Page 2 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

Finally, I sit up and open my eyes. I’ve regained my composure,but if the goal was to keep my dignity, I’m fairly certain that’s off the table. Nobody stops a Maisy interview with the cameras rolling.

“I’m sorry. I’m not used totalkingabout these things,” I say, rubbing my clammy palms into one another. “Maybe that’s why I’m a writer.”

A soft, nervous laughter travels around the studio. Maisy squints, recognizing she’s only got one question left to ask. The audience might turn on her if she attempts to go for round two. I also sense a hint of disappointment that I didn’t actually keel over, although this is still certain to bea thingwhen the episode airs.

“Do you ever regret going down this path…sharing so much with the world?” she asks.

“Regretis a strong word, but I do sometimes wonder if I’ve taken on more than I can handle,” I say. “I guess only time will tell.”

“Well, we wish you the best of luck,” she says, before turning to look directly into the camera. “Don’t forget—in addition to reading Gracie’s essays twice a month, you can now preorder her memoir!”

I force a smile, just in time for Maisy to turn to me one last time and add with a smirk, “Maybe this will make the book?”

I quickly remove my mic and rush backstage to safety.

—

“That was acomplete disaster,” I say to Jenny once the door to the greenroom closes behind me. The wide eyes of every production assistant that I passed on the thirty-second walk between the stage and my best friend’s arms told me all I need to know. Total. Disaster.

“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 safelytucked 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 partisnew.

“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’tworked—it’s time to try something new. Your body and mind are begging you for a change.”

---