A Walk to Remember

admitted the reason I’d asked her in thefirst place. She was a good sport about it—she sort of laughed it off cheerfully—and I knew that she’d already figured itout on her own. “Would you want to take me again?”she teased. “Absolutely.” Dinner was delicious—we bothordered the sea bass and salads, and whenthe waiter finally removed our plates, themusic started up. We had an hour leftbefore I had to take her home, and Ioffered her my hand. At first we were the only ones on thefloor, everyone watching us as we glidedaround the floor. I think they all knew howwe were feeling about each other, and itreminded them of when they were young,

too. I could see them smiling wistfully atus. The lights were dim, and when thesinger began a slow melody, I held herclose to me with my eyes closed,wondering if anything in my life had everbeen this perfect and knowing at the sametime that it hadn’t. I was in love, and the feeling was evenmore wonderful than I ever imagined itcould be. After New Year’s we spent the nextweek and a half together, doing the thingsthat young couples did back then, thoughfrom time to time she seemed tired andlistless. We spent time down by the NeuseRiver, tossing stones in the water,watching the ripples while we talked, or

we went to the beach near Fort Macon.Even though it was winter, the ocean thecolor of iron, it was something that both ofus enjoyed doing. After an hour or soJamie would ask me to take her home, andwe’d hold hands in the car. Sometimes, itseemed, she would almost nod off beforewe even got home, while other times shewould keep up a stream of chatter all theway back so that I could barely get a wordin edgewise. Of course, spending time with Jamiealso meant doing the things she enjoyed aswell. Though I wouldn’t go to her Biblestudy class—I didn’t want to look like anidiot in front of her—we did visit theorphanage twice more, and each time wewent there, I felt more at home. Once,though, we’d had to leave early, because

she was running a slight fever. Even to myuntrained eyes, it was clear that her facewas flushed. We kissed again, too, though not everytime we were together, and I didn’t eventhink of trying to make it to second base.There wasn’t any need to. There wassomething nice when I kissed her,something gentle and right, and that wasenough for me. The more I did it, the moreI realized that Jamie had beenmisunderstood her entire life, not only byme, but by everyone. Jamie wasn’t simply the minister’sdaughter, someone who read the Bible anddid her best to help others. Jamie was alsoa seventeen-year-old girl with the samehopes and doubts that I had. At least,that’s what I assumed, until she finally

told me. I’ll never forget that day because ofhow quiet she had been, and I had thefunny feeling all day long that somethingimportant was on her mind. I was walking her home from Cecil’sDiner on the Saturday before schoolstarted up again, a day blustery with afierce, biting wind. A nor’easter had beenblowing in since the previous morning,and while we walked, we’d had to standclose to each other to stay warm. Jamiehad her arm looped through mine, and wewere walking slowly, even more slowlythan usual, and I could tell she wasn’tfeeling well again. She hadn’t reallywanted to go with me because of the

weather, but I’d asked her because of myfriends. It was time, I remember thinking,that they finally knew about us. The onlyproblem, as fate would have it, was thatno one else was at Cecil’s Diner. As withmany coastal communities, things werequiet on the waterfront in the middle ofwinter. She was quiet as we walked, and Iknew that she was thinking of a way to tellme something. I didn’t expect her to startthe conversation as she did. “People think I’m strange, don’t they,”she finally said, breaking the silence. “Who do you mean?” I asked, eventhough I knew the answer. “People at school.” “No, they don’t,” I lied. I kissed her cheek as I squeezed her arm

a little tighter to me. She winced, and Icould tell that I’d hurt her somehow. “Are you okay?” I asked, concerned. “I’m fine,” she said, regaining hercomposure and keeping the subject ontrack. “Will you do me a favor, though?” “Anything,” I said. “Will you promise to tell me the truthfrom now on? I mean always?” “Sure,” I said. She stopped me suddenly and lookedright at me. “Are you lying to me rightnow?” “No,” I said defensively, wonderingwhere this was going. “I promise that fromnow on, I’ll always tell you the truth.” Somehow, when I said it, I knew thatI’d come to regret it. We started walking again. As we

