Page 2 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

“You stayed strong,” Jenny whispers in my ear. “Even when it looked like things were going bad, you stayed tough.”

I don’t feel strong. In fact, I feel quite literally on the verge of collapse. The weight of my head on her shoulder makes that clear. Why did I agree to fly to Nashville on short notice? And why did I assume Maisy would be nice to me? I should’ve known better.

Jenny guides me to the leather armchairs a few feet away, loudly dragging one to fully face the other. My hands instinctively find hers as we both sit, our foreheads pressed to one another.

“What happened out there, Gracie? It was going so great—really, it was—and then suddenly…it wasn’t.”

“Everyone just assumed I’d be a natural at this part. I’m good with words on paper, not this,” I say angrily, not answering her question. Instead, I pose one of my own. “Why couldn’t she just stick to the script?”

“Those were very personal questions—borderline inappropriate, to be sure—but I’ve never, ever seen that happen to you in the thirty years we’ve known each other. What happened? ”

Her emphasis on those last couple of words lets me know she is not going to let this go. Jenny’s concern is clear from the wobble of her voice and the way her hand is now softly stroking my arm.

“Anxiety attack? Pure panic? Good old-fashioned exhaustion?” I answer, trying to be funny but failing to conjure any humor. It all comes out flat. “Or maybe it’s just that I’m a mess and trying so damn hard to pretend that I’m not.”

“I need you to be very honest with me,” Jenny begins, tilting her head to make eye contact with me. “Has this happened before? Is this something we need to worry about?”

This isn’t the first time I’ve had an unexpected meltdown—just the first time so many other people have witnessed it.

Usually, I can muster the strength to wait until I’m home, or in my office, or safely tucked in a bathroom stall.

Not today. Maisy is probably proud of herself for cracking me in such a public way.

Still…almost blacking out? This part is new.

“No, it’s not normal,” I finally tell her. “Usually, the worst of it is whatever the stress tic of the month is, which goes on for an hour or two, and then I move on. This was not normal. Not at all.”

The air between us sits still for a moment.

We’ve supported one another through the best and worst life has to offer.

She stood beside me when I said “I do” to Ben and again, nearly twenty years later, in that same church to mourn him.

The ways that she has met me in the dark corners of life over the last year feel as impossible as they do miraculous.

“We need to revisit last night’s conversation,” she says, breaking the silence. I feel her hand squeeze mine tighter than ever. “You need to go.”

“Can we please not do this now?”

“We absolutely are going to do this now—this is exactly the right time. You almost blacked out on television. This is not you, Gracie. Something needs to change, and there is an easy option staring you right in the face.”

“You really think a change of scenery is the answer? You think it’s that simple?” I ask. “What if I get there and it’s all the same problems just mixed with a bunch of new ones? That doesn’t seem like an Easy Button. It seems like a recipe for more disaster.”

“When will you ever have this chance again? A break from work. Kids safe. Long hours to write and figure yourself the hell out?”

“And I can’t do that at home?”

“No, I don’t think you can. What you’ve been doing hasn’t worked—it’s time to try something new. Your body and mind are begging you for a change.”

—

A few short hours later, Jenny and I are giving each other one last hug before we go our separate ways at the airport.

“Thanks again for flying down here on such short notice,” I tell her as we pull away. “I needed you—even more than I thought I would.”

She grabs my hand before I can turn to go. She’s got her serious eyes on.

“Gracie, the last few months have been particularly rough,” she says. “I’ve been in complete and total amazement watching you this last year, but I have a request. You know that thing that they’re about to say to us on the plane about putting our own oxygen masks on first?”

“Jenny,” I interrupt, my patience with the world worn thin. “You know I had to get masks on the kids first. You know that.”

“I do, sweetie,” she reassures me, “but I’m not sure that you ever put your own mask on at all. Like, ever. Today was proof. I think it’s time to focus on you. Go to Canopy.”

She pulls me in for one last, big hug and I whisper that I will take her advice under close consideration.

“Next time I see you, you’re going to be gigantic,” I add playfully, touching her belly and trying to end this quick, complex visit on a tender note. “Be sure to tell this peanut how much I love her every single night, okay?”

“Will do,” she says. “Last piece of advice: in the coming days try to think about the first ten minutes of that interview, not the last five. When it was good, it was really good. I’m proud of you. You should be proud of yourself—I know Ben definitely is.”

Ninety minutes later, I’m on my flight back home.

Back to my kids, my real life, the last month of school, and another summer without Ben.

It’s been just over a year since we lost him, but last summer it was all so fresh, passing by in a haze of grief so thick that sometimes it felt hard to breathe.

Last year there was bereavement leave, frozen dinners made by sweet ladies from church, and a fledgling writing gig that I was convinced would disappear as quickly as it had arrived.

The meals and official mourning period ended, but the writing thing stuck around.

When I quickly grab a magazine from my bag to read, out slides a laminated commemorative essay that was given to audience members today. It’s an extra signed copy that Maisy gave me to remember the appearance—as if I could ever forget what happened.

I study the photo at the top. It’s a casual shot of Ben and me on one of those magical nights out with friends when everyone was able to line up babysitters and no one needed to cancel due to last-minute work obligations.

It’s the last real photo I have of us, and if I knew how widely the essay would end up being shared, I probably would’ve chosen something less meaningful.

I’m perched on a tall bar stool staring up at him with a big smile while he stares down at me with a playful grin.

