Jamie and I volunteered every Sunday at her father's church. Jamie was fine with it. I, on the other hand, had to get used to it. I mean, I had been going to Hegbert's church since my family moved to Beaufort- that was around the time that my dad had really been in to his religious phase. But this was different. I wasn't sitting in the pews, spacing out or picking at my jeans in the back of the church. Now I was upfront, right next to the choir and paying rapt attention. I believed, finally. And I'm not talking about television-evangelists-send-me-money-and-get-your-entire-family- blessed kind of belief. I'm talking faith-is-like-the-wind belief. It finally all made sense. That whole God came to the world through Christ to love us finally made sense to me. And, as corny as it sounds, Jamie was the one who opened the door to it all. She was my Christ. She wasn't the Son of God or anything but she was the one who brought the love of God to me, just like Christ brought it to the world. But, as much as I enjoyed the word of God, it was what came after that that I looked forward to. After we sat through an hour and a half service, Jamie and I would always go out for a picnic on the beach. Always- rain or shine. If it was raining we would just sit out there in the rain and get soaked. We had been going every Sunday since we had started dating, and it just kept up as a tradition for us. But this Sunday was different. A lot different. I could tell right away that Jamie wasn't normal this Sunday. All through the Sunday service she kept getting this glazed look in her eyes- and Jamie always paid rapt attention to every word her father said. And then, when I was getting our coats, I found her sitting down, her head in her hands, gasping for breath. I knew something was up. But she still insisted on going to the beach. It was tradition, and she didn't break tradition. And so we got in my Camera and drove the half-mile to the beach, sat down, and continued to have the turkey sandwiches Jamie had packed for us. My worry began to edge away as the day continued- she was fine. That whole incident at the church had been a fluke. She had just gotten up to fast. And so we went home, not a care in the world, man and wife, the man with a car to fix, the woman with a garden to tend. Boy, how wrong was I. It happened almost as soon as we got home. Jamie slipped up the steps in to the house. She swore to me that she had just lost her footing and was glad I was there to catch her, she said jokingly, but there was something about her voice that made me regret taking her to the beach. When we got through the door, I went in to the kitchen to make her a cup of tea, telling her to go upstairs and lie down for a little while. She agreed pleasantly, and made her way up the stairs. That's when it happens. I heard a crash, then what sounded like a bowling ball fall down the stairs. I knew what it was, but I couldn't move. The teacup dropped out of my hand and shattered on the linoleum floor in to a hundred pieces. I was glued to that spot. With feet that seemed covered with cement I walked out to the landing, dreading what I knew my eyes would see. Jamie lay at the foot of the stairs, crumpled in a heap, her forehead bleeding and her leg jutting out a weird angle. Gripped in her hand was a locket her mother had given her when she was just a baby. I called the police as soon as I could get my shaky fingers to press the buttons. It took an eternity for the ambulance to get to out house, and I spent the entire time crying over Jamie's body, afraid to touch her or move her. Why does this happen to those I love? They leave. Why? My dad left me when I was thirteen. My step dad left me when I was fourteen. My grandma left me when I was seven, my grandpa a year later. My first love, Carla, left when I was ten. And now Jamie, who was already as fragile as a china doll, was leaving me too. I guess it was just one of those unanswered questions. And that was what I prayed for as I tailed the ambulance to the hospital. I prayed for the answers to all those unanswerable questions.