moved down the street, I glanced at herhand, which was looped through mine, andI saw a large bruise just below her ringfinger. I had no idea where it had comefrom, since it hadn’t been there the daybefore. For a second I thought it mighthave been caused by me, but then Irealized that I hadn’t even touched herthere. “People think I’m strange, don’t they?”she asked again. My breath was coming out in littlepuffs. “Yes,” I finally answered. It hurt me tosay it. “Why?” She looked almost despondent. I thought about it. “People havedifferent reasons,” I said vaguely, doingmy best not to go any further. “But why,

exactly? Is it because of my father? Or isit because I try to be nice to people?” I didn’t want anything to do with this. “I suppose,” was all I could say. I felt alittle queasy. Jamie seemed disheartened, and wewalked a little farther in silence. “Do you think I’m strange, too?” sheasked me. The way she said it made me ache morethan I thought it would. We were almost ather house before I stopped her and heldher close to me. I kissed her, and when wepulled apart, she looked down at theground. I put my finger beneath her chin, liftingher head up and making her look at meagain. “You’re a wonderful person, Jamie.You’re beautiful, you’re kind, you’re

gentle . . . you’re everything that I’d like tobe. If people don’t like you, or they thinkyou’re strange, then that’s their problem.” In the grayish glow of a cold winterday, I could see her lower lip begin totremble. Mine was doing the same thing,and I suddenly realized that my heart wasspeeding up as well. I looked in her eyes,smiling with all the feeling I could muster,knowing that I couldn’t keep the wordsinside any longer. “I love you, Jamie,” I said to her.“You’re the best thing that ever happenedto me.” It was the first time I’d ever said thewords to another person besides amember of my immediate family. WhenI’d imagined saying it to someone else, I’dsomehow thought it would be hard, but it

wasn’t. I’d never been more sure ofanything. As soon as I said the words, though,Jamie bowed her head and started to cry,leaning her body into mine. I wrapped myarms around her, wondering what waswrong. She was thin, and I realized for thefirst time that my arms went all the wayaround her. She’d lost weight, even in thelast week and a half, and I rememberedthat she’d barely touched her food earlier.She kept crying into my chest for whatseemed like a long time. I wasn’t surewhat to think, or even if she felt the sameway I did. Even so, I didn’t regret thewords. The truth is always the truth, andI’d just promised her that I would neverlie again. “Please don’t say that,” she said to me.

“Please . . .” “But I do,” I said, thinking she didn’tbelieve me. She began to cry even harder. “I’msorry,” she whispered to me through herragged sobs. “I’m so, so sorry. . . .” My throat suddenly went dry. “Why’re you sorry?” I asked, suddenlydesperate to understand what wasbothering her. “Is it because of my friendsand what they’ll say? I don’t care anymore—I really don’t.” I was reaching foranything, confused and, yes—scared. It took another long moment for her tostop crying, and in time she looked up atme. She kissed me gently, almost like thebreath of a passerby on a city street, thenran her finger over my cheek. “You can’t be in love with me,

Landon,” she said through red and swolleneyes. “We can be friends, we can see eachother . . . but you can’t love me.” “Why not?” I shouted hoarsely, notunderstanding any of this. “Because,” she finally said softly, “I’mvery sick, Landon.” The concept was so absolutely foreignthat I couldn’t comprehend what she wastrying to say. “So what? You’ll take a few days . . .” A sad smile crossed her face, and Iknew right then what she was trying to tellme. Her eyes never left mine as she finallysaid the words that numbed my soul. “I’m dying, Landon.”

Chapter 12She had leukemia; she’d known it sincelast summer. The moment she told me, the blooddrained from my face and a sheaf ofdizzying images fluttered through my mind.It was as though in that brief moment, timehad suddenly stopped and I understoodeverything that had happened between us.I understood why she’d wanted me to dothe play: I understood why, after we’dperformed that first night, Hegbert hadwhispered to her with tears in his eyes,

