from behind me. That shuts him up. Still frowning, he takes a seat. It is interesting to see how all these editors and writers, mostly men in their forties and fifties, respect Grayson. I rarely see him in this kind of group setting. My personal and professional relationships with Grayson have generally taken place one on one.
While Grayson grills the editors on the major stories in their sections, I flip through the paper to find my column. I try not to listen to their discussion. Wars in countries I can’t find on a map, car wrecks, plane crashes, abandoned children, drug busts, local zoning battles, etc., have never been anything I’ve gone out of my way to hear about. I ignore the news and turn right to the Lifestyles section.
Once I’ve located my column, I see that Grayson has done it again. He has rewritten my advice. This has been going on to a small degree since the beginning. He used to edit my writing. He would cut a sentence here or there, or rework a phrase. But over the last six months, he has begun to alter the content of my advice. He has deleted parts, and changed the very nature of what I was trying to say.
I look up at Grayson. He is pacing with great energy at the head of the room. He says, “I think the Route 17 overpass coming in two years ahead of schedule and ahead of budget is front-page material. Who disagrees? Then let’s move on to the story on Christie Whitman’s presidential ambitions. Quick answers please.”
This week the response Grayson has changed the most radically is the one I wrote to a girl grieving over the death of her mother. The girl felt her life had fallen apart and that she didn’t know who she was anymore, or what to do next.
My advice was for her to experience her sorrow from beginning to end. I suggested she keep a journal, and live one day at a time. I suggested that if she ignored her sadness, or buried it, she would just have more problems later on. I told her that once her mourning had ended naturally, she would see who she was and know what to do. Her course would unfold before her.
Out of the advice that was actually published, only the first sentence was written by me.
Dear Sad in Secaucus,
Your sorrow is completely appropriate and natural, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. But it has been several months now, and it is time to return to your life. I am sure that right under your nose there is a good friend or a relative who cares about you and knows you. Turn to that person now and let them lead you back to your life. You have been trying to make things work on your own and that can be a mistake. Don’t be ashamed to ask for help.
I read this advice over and over again. I try to imagine this young girl, twelve or thirteen, sitting in her pink bedroom in her dad’s house in Secaucus, reading this advice. Seeing it for the first time this morning, just like me. Letting it seep in, trying to feel whether it is true. Trying to feel whether it is what she needs.
I can only hope that it is. I know I have let her down. If my advice can’t make it through a run-in with Grayson’s red pen, then it is not strong enough, right enough. Things have changed; I can’t deny that. I can still feel the heat of Margaret’s letter on my fingertips. Maybe I do need somebody to check and balance what comes out of my mouth. Besides, Grayson is the only one who seems to pay attention to me at all, as of late. Gram is just interested in the baby, and Lila is so often gone. I shouldn’t disregard the only person who is listening to what I have to say, even if he is forever rewriting the content.
“Gracie,” Grayson says. “You with us?”
I look up from the newspaper. Grayson is staring at me from the head of the room, and many of the editors and writers have swiveled their chairs in my direction.
“Yes,” I say.
“You read your column? Any problems or comments you want to make?”
Bill the Lifestyles editor shifts uncomfortably in his chair. There is a tangible feeling of resentment. I am the smallest fish in this room, and they’d like to either throw me