from deep inside her. For a few seconds she was that same little girl again. “You remember what you would do?”
“Yes.” Her dad put one hand on his hip and raised the other out to the side. “I’m a little teapot, short and stout. Here is my handle… here is my spout.”
Soft laughter came from others in the room as they watched Annalee’s dad bend at the waist. “Something about that song always made you laugh. And I would take that light blue plastic cup and we would pretend it was a teapot.” He brushed at a tear on his cheek. “Only then would you let me rinse out the shampoo.” His smile faded. “I always loved washing your hair, honey.”
He took a deep breath and paused for a minute. Then he lifted the scissors to a section of Annalee’s still soft blond strands. “Father, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Watching my little girl go through this. Seeing her lose a part of her she’s loved since she was a toddler.” His voice broke and it took half a minute before he could speak again. “We trust You, God. Please… heal our girl. Heal Annalee for us, Lord. Only You can help us.”
Annalee squeezed her eyes shut. She hadn’t cried once since being admitted to the hospital. But now her tears came in a flood, quiet streams of sadness and release running down her face. Her mother brought her a tissue and Annalee let go of Tommy’s fingers long enough to press it to her eyes. Then she tucked the tissue into her other pocket and held his hands again.
Truly, Madly, Deeply Page 12