calling her his angel; I understood why helooked so tired all the time and why hefretted that I kept coming by the house.Everything became absolutely clear. Why she wanted Christmas at theorphanage to be so special... Why she didn’t think she’d go tocollege . . . Why she’d given me her Bible . . . It all made perfect sense, and at thesame time, nothing seemed to make anysense at all. Jamie Sullivan had leukemia . . . Jamie, sweet Jamie, was dying . . . My Jamie ... “No, no,” I whispered to her, “there hasto be some mistake. . . .” But there wasn’t, and when she told meagain, my world went blank. My head

started to spin, and I clung to her tightly tokeep from losing my balance. On the streetI saw a man and a woman, walkingtoward us, heads bent and their hands ontheir hats to keep them from blowingaway. A dog trotted across the road andstopped to smell some bushes. A neighboracross the way was standing on astepladder, taking down his Christmaslights. Normal scenes from everyday life,things I would never have noticed before,suddenly making me feel angry. I closedmy eyes, wanting the whole thing to goaway. “I’m so sorry, Landon,” she kept sayingover and over. It was I who should havebeen saying it, however. I know that now,but my confusion kept me from sayinganything.

Deep down, I knew it wouldn’t goaway. I held her again, not knowing whatelse to do, tears filling my eyes, trying andfailing to be the rock I think she needed. We cried together on the street for along time, just a little way down the roadfrom her house. We cried some morewhen Hegbert opened the door and sawour faces, knowing immediately that theirsecret was out. We cried when we told mymother later that afternoon, and my motherheld us both to her bosom and sobbed soloudly that both the maid and the cookwanted to call the doctor because theythought something had happened to myfather. On Sunday Hegbert made theannouncement to his congregation, his facea mask of anguish and fear, and he had tobe helped back to his seat before he’d

even finished. Everyone in the congregation stared insilent disbelief at the words they’d justheard, as if they were waiting for a punchline to some horrible joke that none ofthem could believe had been told. Then allat once, the wailing began. We sat with Hegbert the day she toldme, and Jamie patiently answered myquestions. She didn’t know how long shehad left, she told me. No, there wasn’tanything the doctors could do. It was arare form of the disease, they’d said, onethat didn’t respond to available treatment.Yes, when the school year had started,she’d felt fine. It wasn’t until the last fewweeks that she’d started to feel its effects. “That’s how it progresses,” she said.“You feel fine, and then, when your body

can’t keep fighting, you don’t.” Stifling my tears, I couldn’t help butthink about the play. “But all those rehearsals . . . those longdays . . . maybe you shouldn’t have—” “Maybe,” she said, reaching for myhand and cutting me off. “Doing the playwas the thing that kept me healthy for solong.” Later, she told me that seven monthshad passed since she’d been diagnosed.The doctors had given her a year, maybeless. These days it might have been different.These days they could have treated her.These days Jamie would probably live.But this was happening forty years ago,

and I knew what that meant. Only a miracle could save her. “Why didn’t you tell me?” This was the one question I hadn’tasked her, the one that I’d been thinkingabout. I hadn’t slept that night, and myeyes were still swollen. I’d gone fromshock to denial to sadness to anger andback again, all night long, wishing itweren’t so and praying that the wholething had been some terrible night-mare. We were in her living room thefollowing day, the day that Hegbert hadmade the announcement to thecongregation. It was January 10, 1959. Jamie didn’t look as depressed as Ithought she would. But then again, she’d

been living with this for seven monthsalready. She and Hegbert had been theonly ones to know, and neither of them hadtrusted even me. I was hurt by that andfrightened at the same time. “I’d made a decision,” she explained tome, “that it would be better if I told noone, and I asked my father to do the same.You saw how people were after theservices today. No one would even lookme in the eye. If you had only a fewmonths left to live, is that what you wouldwant?” I knew she was right, but it didn’t makeit any easier. I was, for the first time in mylife, completely and utterly at a loss. I’d never had anyone close to me die

before, at least not anyone that I couldremember. My grandmother had diedwhen I was three, and I don’t remember asingle thing about her or the services thathad followed or even the next few yearsafter her passing. I’d heard stories, ofcourse, from both my father and mygrandfather, but to me that’s exactly whatthey were. It was the same as hearingstories I might otherwise read in anewspaper about some woman I neverreally knew. Though my father would takeme with him when he put flowers on hergrave, I never had any feelings associatedwith her. I felt only for the people she’dleft behind. No one in my family or my circle offriends had ever had to confront somethinglike this. Jamie was seventeen, a child on

