Page 12 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

I knew this morning would be hard, but for some reason I foolishly thought that the excitement of spending the summer writing and just having me time would make it all a little easier to bear. How wrong of me.

The scared mom in me wants to run into their rooms and yell, Camp is canceled! but I know they need this summer just as much as I need mine. They missed camp last year because of Ben; they can’t miss it this year because of me.

A few weeks ago, Ava came into my room after lights out and asked if she could talk.

As any parent of a twelve-year-old can tell you, the conversations that follow “Can we talk about something?” vary wildly from hilarious to heartfelt to horrifying.

Crushes, broken hearts, girl drama, grief, test jitters, SEX.

I didn’t know where this one was going to land.

“The first thing I want to say,” she started, “is that I really love and miss Dad. So much.”

I told her, of course, that we all do.

“The thing is, I’m tired of being the sad girl that everyone pities because her dad died,” she said bluntly.

I could tell that she’d been working herself up to the conversation for some time.

One thing she and I have in common is our need to rehearse conversations in our head before we have them out loud.

“Camp is my first opportunity to just be me again,” she added.

“I don’t want the sad faces and people checking on me constantly.

I want to be able to talk about stupid, fun stuff with my friends.

I want people to be able to complain about their parents without suddenly looking at me and feeling bad because I don’t have half of mine anymore. ”

“I get that,” I assured her. “Trust me—I understand more than most.”

She sat straight up and gave me her serious face. “What I would like you to do is call the camp and ask them not to bring it up. And definitely not to pull me into the nurse’s hut for an ‘emotional check-in’ every few days. Ask them to just let me be normal .”

Her entire life, I had thought of Ava as Ben’s mini, but here she was admitting to the same internal dialogue that I’d been having for months.

The Maisy interview may have tipped the scales, but this is the thing that kept me from selling the house, kept this wild plan on track to go on sabbatical and to live in Canopy for the entire summer.

The ability to be free . To be me. To not be the woman with the dead husband’s ashes on her bookshelf.

To go into a damn grocery store and not run into someone who says, “Oh, sweetie, how are you doing… really ?”

I looked forward to the anonymity that Canopy would give me. Sure, I expect to run into readers and others who know about my situation, but it’s fundamentally different.

The first time I went on a short work trip to Charlotte four months after Ben died, I sat at the hotel bar to have a drink after a busy day of meetings.

I made small talk with a sweet old couple sitting on the stools nearby.

We covered the normal topics: what we were doing in town, where our favorite dinner spots were, and what future travel plans we had.

Then the question that always comes along eventually with sweet old couples on a trip together: “What about you, Gracie—are you married?”

I took a breath and answered, “No. I’m a widow.”

The wife said, “Oh, what a shame. You’re so young, though; I’m sure you’ll find love again.” And then, the next thought came out: “Gracie, you seem like a woman who would know about the new exhibit at the Mint Museum. Am I right about that?”

They didn’t pry, which I appreciated, but what also struck me was how dispassionate the response had been…

in a good way. There was no emotion tied to it, unlike every single person I ran into in Chapel Hill.

Being loved and appreciated in my adopted hometown is great, but it can also be stifling.

At that moment, with the Fahertys from Richmond, Virginia, I felt free to be me for the first time since Ben died.

So, as I lie here in bed waiting for the kids to wake up screaming with excitement about the next eight weeks at summer camp, I remember those two conversations: the one with the Fahertys in Charlotte and with Ava at home in my room.

This summer in Canopy is a gift, and as long as I can get through this morning drop-off, I will be able to bask in the glory of just being me for the next few months.

—

Two hours later, the kids and I are standing behind the SUV doing a final review of all their camp luggage—trunks, duffels, pillows, portable fans, and creature comforts to last the summer—which is all staged on the driveway.

I let them both get their trunks out of the car yesterday.

Casey, her boyfriend, and I had struggled to get them in in the first place, and now I’m wondering how on earth I’ll manage this on my own.

About the moment I consider knocking on the door of the neighbor whom I haven’t yet met for help, Josh pulls up in his truck.

“Need help?” he asks after seeing our predicament.

