Page 79 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

“What concerns or apprehensions do you still have?”

“Not many,” I say. “We talked a lot about logistics. We live in different parts of the state, but I’m confident we have a good plan for long distance. I guess that I’m mostly nervous about bringing someone new into the kids’ lives. I don’t want them to feel like I’m trying to replace Ben.”

“What aboutyou? What concerns you?”

“I can butter things up in my essays, but it does feel like I’m trying to move on. To move past Ben. Officially. I think that’s what I’m still struggling with.”

“Interesting,” she says. Dr. Lisa’s favorite word hangs in the air. I think about what to say next and how I can better explain the complex web of emotions I feel. Love and loss and lots of things in between. She jumps in before I can.

“Gracie, I was on the fence about giving you a very specific homework assignment, but after hearing you describe things this morning, I know for a fact it’s the right thing to do,” she says.

There’s a brief pause and I fill the gap. “You put me on the right track at every point over the last year. Whatever it is, I will do it and trust that you will be right about it.”

This makes her laugh—a genuine and appreciative laugh. At this moment, it’s clear that no other therapist could do for me what Dr. Lisa has managed to do. She has walked a tightrope, knowing when to push and when to hold back. She has read my cues and engaged in discussions with me that sometimes had no neat answers. Our sessions have resulted in no less than five essays forThe New York Times. She makes me think. She makes me be honest. She is squarely in my corner.

“Gracie, I would like you to write a letter to Ben,” she says,formally assigning today’s homework. “Not a farewell letter necessarily, but a collection of your thoughts as you reflect on the last year. Tell him your struggles, your victories, and, most importantly, who you’ve become while he’s been gone. Write itto him. Of course, it’s for you mostly, but I want you to believe in the spiritual potential of the exercise as you write the letter. Let him listen; let him receive it.”

I want to be dismissive of the assignment. I want to make jokes about talking to dead people and writing letters to Santa, but the truth is that something about this exercise feels right. For the last year, I have missed Ben so much. I have missed every silly little conversation that we had, the funny memes he would send me, the dirty jokes he would whisper in my ear, the sticky love notes on mirrors around the house. I have missed his voice, his love—him. I want to talk with him so badly.

“Talk to him, Gracie. It’s what you need right now,” she whispers. “And then let him go.”

We make a date for our next session in a few weeks and then sign off. I have a few hours before I need to leave for camp to get the kids, so I walk upstairs to the writing room and begin my assignment.

I sit down at the desk, take out my phone, and do something that I haven’t had the courage to do in months: play Ben’s last audio message. His deep, crackly voice escapes through the speaker.

Hey, babe. The kids are with the sitter and I ordered pizza, so no need to rush home from your meeting. I hope it’s going well. I know you told me what it was about, but I forget already. Drew wants to talk about the fantasy football league for next season—already, like an insane person—so I’ll be there for a while. If you need me to pick up anything on the wayhome, just let me know. Okay, well, I think that’s it. I love you, obviously. See you tonight. Bye.

Marriage is funny. You do so many big things together—jobs, relocations, houses, kids—but so much of what makes a happy marriage are the tiny moments. All the interstitial time that ties the threads between minutes, hours, and days. The minutiae of life and marriage can be so heartbreakingly simple and beautiful. And so damned easy to take for granted.

The last sound of Ben’s voice that I have is one of those unimportant memos you bounce back and forth. Groceries you need, good-luck wishes for big meetings, reminders about kids’ birthday parties, and in the case of the evening Ben died, letting your spouse know that the kids are safe with a sitter and you’re about to go have a beer with a friend.

I never got to send a message back. Drew called me in a panic one hour later while I was still at my business dinner, and forty minutes after that, I was holding Ben’s limp hand in a hospital bed.

So, I start my letter with the big news, but before I know it, I’m right back into the little things. I tell him Ava is shockingly good at long division, Benji scored his first goal in travel soccer, that I have discovered I actually can keep plants alive, that I was right about the fridge door all along, that I was wrong about who does most of the vacuuming. I tell him about the Canopy house, how right he was about it, and how beautiful it looks now.

I tell him about me—the new version of me. The ways I’ve changed and grown, and how his death has made me cling to my own strength and faith in ways I never knew were possible. I tell him about therapy and Dr. Lisa, how Jenny has been there for me every step of the way, about Felicity and all the new friends thatI’ve made, and about the unbelievable reality that is my life of interviews and being fame adjacent. I know that term will crack him up.

I tell him that I spent weeks—months, if I’m honest—being angry and mad and disappointed that life had given me this. But every time I felt ready to give up on the world, I thought of him telling me how beautiful and fair our life had been together. It’s no easy feat to meet someone at eighteen and make it work into your forties. We did that. I’m proud of us, I say.

Most of all, I tell him I love him. That he was everything to me while he was here, and he will never, ever leave my heart. We were always meant to be, and maybe this was always meant to be the way our story ended. I hate that for us, but I cannot regret for a second what we had together. I thank him for our beautiful children and for all that we made possible together.

Through tears, I ask him if it’s okay for me to move on. Then I hit the backspace key and replace it withmove forward. Words matter. I don’t want to move too far away from him and his love. I don’t want to forget it. I want permission that I know he can’t really give me to open my heart to someone else.You need to give yourself permission, I can hear him saying in my ear.

I tell him that I love him one last time and then stop typing. It is done. I scroll back to the top and read every single word. The letter is hard. It is real. It is us. It isperfect.

Chapter 33

I cry when I seeBenji and Ava waving to me from the hill where they wait with a hundred other campers to be picked up by their parents. They can’t move until it’s their turn, so we just wave and smile. Ava mimes to meAre you crying?and then jokingly rolls her eyes when I nod yes. Even twenty yards away, her eye-roll skills are unmatched.

When it’s finally our turn, they come bursting down the hill and we share a huge, life-giving hug. I then take time to hug them individually and squeeze their little faces. All the while, camp counselors are loading the SUV with trunks and bags and what seems like way more stuff than they arrived with.

“It all fit in on the way here,” I yell back. “Just keep shoving it in! We’re not going too far.”

Camp drop-off is slow and easy, but pickup is a no-nonsense, well-oiled machine. They each get a high five from a counselor, and then we’re back in the car for the drive to the house. They roll down the windows and open the sunroof so that they can yell goodbye to their respective sets of friends as we exit on the long gravel driveway.

“I missed you guys so much!” I squeal. “Even though the car literally smells like wet socks already and I will be doing laundry for three days straight.”

“Mom, I’m gonna be honest,” Benji starts. “Some of my stuff is really funky. I’m sorry.”

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