the verge of womanhood, dying and stillvery much alive at the same time. I wasafraid, more afraid than I’d ever been, notonly for her, but for me as well. I lived infear of doing something wrong, of doingsomething that would offend her. Was itokay to ever get angry in her presence?Was it okay to talk about the futureanymore? My fear made talking to herdifficult, though she was patient with me. My fear, however, made me realizesomething else, something that made it allworse. I realized I’d never even knownher when she’d been healthy. I had startedto spend time with her only a few monthsearlier, and I’d been in love with her foronly eighteen days. Those eighteen daysseemed like my entire life, but now, whenI looked at her, all I could do was wonder

how many more days there would be. On Monday she didn’t show up forschool, and I somehow knew that she’dnever walk the hallways again. I’d neversee her reading the Bible off by herself atlunch, I’d never see her brown cardiganmoving through the crowd as she made herway to her next class. She was finishedwith school forever; she would neverreceive her diploma. I couldn’t concentrate on anything whileI sat in class that first day back, listeningas teacher after teacher told us what mostof us had already heard. The responseswere similar to those in church on Sunday.Girls cried, boys hung their heads, peopletold stories about her as if she werealready gone. What can we do? theywondered aloud, and people looked to me

for answers. “I don’t know,” was all I could say. I left school early and went to Jamie’s,blowing off my classes after lunch. When Iknocked at the door, Jamie answered it theway she always did, cheerfully andwithout, it seemed, a care in the world. “Hello, Landon,” she said, “this is asurprise.” When she leaned in to kiss me, I kissedher back, though the whole thing made mewant to cry. “My father isn’t home right now, but ifyou’d like to sit on the porch, we can.” “How can you do this?” I askedsuddenly. “How can you pretend thatnothing is wrong?” “I’m not pretending that nothing iswrong, Landon. Let me get my coat and

we’ll sit outside and talk, okay?” She smiled at me, waiting for ananswer, and I finally nodded, my lipspressed together. She reached out andpatted my arm. “I’ll be right back,” she said. I walked to the chair and sat down,Jamie emerging a moment later. She worea heavy coat, gloves, and a hat to keep herwarm. The nor’easter had passed, and theday wasn’t nearly as cold as it had beenover the weekend. Still, though, it was toomuch for her. “You weren’t in school today,” I said. She looked down and nodded. “Iknow.” “Are you ever going to come back?”Even though I already knew the answer, Ineeded to hear it from her.

“No,” she said softly, “I’m not.” “Why? Are you that sick already?” Istarted to tear up, and she reached out andtook my hand. “No. Today I feel pretty good, actually.It’s just that I want to be home in themornings, before my father has to go to theoffice. I want to spend as much time withhim as I can.” Before I die, she meant to say butdidn’t. I felt nauseated and couldn’trespond. “When the doctors first told us,” shewent on, “they said that I should try tolead as normal a life as possible for aslong as I could. They said it would helpme keep my strength up.” “There’s nothing normal about this,” Isaid bitterly.

“I know.” “Aren’t you frightened?” Somehow I expected her to say no, tosay something wise like a grownup would,or to explain to me that we can’t presumeto understand the Lord’s plan. She looked away. “Yes,” she finallysaid, “I’m frightened all the time.” “Then why don’t you act like it?” “I do. I just do it in private.” “Because you don’t trust me?” “No,” she said, “because I know you’refrightened, too.” I began to pray for a miracle. They supposedly happen all the time,and I’d read about them in newspapers.People regaining use of their limbs after

being told they’d never walk again, orsomehow surviving a terrible accidentwhen all hope was lost. Every now andthen a traveling preacher’s tent would beset up outside of Beaufort, and peoplewould go there to watch as people werehealed. I’d been to a couple, and though Iassumed that most of the healing was nomore than a slick magic show, since Inever recognized the people who werehealed, there were occasionally things thateven I couldn’t explain. Old manSweeney, the baker here in town, had beenin the Great War fighting with an artilleryunit behind the trenches, and months ofshelling the enemy had left him deaf in oneear. It wasn’t an act—he really couldn’thear a single thing, and there’d been timeswhen we were kids that we’d been able to

