Truth and other lies, p.1
Truth and Other Lies, page 1
Praise for Maggie Smith’s
Truth and Other Lies
“Twisty, timely, and rivetingly thought-provoking, Smith mines the intensity of competition, the duplicity of the human psyche, and the terrifying knowledge that with one wrong decision, your life can be changed forever. This author knows her journalism—the pressure, the stress, and the compulsion for the big story—and deeply understands the tension and conflicts women battle when their professional and personal lives are set on a collision course.”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, Emmy-winning investigative reporter and USA Today bestselling author of Her Perfect Life
“The political skews personal in this debut, which focuses on the bonds of powerful women in the rough-and-tumble world of politics and government. Smith’s characters sometimes do each other in, more often do each other proud, always with an awareness of the fragility of reputation set against the abiding strength of spirit. Smith leads with boldness and heart from the first page.”
—Jacquelyn Mitchard, author of The Deep End of the Ocean and The Good Son
“Truth and Other Lies is my favorite kind of novel—one that tackles tough topics in a breezy, compulsively readable way. Maggie Smith is a welcome new voice in fiction.”
—Camille Pagán, bestselling author of Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around
“Expert storytelling, and a sharp exploration of the complex relationships between women—mothers and daughters, mentors and protégés, best friends and frenemies—are at the heart of Maggie Smith’s compelling and savvy page-turner. Good thing books are calorie-free, I gobbled it down in a single afternoon.”
—Karen Karbo, author of In Praise of Difficult Women
“Keenly observant, tense, and smart, Smith unravels the complexity of being a journalist in a time where loyalty, motherhood, and the medium itself are in a constant state of flux. Truth and Other Lies has everything you want in a book and more.”
—Ann Garvin, USA Today bestselling author of I Thought You Said This Would Work
“This ambitious debut tackles not only mother-daughter dynamics and family secrets, but also the workplace and real-world politics affecting modern women. Written with an engaging, conversational tone, the story conflicts are both realistic and substantial.”
—Jamie Beck, Wall Street Journal and USA Today bestselling author
“Truth and Other Lies promises three women, two secrets, and one lie, and boy does it deliver. Smith deftly weaves serious social issues such as abortion, sexual harassment, and toxic social media with the more typical women’s fiction themes of female friendship, mother-daughter conflict, and romantic relationships, resulting in a taut and timely story. The surprise ending will leave you wishing for a sequel.”
—A.H. Kim, author of A Good Family
“Complicated mother-daughter relationships, fierce professional ambition, and questionable journalistic ethics all interlaced with hot-button issues, internet trolling, mystery, and romance . . . Truth and Other Lies captures the essence of newsrooms, political campaigns, and Chicago itself with specific, sensory language that brings you right into the scenes.”
—Catherine Johns, professional speaker, former broadcast journalist for 25 years, primarily at WLS Chicago
“In the thrilling novel Truth and Other Lies, a young reporter works to uncover the truth, which could have ruinous implications for others.”
—Foreword Reviews
“An engaging and topical tale of politics and journalistic ethics with a feminist slant.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Smith’s characters have complicated histories that overlap and interweave as they navigate the complex worlds of politics, journalism, and social media. Smith does a masterful job exploring the interplay between these issues with wit and compassion all through the lens of a strong female protagonist.”
—Windy City Reviews
Truth and Other Lies
Maggie Smith
Ten16 Press
www.ten16press.com - Waukesha, WI
Truth and Other Lies
Copyrighted © 2022 Maggie Smith
Paperback ISBN 9781645382621
Ebook ISBN 9781645382706
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021942514
First Edition
Truth and Other Lies
by Maggie Smith
All Rights Reserved. Written permission must be secured from the publisher to use or reproduce any part of this book, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles.
For information, please contact:
Ten16 Press
www.ten16press.com
Waukesha, WI
Cover designer: Kaeley Dunteman
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Characters in this book have no relation to anyone bearing the same name and are not based on anyone known or unknown to the author. Any resemblance to actual businesses or companies, events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
To my father, who died too young. You deserved more.
There are two ways to be fooled.
One is to believe what isn’t true.
The other is to refuse to believe what is true.
Søren Kierkegaard
ONE
July 2018
The media coined a term for people like me: boomerangs. Young adults launched by relieved parents with great fanfare into the world, finely tuned missiles brimming with lofty dreams, only to turn around mid-flight, tail tucked between our legs—out of a job, out of money, and out of options.
God, I hated being a cliché.
When I phoned from New York, my mother said she’d be out of town until tomorrow night, but of course I was welcome to stay as long as I wanted. By the time I landed at O’Hare, it was dusk, the height of rush hour, and traffic was a snarl, so the trip out to Evanston took a good forty-five minutes. I drummed my fingers against the seat cushion, wondering if the house would be different.
If she’d be different.
Once the Uber driver unloaded my bag and drove off, I retrieved the key from under the fourth flowerpot on the right. Not the most original hiding place, but this was the northern suburbs. Most of the crimes here happened behind closed doors.
