Page 3 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

“Yesterday at lunch, Gemma said the only reason you’re famous is because Dad died,” Ava blurts out while we work together through the morning routine. We both pause and stare at one another, our matching hazel eyes locked. “And that you’re probably glad it happened.”

“Wow, sixth-grade girls are harsh,” I respond while pulling my hair into a low ponytail. “I can’t imagine thinking something so terrible and then having the gumption to say it out loud.”

I know, of course, that twelve-year-old Gemma did not form this thought on her own.

It smells of an adult opinion spilled in earshot of an impressionable kid.

At least now I know what her mom thinks of me.

If I weren’t so physically and emotionally exhausted, I’d probably be angry.

It never occurred to me that a daytime TV appearance would impact Ava’s life.

It’s been two weeks since my Maisy interview aired, and parents are still stopping me at school to talk about it.

I glance at my sweet girl, the child who made me a mom, as she twirls her own dark-brown hair around her finger.

She’s ruminating on what Gemma had said, clearly.

She was probably up late thinking about it.

We can look each other in the eyes now, thanks to her last growth spurt and the height she inherited from Ben. In a few years she’ll tower over me.

“Number one, I’m not famous. Writers don’t get famous-famous, but I’m flattered Gemma thinks I am.

Number two, let’s be clear. I already have fifteen thousand presales of my book, which will likely make us very rich by this time next year,” I say, raising my eyebrows playfully to impress her.

“I would give it all up to have your dad back for a day. An hour, even! That’s what I would actually be glad about. ”

I responsibly channel my now-simmering rage by being honest about bringing back Ben while also slightly inflating my presale numbers, so Ava will repeat them, and Gemma’s mom will feel like garbage.

Ava hates when I opine or try to give advice (ironic, given that’s all strangers want me to do), but I can’t hold back.

“A real friend would never say that to you. Tons of inappropriate thoughts and ideas fly around your brain as a preteen, but part of life is learning when to keep your mouth closed and just”—I take a breath—”say nothing.”

I look intensely at Ava, my spitting image with Ben’s personality infused into every fiber of her being. I wonder what it must be like to have the worst thing happen to you so young: losing the person who understood you the best. Some people probably ask the same thing about me.

She smiles. “I know what you’re going to say next: bottle this feeling up and remember how your heart and body feel. Make sure to avoid making someone else ever feel this way.” She laughs because she’s right, and her impression of me is uncanny. “It’s not that serious, Mom.”

Her tone is unconvincing. Gemma is popular and it’s obvious Ava is wounded.

I don’t ask, but I assume other kids were around to hear it, too.

Ava, like Ben before her, is a feeler. Comments like these go in one ear and out the other for me—which has proven useful in my new, unexpected life as a writer and semipublic figure.

For people like Ava, those comments stick around.

“Maybe it’s not a big deal,” I say. “But your dad and I also believed that someone’s true nature is shown in the small things.

The day-to-day acts of friendship and life matter.

You know this. And that statement”—I’m dramatically waving my hands at this point—“is not the work of a good nature. That is all.”

I make a mental note to tell my therapist about this conversation and silently thank God we are in the last week of school before the summer break. This year has been too hard. For me, for the kids. So many firsts without Ben—birthdays, holidays, school events, trips.

What I really want to do right now is give Ava a few ideas of things she can say if the conversation reemerges today at school.

Well, Gemma, your mom isn’t going to get famous if she keeps losing PTA elections.

Your dad seems very interested in my mom’s fame every time he sees her.

Don’t be such an asshole, Gemma.

I file these away as things to say to make Ava laugh later, if needed, because I know that my beautiful, loving, smart, and empathetic daughter would never say something quite so mean-spirited. She isn’t me, after all.

Lost in my thoughts, I realize it’s 7:25. We needed to be out the door three minutes ago.

“Benji, it’s time!” I call to get my son’s attention from the living room.

He is a seventy-year-old man trapped in a fourth-grader’s body.

He was up, dressed, lunch packed, and breakfast made before Ava or I rolled out of bed.

He is quiet, resourceful, and slightly obsessive.

He’s the inverse of Ava—looks like Ben, but every personality quality and quirk has come from me. I used to get up early, too.

—

On the way home from car pool, I make a stop at Pageturner, my favorite bookstore-meets–coffee shop in town.

The college students cleared out when the semester ended a few weeks ago, and Franklin Street is blissfully quiet.

I snag a parking spot right in front. That’s a lucky way to start the day , I think.

A sign with beautiful script writing greets me at the entrance. Books: your reward for having an attention span. I’m a sucker for clever signs anywhere, and Pageturner is very good at them.

Coffee in hand, perched by the front window, I finally let myself take in that this is a big day.

June 3. It’s the first official day of my sabbatical from work.

For the last year, I have somehow pushed through a full-time job, an unexpectedly popular biweekly column for The New York Times , drafting my memoir, and—oh yeah—somehow kept my and the kids’ lives on track despite losing the person we loved most in the world.