“Yes, please,” I reply in a grateful tone. “It’s always easy to get these trunks out but much harder to get them in.”

I bend down to grab one side of the first trunk, but Josh waves me off. In one swift motion, he grabs both sides of the camp trunk and hoists it into the SUV. He repeats it again for Ava’s purple case.

“Dude, you’re strong,” Benji says, impressed by the quick work.

“I work on construction sites some days. I lift a lot of crazy stuff that I probably shouldn’t. These are easy,” Josh responds.

We do one last verbal inventory of what’s crammed into my SUV and the kids are finally satisfied that we haven’t missed anything. Josh is hanging close by, ready to help if we need something.

“All right, guys, I think we’re ready!” I say with forced excitement.

“Take care of my mom,” Benji says to Josh in a serious tone after we close the liftgate. He’s pointing at him and raising his eyebrows. This is Benji’s no-nonsense expression.

I throw a glance at Ava to commiserate at the latest ridiculous thing to come out of Benji’s mouth, but now she’s looking at Josh and adding care instructions.

“She works too hard. If she looks stressed, ask her if she’s had enough to eat.”

“You two make me sound helpless. I’ll be fine, and Josh is not here to take care of me. He’s here to make our house look spectacular.”

Josh fist-bumps Benji and says to both kids, “Don’t worry—message received.”

I mouth sorry to Josh, but he just smiles as he walks toward the house. The kids are overflowing with adrenaline for camp, and before I’m even fully in the driver’s seat, Benji pulls himself halfway out of his already-rolled-down window to yell goodbye to Josh.

“He’s really nice,” Benji begins. “I’m glad you’ll have a nice person around all summer to hang out with. It’s important to have friends around.”

“I didn’t see a wedding ring on this hand,” Ava chimes in.

“Ava!”

“It’s just an observation, Mom. Don’t freak out.”

“I appreciate y’all worrying about me, but my job this summer is to finish my book. My job is definitely not to make friends or worry about the marital status of the people I meet.”

“Don’t be so strict with yourself, Mom. Please have some fun. If your letters to camp are all emo, I’ll make up an excuse to leave early,” Ava says. “And maybe go on a few dates this summer. There’s a whole new batch of people here!”

One of my biggest concerns after Ben died was parentifying my children.

I’ve spent the last year hyperfocused on their health and wellness.

Home-cooked meals despite the fact that I hate to cook, showing up to sporting events, helping with homework.

I made sure all of those parent jobs were fulfilled by me, and I didn’t ask them to grow up too fast. Benji has always been a little adult, but I didn’t want him to go overboard.

Driving in the car now, I’m wondering if I still somehow failed at this.

“We just love you and want you to be happy,” Benji says tenderly. Both kids get a little soft in the last hours and minutes before camp starts.

We stop for donuts on the way, and after thirty minutes, we arrive at Camp Canopy Valley. A mile-long gravel driveway leads up to acres of open space, a lake, cabins, and lots of activity huts. This is kid heaven.

Within thirty seconds of pulling into our parking spot, a SWAT team of teenage and twentysomething camp counselors rushes to the car.

Benji jumps out and heads to the back to play foreman, instructing the counselors which trunks and bags go up the hill to the boys’ side of camp and which go down the hill to the girls’ part.

First, we walk up to Benji’s home for the summer—his cabin is already full of loud boys unpacking their clothes and towels in a very disorderly fashion.

Ava and I help Benji make his bed with his favorite superhero sheets and get him settled in.

A few minutes later, he’s shooing us out.

I sneak in for a few last big hugs and kisses before leaving to take Ava to her cabin.

“By next year he’ll probably be too old for his superhero sheets,” I say wistfully as we walk back down the hill.

“Probably, but it’ll just be some silly cartoon or anime theme after that. It’ll still be cute,” she says back, trying to make me feel better.

Ava’s cabin is noticeably calmer and less messy than Benji’s.

That is, of course, the difference between twelve-year-old girls and ten-year-old boys.

I help her make her bed on the top bunk and get her toiletries organized.

A friend she’s spent three summers with shows up, and they fall into a quick hug and then sit on the bottom bunk to start catching up.