sneak off with a cinnamon roll because ofit. But the preacher started prayingfeverishly and finally laid his hand uponthe side of Sweeney’s head. Sweeneyscreamed out loud, making peoplepractically jump out of their seats. He hada terrified look on his face, as if the guyhad touched him with a white-hot poker,but then he shook his head and lookedaround, uttering the words “I can hearagain.” Even he couldn’t believe it. “TheLord,” the preacher had said as Sweeneymade his way back to his seat, “can doanything. The Lord listens to our prayers.” So that night I opened the Bible thatJamie had given me for Christmas andbegan to read. Now, I’d heard all aboutBible in Sunday school or at church, but tobe frank, I just remembered the highlights

—the Lord sending the seven plagues sothe Israelites could leave Egypt, Jonahbeing swallowed by a whale, Jesuswalking across the water or raisingLazarus from the dead. There were otherbiggies, too. I knew that practically everychapter of the Bible has the Lord doingsomething spectacular, but I hadn’tlearned them all. As Christians we leanedheavily on teachings of the NewTestament, and I didn’t know the firstthings about books like Joshua or Ruth orJoel. The first night I read throughGenesis, the second night I read throughExodus. Leviticus was next, followed byNumbers and then Deuteronomy. Thegoing got a little slow during certain parts,especially as all the laws were beingexplained, yet I couldn’t put it down. It

was a compulsion that I didn’t fullyunderstand. It was late one night, and I was tired bythe time I eventually reached Psalms, butsome-how I knew this was what I waslooking for. Everyone has heard theTwenty-third Psalm, which starts, “TheLord is my Shepherd, I shall not want,”but I wanted to read the others, since noneof them were supposed to be moreimportant than the others. After an hour Icame across an underlined section that Iassumed Jamie had noted because it meantsomething to her. This is what it said: I cry to you, my Lord, my rock! Do not be deaf to me, for if you are silent, I shall go down to

the pit like the rest. Hear my voice raised in petition as I cry to you for help, as I raise my hands, my Lord, toward your holy of holies. I closed the Bible with tears in my eyes,unable to finish the psalm. Somehow I knew she’d underlined itfor me. “I don’t know what to do,” I saidnumbly, staring into the dim light of mybedroom lamp. My mom and I were sittingon my bed. It was coming up on the end ofJanuary, the most difficult month of mylife, and I knew that in February things

would only get worse. “I know this is hard for you,” shemurmured, “but there’s nothing you cando.” “I don’t mean about Jamie being sick—I know there’s nothing I can do about that.I mean about Jamie and me.” My mother looked at mesympathetically. She was worried aboutJamie, but she was also worried about me.I went on. “It’s hard for me to talk to her. All I cando when I look at her is think about theday when I won’t be able to. So I spendall my time at school thinking about her,wishing I could see her right then, butwhen I get to her house, I don’t know whatto say.” “I don’t know if there’s anything you

can say to make her feel better.” “Then what should I do?” She looked at me sadly and put her armaround my shoulder. “You really love her,don’t you,” she said. “With all my heart.” She looked as sad as I’d ever seen her.“What’s your heart telling you to do?” “I don’t know.” “Maybe,” she said gently, “you’retrying too hard to hear it.” The next day I was better with Jamie,though not much. Before I’d arrived, I’dtold myself that I wouldn’t say anythingthat might get her down—that I’d try totalk to her like I had before—and that’sexactly how it went. I sat myself on her

couch and told her about some of myfriends and what they were doing; I caughther up on the success of the basket-ballteam. I told her that I still hadn’t heardfrom UNC, but that I was hopeful I’dknow within the next few weeks. I told herI was looking forward to graduation. Ispoke as though she’d be back to schoolthe following week, and I knew I soundednervous the entire time. Jamie smiled andnodded at the appropriate times, askingquestions every now and then. But I thinkwe both knew by the time I finishedtalking that it was the last time I would doit. It didn’t feel right to either of us. My heart was telling me exactly thesame thing. I turned to the Bible again, in the hopethat it would guide me.

