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“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 but think about the play.  “But all those rehearsals . . . those long days . . . maybe you shouldn’t have-“ “Maybe,” she said, reaching for my hand and cutting me off. “Doing the play was the thing that kept me healthy for so long.”

Later, she told me that seven months had passed since she’d been diagnosed. The doctors had given her a year, maybe less.

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’t asked her, the one that I’d been thinking about. I hadn’t slept that night, and my eyes were still swollen. I’d gone from shock to denial to sadness to anger and back again, all night long, wishing it weren’t so and praying that the whole thing had been some terrible nightmare.  We were in her living room the following day, the day that Hegbert had made the announcement to the congregation. It was January 10, 1959.  Jamie didn’t look as depressed as I thought she would. But then again, she’d been living with this for seven months already. She and Hegbert had been the only ones to know, and neither of them had trusted even me. I was hurt by that and frightened at the same time.