I wasn’t sure Carol, my real-life boss, would even agree to let me take a three-month sabbatical after my month of bereavement leave a year ago.

I’m the lead marketing manager for a state tourism magazine, and the staff is small.

Every person matters. Marketing doesn’t fully capture what my three-person team does—we also run social media, email promotion, and special events.

All on a shoestring budget and lots of desk lunches.

Carol is nothing if not a consummate saleswoman, and having a fame-adjacent writer on staff (but, ironically, not writing for the magazine) became something she could brag about. Also, she definitely wants a reason to nepo her freshly graduated niece onto the staff as a paid intern. Win-win.

What Carol doesn’t know but probably intuits is that today starts my trial run to see if I can just be a writer.

I think she’s onto me, though, because yesterday she offered to pay me freelance for an essay about my “summer vacation in the great state of NC,” as she called it.

When she said the word “vacation,” my leg twitch briefly acted up.

I can see the headline of my article now. “Lonely in the Mountains of NC: The Top Ten Hikes for Depressed Widows.” Maybe I can include some tips for finding bears and offering yourself as a sacrifice.

Most people take a sabbatical to get away from work, but it feels like I’m diving headfirst into more work than I’ve ever had before—including the final push to get my memoir out the door for editing.

Nothing about writing tens of thousands of words for my unfinished memoir sounds like a vacation.

But if the full manuscript draft is not done by mid-August, we will not hit our aggressive printing deadlines, and if that happens, a late-spring release for next year is out of the question.

I’m deep in thought when a short, middle-aged woman quietly approaches me.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother you, but are you Gracie Harris, the writer?”

I nod and smile, aware that this conversation is about to be equal parts endearing and overwhelming. This isn’t my first rodeo.

“I just wanted to come say hi. My name is Dee. I live in town, and I kept hoping I’d run into you one day.

I follow you on social media and I just love your writing.

It got me through a really dark time when my brother died last year a few months after your husband.

It’s been so hard, but you’ve helped so much. ”

I relay my usual sentiments—that I’m humbled to be a part of her journey, that hopefully she’s realized how strong she is, and that grief really is a son of a bitch. Everyone always laughs at that last part.

A year ago, I would have never believed you if you told me that I would be comfortable (and even welcoming) with strangers approaching me in coffee shops and grocery stores and doctors’ offices.

Because of the first essay, people usually don’t try to hug me, but I often initiate or at least shake their hands after a little conversation.

For the first few months after the regular column started, I was able to remain completely anonymous—just a random sad widow with a byline that showed up in the Thursday Styles section of The New York Times twice a month.

Sometime around Thanksgiving, things shifted in a big way.

All it took was a few more essays going viral and the subsequent social media followers hopping on board for things to change.

My feed was full of pictures of me, Ben, and the kids.

For a decade, my Instagram was just me sharing silly and sweet family photos with a hundred people, but once readers started to follow me, a shift occurred.

They could put real faces to the sad story.

I don’t post the kids anymore to help with their privacy, and I’ve hidden the old family posts, but my face is now easy to find.

Here in town, people sometimes look at me in public with that strange side-eye that says, I think I know you, but I don’t know how , and they plaster on a friendly smile, wave, and walk away.

Most people who do approach me are like Dee, and over time, I’ve come to appreciate them.

On a few occasions when I’ve felt particularly tender, I’ve invited the person to join me for coffee and to talk a bit more about what we’re both going through.

The weird thing about grief is that it’s often easier to open up to strangers.

Grief is reflected back and forth, but it’s not personal.

They don’t know Ben, and I don’t know their loved one. It’s the grief alone that binds us.

When Dee politely excuses herself after a minute, I snap myself back into reality and remember that today is also a big day because there is something else I need to do. I can no longer put off the task that’s been at the top of my list for a month: call James.

James is my real estate agent. Well, not my agent here at home, but the one Ben and I used to buy our vacation house in Canopy, a cozy mountain town four hours west. The place where we were supposed to spend our summers while the kids attended sleepaway camp.

The place where we would celebrate Thanksgiving and maybe even Christmas some years.

Where our future grandkids would come to spend weeks with us . It’s not that anymore.

It’s just a stupid house with a million problems that I need help with.

Rather than call James, though, I open my laptop and email him instead. Chicken.

Hi James,

Thanks again for keeping an eye on things over the past year. I’ve decided to keep the house, at least for this summer. I need time to figure out what to do in the long-term.

As you know, the house is what can be generously described as a hot mess, and I would rather spontaneously combust than attempt a single DIY project.

It’s livable, but barely. I’ve got a list of things I want done, but of course, I have no connections.

Do you have any GC recommendations? People you trust?

You know, just someone who can do electrical, plumbing, drywall, and literally every type of general repair.

Gracie

P.S. At least it has Wi-Fi!