I punched in the alarm code, flipped on the lights, and was stifled by my mother’s signature gardenia fragrance. Nothing had changed. The mahogany banister still gleamed with polish, the brass sconces on either side of the fireplace sparkled, the white carpet showed fresh vacuum lines. Straight out of House Beautiful. Mother was still the dyed-in-the-wool Martha Stewart acolyte she’d always been. Everything clean, tucked away, not even a scrap of mail scattered on the hall table.
Now her only child was back, messing it all up.
I stopped in the kitchen where I scarfed two peanut butter and banana sandwiches and washed them down with a glass of chardonnay. Then I hauled my bag upstairs to my old bedroom and did a double take. There was no trace of the twinkling tea lights I’d strung across the ceiling. The corkboard with my movie stubs, prom corsage, and track medals had disappeared. So had my posters proclaiming Support the Dreamers, Occupy Wall Street, and Feel the Bern. Instead, I faced a stage set of off-white walls and sleek Danish furniture.
She’d erased my childhood.
Except for my old pal Jocko, the sock monkey, a long-ago gift from my grandmother. He sat propped against the pillows on the bed as if he’d been expecting me.
I’d been in such a hurry to leave New York, I’d only packed one suitcase. The rest of the boxes would arrive in a few days and I’d store those in Mom’s basement for now. It didn’t make sense to unpack all my stuff since staying here was a stop-gap until I got my own place. I hung a few clothes in the closet, stripped to my underwear, and went to the bathroom to brush my teeth.
The phone rang. I waited for the answering machine to kick in, but when it didn’t, I walked to my mother’s bedroom at the end of the hall, debating whether to answer. After two more rings, I picked up the handset and plopped onto the elegant satin duvet. “Helen Watkins’ residence.”
“Megan? When I didn’t hear from you, I decided to call and make sure you were okay.” Mother’s voice was a mix of concern and exasperation. “Your cell’s going straight to voice mail.”
Not this again—checking in, coordinating schedules, a barrage of questions. I should set ground rules right away or we’d wind up not speaking to each other before the week was out. “I was getting ready to turn in. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”
Truthfully, my agenda was short. A good long run, a good long cry, and meeting my best friend Becca.
“I’ll let you go then. There’s leftover lasagna in the fridge if you want some. See you tomorrow night. Be safe. I love you.”
“Love you, too,” I parroted back, the autopilot response I knew would keep the peace between us for now.
When I hung up, my gaze drifted to the dresser, packed with framed photos of my mother and me. There I was, petting a goat on Grandpa’s farm. In another, five-year-old me licked a triple-scoop ice cream cone, chocolate smeared across my chin. I lingered over a casual shot in an ornate silver frame, my mother and I in matching swimsuits at some long-forgotten water park. No pictures of my father, of course. She
I stopped short at a photograph of my mother, resplendent in a black, low-cut evening gown, a stunning diamond necklace at her throat, standing beside an unfamiliar middle-aged man in a tuxedo with a cheesy grin plastered across his face. His arm curled around her waist, and he looked uncomfortable, as though he had gas. But it was the other man in the picture, the one whispering in my mother’s ear, who caught my attention. Because no one could mistake who that was.
What in the world was my suburban housewife mother doing schmoozing with the Vice-President of the United States?
. . .
They say when your life falls apart, stick with your routine. So I woke up at dawn and sprinted out the door for my morning run. This time it wasn’t the congested streets of Brooklyn but the cozy neighborhood of my childhood, with its well-manicured lawns, pristine sidewalks, and cookie-cutter houses. As I jogged, I wrestled with why I’d fled back here to Chicago and realized it had nothing to do with my mother and everything to do with Becca. Life had dealt me a double whammy in the space of one day, and my major lifeline lived hundreds of miles away. I needed my best friend.
When I’d called and told her I was back in town, she hadn’t blinked, and readjusted her schedule so we could meet today for lunch. That decisiveness was one reason I loved her. Envied her sometimes, too. Like in biology class, when we cut open the frog and she decided on the spot to become a nurse. Like when she came back from her first date with Sam and said he was the guy she was going to marry. Like senior year when she gave up carbs for six months and lost thirty pounds.
I watched for her through the picture window, and when she turned into the driveway, I bolted out the door. I hadn’t seen her since Christmas, but she hadn’t changed—golden-brown skin, curly black hair, dimples in both cheeks that flashed when she grinned. Still driving Chariot, the banged-up but reliable Honda we’d cruised around in all through college. She enveloped me in a giant hug, and it felt as though I was finally home.
The first words out of her mouth were, “Since when are you a blonde?”
I fluffed my curls. “I switched it up last month. Mousy brown wasn’t a fit for me anymore. What’s the verdict?”
She grinned. “It’s totally you. So, are you moving back to Chicago? And in with your mother?”
“I’ve changed. Maybe she has too.”
