Page 17 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

There’s no denying it: I’m slowly learning to like the interview process.

The days I get to chat with Josh are, by far, my favorite days, and thanks to our practice sessions, I’m even learning to like the real interviews just a little bit.

It’s been a solid week of our new repertoire, and it’s adding a bit of fun and unexpected joy to my day-to-day routine.

The first few days he was tentative, asking just two or three questions.

Now we spend the entire lunch hour together.

“Josh, you’ll never guess,” I say, barging into Benji’s room, where he’s working after my lunchtime interview with a journalist for a women’s magazine.

“She asked me the same question you asked a few days ago. The one about ‘What’s one thing you wish you said but never did?’ In your exact words.

You should write fluff articles for a living! ”

Josh smiles and gives me what I now know is his trademark I told you so look.

Initially, I refused to answer the question when he asked it.

My argument was, and continues to be, that people just love to ask me these revisionist history–type questions.

If you could change one thing. If you could do one thing differently.

If you could go back in time and say something different.

People love hypotheticals based on time-traveling powers.

He pushed the issue, so I answered with the most honest thing that came to mind: “Ben, I’m not sleeping with you until you go to the doctor.”

“Really, that’s the one thing you’d go back in time and tell your husband?” he asked, incredulous.

“Yes, one threat of withholding sex and he would’ve been at the doctor’s office like this,” I said, snapping my fingers. “Men are not as complicated as you guys like to think you are.”

Now he’s asking me, “What was her response?”

“Very similar to yours. She laughed, but then I explained why I would go back and say that. So many women and wives are tired of being the nags in their families and work lives. It’s like we’re the human reminder list for everything and everyone.

I had countless days where I felt like I only nagged—my kids, my colleagues, my husband.

Sometimes we just give up. I honestly just wish I forced the issue with the doctor’s visit.

I torture myself wondering if maybe he would still be here if I had.

It led to a great conversation about the expectations of women in modern relationships. ”

“Well, I’m glad that my practice interviews are useful,” he says with a sad smile, given what I just shared.

“Ugh, they are annoyingly helpful. Even when it’s not like today and the exact same question, I still find myself using a lot of the same ‘sound bites’ or whatever you want to call them. Thank you.”

“Get ready, Gracie—I’ve got some doozies forming in my big ol’ brain for tomorrow,” he says, packing up his things and calling it an early day.

At the same time, my phone vibrates, and when I glance down, the summer camp caller ID stares back at me. Instant panic. I swipe the screen and answer in a flash.

“Hello?”

“Is this Gracie Harris?” the voice on the other end of the line asks me.

“Yes. Is everything all right?” I respond, my voice rising and full of concern. I’ve never once gotten a call from them during a summer camp session.

Things get quiet, and Josh freezes in place and keeps a sharp eye on me. I can see a hint of worry and concern crossing his face.

“Things are fine—don’t worry,” the voice assures me. “This is Sheila, the camp director.”

“Right, right—sorry, Sheila. I didn’t recognize your voice,” I respond, my heart still pounding. I’m a mom, and unexpected calls from the person currently responsible for my kids’ safety immediately sends my worry gear into overdrive.

“I’m calling because Benji took a tumble while riding one of those longboards down the big hill,” she calmly tells me. “He had on a helmet and some pads, but it was a big spill.”

“Does he need to see a doctor or get stitches or anything?” I ask, now in full panic mode.

“He’s fine; nothing is broken,” she tells me slowly and with a hint of annoyance. “No need for stitches, but he’s got a lot of small cuts and bruises. I didn’t want you to be surprised next time you check the camp photo feed and see him looking like he lost a fight.”

She laughs at her joke, trying to take the pressure off. Josh can only hear my side of the conversation, and he’s listening intently. I’m focused on the phone, but I see the stress in his face loosen a bit as the tone in my voice changes.

“That’s good to hear,” I say, trying to slow my heart rate. “Does he need me? Should I talk to him?”

“No, no,” she says abruptly. “You know we prefer campers not to chat with parents if at all possible. It just makes them homesick. Normally the nurse would have called you, but I’m just holding up my end of the bargain to keep you personally informed, given the, uh, situation.”