A finger is snuck between buttons on his shirt and I’m pulling him in close.

His arm is tucked behind my back, a hand resting on my hip.

My long, dark-brown hair looks shiny and full of body.

A good hair day, for sure. There’s a visible twinkle in my eyes.

Ben is in desperate need of a haircut in this photo, but his wavy brown hair makes him look younger, despite the flecks of gray that were on a slow, steady march from temples to crown.

I swear I can see his freckles, even though the lighting in the restaurant is terrible and our friend took the picture from a few feet away.

I like to look at this photo whenever our last hours together come to mind.

I like remembering him like this: full of life and happiness and with so much to live for.

He’ll be stuck at this age forever, whereas I’ve already celebrated a birthday without him.

What I wouldn’t give to look—no, to feel—as happy as I do in this photo.

My eyes drift to the essay itself. The essay. I haven’t actually read it since the morning I sent it to The New York Times for consideration. The morning that set this new life into motion. I take a deep breath and begin.

Some people are born huggers. I am not one of them.

One of my earliest memories is being told by my parents, aunts, and sundry extended family about what a good baby I had been. I slept, I ate, I smiled, I did my duty as a human with very little fuss. A dream, they would say.

As I grew older and my introversion fully blossomed, I became convinced that my infant self quickly assessed the situation and decided that being wholly agreeable would mean less physical touch from those around me.

A quiet baby is left alone on the blanket.

A non-fussy baby doesn’t get rocked for an hour before bed. No hugging required.

In my life, there have been few people I’ve hugged without reservation.

I require a connection so deep that it’s almost an impossible standard to reach.

My children. My favorite aunt, Sandy. Friends who have appeared in my life at the perfect moments as if sent by a higher power, like my best friend, Jenny. Most of all, my husband, Ben.

Ben and I met in college and were immediately inseparable. The first time he suggested we spend the night together (as in sleep over—the deed had long since been done), I was confused. Two people, all night, in a twin bed? I didn’t understand the physics.

But I loved him from the moment he sat down next to me in our Introduction to Anthropology class, and this felt like a test. Not a test he was giving me (that wasn’t Ben’s style), but one I was giving myself.

Was I capable of this level of intimacy?

Of being wrapped up and consumed into someone else’s space and embrace—literally and figuratively feeling the weight of their affection?

Yes, it turns out. With Ben, it was possible.

I promised myself the summer before my freshman year that, no, I absolutely would not go to college, fall in love, and spend four years tied to another person.

I was annoyed to meet Ben three weeks into the semester but too stubborn to give him away.

One thing I’ve always had a talent for is recognizing a good thing when it’s right in front of me.

I realized that all of the things that scared me—marriage, kids, big commitments—were not scary at all with someone next to me whom I trusted without reservation. I felt instantly known and understood by him. He respected and was, perhaps, even a bit charmed by my love of physical boundaries.

In today’s cultural lingo, it would be easy to devolve this to love languages.

His, touch. Mine, not touching me on purpose.

As most couples do, we learned how to meet in the middle.

Our hugs became a secret language. Every marriage has its own dictionary, and ours was the physical attention we each needed or didn’t need in a given moment.

I knew when he had a tough day at work and needed me to crawl silently into his lap on the sofa and wrap my arms around his neck.

He knew when to hug me from behind and bury his face in my hair after a particularly stressful visit from family.

He never got it wrong, not once. He read my cues, and I read his.

Ben’s love of affection softened me in ways that mattered, in ways that made me a loving, affectionate mother from day one. A better daughter. A better friend.

I thought of Ben and our secret language whenever I met a new set of sad, teary eyes at his memorial service.

He was too young. I’m sorry this was so sudden. He loved you and the kids so much. I can’t believe this has happened to you two. You were perfect together.

Inevitably, each person would bring me in for a hug.

Each time, I had to remind myself that the hug wasn’t for me.

It was for them. It was for Ben. The guy who would’ve lined up and gladly taken a hug from each of these mourners and remember some minute detail about their life and tell them, genuinely, that he was happy to see them despite the circumstances.

Ben and I shared a dark sense of humor, and when we were feeling particularly stressed out, we would play a game called “The Reasons You Can’t Die.

” We would call out clever things whenever they came to mind, like him admitting the kids would never see a summer camp enrollment or doctor’s appointment without me.

I would follow up by conceding that I would need to learn to pump gas again and how to operate the breaker box.

Remembering birthdays without his prompt reminders would be impossible.

One night a year or so ago, we were lying in bed, exhausted, and playing the game after finally getting the kids to bed.

After Ben added a few hilarious new items to the list, I looked at him earnestly and said, “You can’t die, because I will turn to stone.

” He pulled me in close and we fell asleep tight together, like we were in his old twin bed.

The well-intentioned hugs at his memorial service only reminded me of what I’d lost. I could feel my heart and soul calcifying in real time, just like I had predicted.

Of course, the truth is, I would gladly become a hugger.

A giggler. A walking human-interest repository, if it meant that I got just one more hug from Ben.

To feel known and understood simply by the way he held me.

I know the hug he would give me right now to make it all feel better, and yet I can’t have it. I will never have it again.

I would do anything to look over at this empty space in my bed and see his blue eyes, convincing me with his wry smile that, yes, two people can inhabit this small space if we hold tight.

You’ll love it, he would say, just like he did when I was eighteen. And I would.