“How are you feeling?” I asked acouple of days later. By now Jamie had lost more weight.Her skin was beginning to take on aslightly grayish tint, and the bones in herhands were starting to show through herskin. Again I saw bruises. We were insideher house in the living room; the cold wastoo much for her to bear. Despite all this, she still lookedbeautiful. “I’m doing okay,” she said, smilingvaliantly. “The doctors have given mesome medicine for the pain, and it seemsto help a little.” I’d been coming by every day. Timeseemed to be slowing down and speedingup at exactly the same time. “Can I get anything for you?”

“No, thank you, I’m doing fine.” I looked around the room, then back ather. “I’ve been reading the Bible,” Ifinally said. “You have?” Her face lit up, remindingme of the angel I’d seen in the play. Icouldn’t believe that only six weeks hadgone by. “I wanted you to know.” “I’m glad you told me.” “I read the book of Job last night,” Isaid, “where God stuck it to Job to test hisfaith.” She smiled and reached out to pat myarm, her hand soft on my skin. It felt nice.“You should read something else. That’snot about God in one of his bettermoments.” “Why would he have done that to him?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Do you ever feel like Job?” She smiled, a little twinkle in her eyes.“Sometimes.” “But you haven’t lost your faith?” “No.” I knew she hadn’t, but I think Iwas losing mine. “Is it because you think you might getbetter?” “No,” she said, “it’s because it’s theonly thing I have left.” After that, we started reading the Bibletogether. It somehow seemed like the rightthing to do, but my heart was nonethelesstelling me that there still might besomething more. At night I lay awake, wondering aboutit.

Reading the Bible gave us something tofocus on, and all of a sudden everythingstarted to get better between us, maybebecause I wasn’t as worried about doingsomething to offend her. What could bemore right than reading the Bible? ThoughI didn’t know nearly as much as she didabout it, I think she appreciated thegesture, and occasionally when we read,she’d put her hand on my knee and simplylisten as my voice filled the room. Other times I’d be sitting beside her onthe couch, looking at the Bible andwatching Jamie out of the corner of myeye at the same time, and we’d comeacross a passage or a psalm, maybe evena proverb, and I’d ask her what shethought about it. She always had ananswer, and I’d nod, thinking about it.

Sometimes she asked me what I thought,and I did my best, too, though there weremoments when I was bluffing and I wassure that she could tell. “Is that what itreally means to you?” she’d ask, and I’drub my chin and think about it beforetrying again. Sometimes, though, it washer fault when I couldn’t concentrate, whatwith that hand on my knee and all. One Friday night I brought her over fordinner at my house. My mom joined us forthe main course, then left the table and satin the den so that we could be alone. It was nice there, sitting with Jamie,and I knew she felt the same way. Shehadn’t been leaving her house much, andthis was a good change for her. Since she’d told me about her illness,Jamie had stopped wearing her hair in a

bun, and it was still as stunning as it hadbeen the first time I’d seen her wear itdown. She was looking at the chinacabinet—my mom had one of thosecabinets with the lights inside—when Ireached across the table and took herhand. “Thank you for coming over tonight,” Isaid. She turned her attention back to me.“Thanks for inviting me.” I paused. “How’s your father holdingup?” Jamie sighed. “Not too well. I worryabout him a lot.” “He loves you dearly, you know.” “I know.” “So do I,” I said, and when I did, shelooked away. Hearing me say this seemed

to frighten her again. “Will you keep coming over to myhouse?” she asked. “Even later, you know,when . . . ?” I squeezed her hand, not hard, butenough to let her know that I meant what Isaid. “As long as you want me to come, I’llbe there.” “We don’t have to read the Bibleanymore, if you don’t want to.” “Yes,” I said softly, “I think we do.” She smiled. “You’re a good friend,Landon. I don’t know what I’d do withoutyou.” She squeezed my hand, returning thefavor. Sitting across from me, she lookedradiant. “I love you, Jamie,” I said again, but

this time she wasn’t frightened. Insteadour eyes met across the table, and Iwatched as hers began to shine. Shesighed and looked away, running her handthrough her hair, then turned to me again. Ikissed her hand, smiling in return. “I love you, too,” she finallywhispered. They were the words I’d been prayingto hear. I don’t know if Jamie told Hegbertabout her feelings for me, but I somehowdoubted it because his routine hadn’tchanged at all. It was his habit to leave thehouse whenever I came over after school,and this continued. I would knock at thedoor and listen as Hegbert explained to