After a few minutes, I tell Ava I should probably go.

She excuses herself and says she’ll walk me back to the car.

She’s never done this in all of her years of camp.

“Write to me at least twice a week,” she instructs. “If you fall in love with Josh or some other guy, I expect a separate letter, please.”

The kids have asked about my dating life a lot lately.

Dr. Lisa and I agree the reason is twofold.

First, they genuinely want me to be happy and in love again.

They are old enough to understand the ways that relationships can enrich your life.

I’m certain Ben’s absence has made them realize this in a sad way.

The second reason they care so much is that all they’ve known is a traditional family structure.

At the end of the day, they want someone to play the father figure. This thought breaks my heart.

I give Ava the biggest hug and tell her I love her about twenty times. Then she turns around and walks back to her cabin and her summer of freedom. I reluctantly climb into the car, feeling like I’ve lived a hundred years this morning.

—

“No interviews today,” I tell Josh when I arrive back at the house so he knows that he’s free to make as much noise as he needs.

“It’s my last day of relaxation before I dive into the work, so I’m going to sit on the creaky, old porch swing and finish this book that’s been on my nightstand for over a month. ”

He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows at the book I’ve just held up. “You’re reading a book that thick while also writing a book? Very brave,” he playfully observes.

“I’m writing a memoir, and ironically, it’s not been my favorite genre of book to read over the years,” I explain. “So I’ve spent the last nine months reading memoirs to get a better sense of how I want to structure my book and learn what sorts of techniques I do and don’t want to use.”

“What sort of techniques?” he asks. I can tell the question is genuine and he’s interested in my process. James did tell me that Josh is a process guy.

“Well, for example, this book isn’t told in chronological order. It skips around and there are a lot of flashbacks,” I say. “The writing in this book is superb, but as a reader, I struggle with this narrative structure. My memoir is shaping up to be more linear.”

I take a moment to decide if I want to add on the next thought and just go for it.

“This book is also written at about a thirtieth-grade level. It’s very literary and beautiful, but it’s not something everyone will pick up and enjoy.

It’s definitely not a book you buy at the airport.

Most people don’t like needing to look up new words every few pages. ”

“So, will your book be more accessible?” he asks.

“It will,” I answer, deciding that I like that word: accessible. “My column in The New York Times is written so that as many people as possible can relate to it, and I think that’s part of what’s made my work so popular and occasionally viral. Why mess with a good thing?”

He nods. “Well, then, with all that in mind, I think I’ll stop on the window casings for now and switch to the cabinet repair above the refrigerator.

That’s going to be loud as hell and not easy, so good to take care of it today when you don’t have work stuff,” he says.

“But if you hear me cursing from the comfort of your swing, don’t worry. ”

I wish him luck and grab a fluffy sofa pillow off the only piece of furniture currently in the living room to make the swing a bit more comfortable. I lie down, place the pillow behind my head, and hang my legs over the opposite armrest. I open to page 363 and promptly fall asleep.

When I’m startled awake what feels like a minute later, it’s because Josh is trying to quietly sneak out of the house. He sees me open my eyes and wince in pain from being in one position for too long. What time is it? I’m not that old.

“Sorry,” he says with a tense smile. “I was trying really hard not to wake you.”

I look at my watch. Holy shit—it’s been two hours. If he’s been doing loud construction inside, I somehow slept through it. I close the book that has been spread across my chest without progress.

“Please tell me you were silently working in there,” I say, embarrassed.

“Do you want me to tell the truth?”

“I guess I didn’t realize how tired I was. The last few weeks have been relentless.”

“The good news is that the cabinet is fixed and securely attached to the wall. It was never installed properly in the first place. You don’t have to live in fear of it crashing down anymore.”

“Thank you. Thanks for everything you’re doing here this summer. I still feel so terrible about how little I’m paying you.”

“Remember—it’s helpful to me, too. I’ll be back tomorrow morning for a full day of work.”

I sit on the porch swing and watch him drive away. Then I grab the pillow and book to go inside, read a few more paragraphs, and fall asleep once again.