Situation . An interesting word choice. A situation is time limited; whatever this is that the kids and I are in feels very permanent.

“I appreciate that, and I promise not to freak out when I see a photo,” I say, trying to simultaneously sound normal and calm myself down. “He’s doing well, though, on the whole?”

“He is. Ava came and hung out with him while we bandaged him up. His counselors are keeping a close eye on him, as promised, and he’s having a good time,” she tells me, not giving in too much to my overbearing questions. She probably regrets agreeing to call me personally.

“Sheila, thank you for calling me—I appreciate it,” I tell her.

“Happy to do it, Gracie. I hope you’re having a good summer so far,” she says, before adding, “Have a good rest of your day and try not to worry.”

“I’ll do my best. You have a good day, too.”

I put the phone down and take a deep breath. I’m not sure I’ve taken in air since that call started. When I look up, Josh is slowly approaching. He’s clearly trying to discern what sort of friendship intimacy we have and how to handle the moment.

“You okay?” he asks, pointing to my leg.

My stupid leg. I don’t even remember sitting on the edge of the bed, but clearly at some point I did.

If I had been in my right mind, I would’ve moved out of sight or at least stayed standing.

The shake is always less obvious when I’m upright.

But instead, I’m sitting on the edge of this unmade bed with my stupid right leg shaking relentlessly.

“Yeah, totally fine,” I respond, only hoping that I’m hiding the lie. “This just happens when I get nervous, and that call from camp caught me off guard. I just worry about the kids a lot.”

Josh stares at me for a moment too long, catches himself, and begins to turn away.

“Maybe I could get you a glass of water or something,” he says, not really asking. “Or make you a margarita?”

I’m mildly distracted and charmed upon hearing he remembered my drink order.

I tell him water is fine and attempt to focus on my breathing.

I will myself to remember the calming exercises that Dr. Lisa and I have practiced time and again.

When he comes back into the room and hands me the water, I plaster on a fake smile that convinces neither of us that things are okay.

“I live in a constant state of worry,” I tell him as he sits down beside me. “Losing Ben so suddenly put me perpetually on edge. I’m still learning to ease back into some normal state of existence and retraining myself not to expect that every phone call bears tidings of catastrophe.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine what that’s like,” he tells me, keeping eye contact and doing his best not to look concerned.

I know this look, though, because I’ve gotten it from friends many times over the last year.

He’s worried. Genuinely worried. As Jenny has reminded me repeatedly over the last year, part of the reason I try to avoid emotions is because I wear them like a clown suit—impossible to miss, impossible to hide. I have no emotional camouflage.

“The only time I feel truly calm is when I’m writing,” I share. “It’s like I can disappear into my mind and nothing else matters. I need to figure out how to harness that power into my day-to-day life, that’s for sure.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he says.

“A distraction or conversation usually works,” I say. The only hope of stopping this stupid leg shake is if we convince my brain to focus on something else. “Maybe an early preview of your interview questions for tomorrow?”

“Let’s try something else. Tell me about Benji,” he says. “What’s he like when he’s not causing the camp to call and stress you out?”

I smile and launch into a long-winded response, telling Josh that Benji sometimes feels like two different kids.

He’s incredibly responsible and a good listener.

He’s always the first one up and you usually don’t have to ask him more than once to do something, unlike Ava, who needs constant reminders.

He’s also a ten-year-old boy, so when he goes outside or gets around friends, he is adventurous and open to anything.

If you dare him to do something, he’ll shrug his shoulders like it’s no big deal and give it a try.

He’s as happy to fish quietly in a lake off the side of a boat as he is to longboard down a big hill and crash and burn.

Perfectly adaptable to the conditions in which he finds himself.

As I talk, Josh interjects to ask questions or make jokes, and before I know it, fifteen minutes have passed of him just listening to me babble on about Benji.

“Maybe all little boys are the same on some level, but he sounds a lot like me as a kid,” he says. “I drove my parents nutty.”

He glances down at my leg and smiles. “Hey, look,” he says, pointing. “No more shake.”

That was fast. Usually, it takes an hour for things to really calm down, but sitting here talking about Benji did the trick.