Jamie that he would be leaving and wouldbe back in a couple of hours. “Okay,Daddy,” I always heard her say, then Iwould wait for Hegbert to open the door.Once he let me in, he would open thehallway closet and silently pull out hiscoat and hat, buttoning the coat up all theway before he left the house. His coat wasoldfashioned, black and long, like a trenchcoat without zippers, the kind that wasfashionable earlier this century. Heseldom spoke directly to me, even after helearned that Jamie and I’d begun to readthe Bible together. Though he still didn’t like me in thehouse if he wasn’t there, he nonethelessallowed me to come in. I knew that part ofthe reason had to do with the fact that hedidn’t want Jamie to get chilled by sitting

on the porch, and the only other alternativewas to wait at the house while I was there.But I think Hegbert needed some timealone, too, and that was the real reason forthe change. He didn’t talk to me about therules of the house—I could see them in hiseyes the first time he’d said I could stay. Iwas allowed to stay in the living room,that was all. Jamie was still moving around fairlywell, though the winter was miserable. Acold streak blew in during the last part ofJanuary that lasted nine days, followed bythree straight days of drenching rain.Jamie had no interest in leaving the housein such weather, though after Hegbert hadgone she and I might stand on the porch forjust a couple of minutes to breathe thefresh sea air. Whenever we did this, I

found myself worrying about her. While we read the Bible, people wouldknock at the door at least three times everyday. People were always dropping by,some with food, others just to say hello.Even Eric and Margaret came over, andthough Jamie wasn’t allowed to let themin, she did so anyway, and we sat in theliving room and talked a little, both ofthem unable to meet her gaze. They were both nervous, and it tookthem a couple of minutes to finally get tothe point. Eric had come to apologize, hesaid, and he said that he couldn’t imaginewhy all this had happened to her of allpeople. He also had something for her,and he set an envelope on the table, hishand shaking. His voice was choked up ashe spoke, the words ringing with the most

heartfelt emotion I’d ever heard himexpress. “You’ve got the biggest heart of anyoneI’ve ever met,” he said to Jamie, his voicecracking, “and even though I took it forgranted and wasn’t always nice to you, Iwanted to let you know how I feel. I’venever been more sorry about anything inmy life.” He paused and swiped at thecorner of his eye. “You’re the best personI’ll probably ever know.” As he was fighting back his tears andsniffling, Margaret had already given in tohers and sat weeping on the couch, unableto speak. When Eric had finished, Jamiewiped tears from her cheeks, stoodslowly, and smiled, opening her arms inwhat could only be called a gesture offorgiveness. Eric went to her willingly,

finally beginning to cry openly as shegently caressed his hair, murmuring tohim. The two of them held each other for along time as Eric sobbed until he was tooexhausted to cry anymore. Then it was Margaret’s turn, and sheand Jamie did exactly the same thing. When Eric and Margaret were ready toleave, they pulled on their jackets andlooked at Jamie one more time, as if toremember her forever. I had no doubt thatthey wanted to think of her as she lookedright then. In my mind she was beautiful,and I know they felt the same way. “Hang in there,” Eric said on his wayout the door. “I’ll be praying for you, andso will everybody else.” Then he lookedtoward me, reached out, and patted me onthe shoulder. “You too,” he said, his eyes

red. As I watched them leave, I knew I’dnever been prouder of either of them. Later, when we opened the envelope,we learned what Eric had done. Withouttelling us, he’d collected over $400dollars for the orphanage. I waited for the miracle. It hadn’t come. In early February the pills Jamie wastaking were increased to help offset theheightened pain she was feeling. Thehigher dosages made her dizzy, and twiceshe fell when walking to the bathroom,one time hitting her head against thewashbasin. Afterward she insisted that thedoctors cut back her medicine, and withreluctance they did. Though she was able