It didn’t take a college degree to read Becca’s expression. Good luck with that.
“Listen, I’d let you stay with us, but Sam and I only have the one bedroom, and we’re still getting used to this whole living together thing, so . . .”
“No worries. Crashing at Mom’s is temporary. Besides, it’s extra incentive to find a job.” Not that I needed a reason. I couldn’t wait to get back to work.
We drove away from the house, and before we’d even made it out of the neighborhood, Becca reached over and squeezed my hand. “Okay. Talk to me.”
When I didn’t answer, she pushed. “Seriously, where’s that adventurous girl I know and love? Did something happen with your job? With that guy?”
I’d spent most of last night staring at the ceiling when I wasn’t punching the pillow or clutching Jocko and crying. “The short version is I caught him cheating. I’ll save the long version for when we’ve had a few glasses of wine. If I talk about it now, I won’t make it through lunch.”
She nodded. “Fair enough. I’m here when you’re ready.”
“So what have you been up to? How was that getaway trip up north you told me about?”
Becca flipped on the radio, and soft jazz filled the air. “It was nice. I got caught up on reading and spent a lot of time hiking in the woods.”
“Sam must have missed you like crazy.”
She didn’t respond but hummed along with the music. “You said on the phone you’re going to reboot your life. What’s the plan?”
“Obviously the first step is finding a way to support myself. Can we run by Northwestern before we eat so I can scope out the employment listings? I tried the website last night but couldn’t get in. So far all I’ve turned up online are a few unpaid internships and freelance gigs, and I can’t afford to work for free.”
Being thrown back into the job market felt like standing at ground zero. The good news was I’d amassed a stack of clippings at my last two positions, so I had a decent portfolio. The bad news was I hadn’t been let go from The Brooklyn Herald because of downsizing like I planned to tell my mother.
I’d been fired.
TWO
We arrived at the Northwestern campus, but a mass of barricades blocked our way to the administration building. “Must be an event going on,” Becca said. “Doesn’t look as though we’ll get any closer. Let’s park here and walk.”
Up and down Sheridan Road, we saw notices tacked up on poles announcing a rally against sexual violence scheduled for noon. “It’s good people are finally waking up,” I commented, scanning the crowd.
An older woman walking by spoke up. “Oh, the turnout’s not all for the cause. Jocelyn Jones is going to speak. Folks always turn out for celebrities.”
Jocelyn Jones? What a piece of luck. If someone made a list of the top female icons in journalism, she’d be right up there with Diane Sawyer, Christiane Amanpour, and Lesley Stahl. She must know everyone in the media world in Chicago. What if I could somehow meet her, explain my situation, and ask for a contact at a downtown newspaper?
I brought myself back to reality. Who was I kidding? Why should she help a stranger find a job? But I’d still love to hear her speak. “Let’s go.” I nodded in the direction of the crowd.
Becca’s eyes widened. “This from the woman who says we should stop listening to old white boomers and come up with fresh ideas on our own?”
“Jones is different. She’s been an advocate for women’s rights for decades. You’ve got to admire that. Come on, we can spare a half hour.”
We linked arms and marched to a nearby booth where we donned T-shirts with “Am I Next?” emblazoned across the front in stark red letters. The only size left was medium, which swamped Becca, but with my five-foot-eight frame, it barely covered my midsection. A volunteer handed each of us a sign demanding Stop Violence Against Women Now. Dozens of people milled around, waiting for the event to begin, and within minutes, the crowd had swelled to hundreds. The air was electric.
Jones stood on one side of the speaker’s platform, surrounded by reporters as well as students, all jockeying for her attention. And here I’d fantasized I could casually bump into her. I scanned the crowd, looking for any former classmates who might have showed up. That’s when I saw a cluster of guys standing toward the back, dressed entirely in black, heads shaved, Confederate flags on their armbands. One held a sign that read You dress like a whore, we’ll treat you like one. They jostled and punched each other as they cat-called to the women around them. As I watched, the taste of burnt coffee flooded my mouth. They reminded me of neo-Nazis I’d seen on television: traveling in packs, intimidating people around them, all swagger and no brains.
“Campus security should make them leave,” I said to a man nearby, nodding toward the skinheads.
He shrugged. “That’s free speech for you. Unless they break the law, they can stay. Ignore them. They’re hoping to stir up enough trouble to get their faces on the evening news. If they don’t attract attention, they’ll get bored and move on.”
Was he joking? Guys like that didn’t go away on their own. They pushed the limits until someone confronted them.
A woman climbed onto the makeshift platform, grabbed the microphone, and silenced the crowd. She thanked everyone for showing up and reiterated the reason for today’s event. Two students spoke next, a male and a female, each a victim of sexual assault. Becca and I stood side by side near the podium and clapped after each testimonial. I had to give these people credit. It took guts to speak out in front of a bunch of strangers. I wasn’t sure I could do it.
I recognized the woman who spoke next. Becca and I had both taken American Lit from her our junior year.
