Truth and Other Lies

ONE

July 2018

The media had a catch phrase for people like me: boomerangs. Young adults launched by relieved parents with great fanfare into the world, perfectly crafted 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 over an hour. 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 everything 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.

My childhood had been erased.

Except for my old pal Jocko the sock monkey. A gift from my grandmother, he sat propped against the pillows on the bed as if he’d been expecting me.

I’d been so anxious 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 totally unpack 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 just turning 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 snapshot 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’d carefully curated this gallery, making sure she’d purged him from our life.

I stopped short at a snapshot 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?

***

I remember reading that when your life falls apart, you should 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 suburban 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’d immediately 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 blond?”

I fluffed my curls. “I switched it up last month. Mousy brown wasn’t a fit for me anymore. What’s the verdict?”

She cocked her head. “It’s totally you. So, are you moving back to Chicago for good? 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 get 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 a nice break. 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, just 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 I’ll need a way to support myself. Could we run by Northwestern before we eat so I can scope out the jobs board? I scoured the internet last night, but all I found were 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. People 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 Leslie 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. C’mon, 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 trouble so they can get their faces on the evening news. If they don’t attract attention, they’ll get bored and leave.”

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.

“I’m Professor Stein from the English Department, and today it’s my great pleasure to introduce Jocelyn Jones, a beloved journalist and later television anchorwoman. Her career began—”

“Who cares?” one of the skinheads yelled. I spun around and glared as his friends slapped him on the back and he tried to wedge himself in front of one of the news cameras.

Stein ignored the comment. “Jocelyn worked at Ms. Magazine in the early seventies, then wrote for various newspapers on the east coast until 1990 when she joined The New York Times as an overseas correspondent.”

More shouts from the guys on the sidelines. People around them backed away, giving them a wide berth, which no doubt played right into their agenda. Editors loved to snag shots of protestors standing out in the crowd.

Stein paused as though unsure whether to go on, but once the taunts died down, she continued. “Jocelyn covered both the Iraq and Afghan wars, then returned stateside in 2001. She segued into broadcast journalism, first as a White House correspondent, and later as a news anchor at ABC.”

I looked at Jones, who stood directly behind Stein. She was wearing loose-fitting camel slacks, an off-white silk blouse, and simple gold jewelry. Her steel-gray hair was swept off her angular face in waves, and her eyes, alert as a hawk, blazed beneath dark sculpted brows. She held her shoulders back and her chin high, a modern-day Valkyrie leading troops into battle. What I wouldn’t give to accomplish half of what she had in my own career.

Stein ended with, “Please join me in welcoming my dear friend, Jocelyn Jones.”

I hadn’t realized Professor Stein even knew Jones, let alone considered her a friend. The crowd surged forward, chanting and cheering. Two young girls crowded me from behind. Finding it hard to breathe, I sidestepped to get more space so that when Jones came forward, she was close enough I could have touched her. I turned to say something to Becca, but realized we’d gotten separated in the crowd.

“The number of women assaulted every year on our campuses is staggering,” Jones’s voice rang out. “There’s something wrong when a culture turns the other way while—”

A skinhead in a black leather jacket shoved past me, screamed, “Bitch,” and threw a water balloon directly at Jones.

Her blouse was soaked, and the outline of her lace bra clearly showed through the sheer fabric. When the guy thrust his fist in the air, a loud chorus of boos erupted from the crowd.

I stiffened, my hands curling into fists.

Unbelievable. How dare these scumbags attack a journalist who’d achieved more in a day than they had in their lifetimes? Why wasn’t someone shutting this guy down? It was hard to believe there were still men who thought they could do whatever they wanted to women and get away with it.

I flinched at his stench, a mix of acrid sweat and stale smoke. Whistles sounded but the security guards had lined up around the perimeter and were held back by the mass of people gathered around the podium. No one nearby made a move to pull the guy back. When he fumbled in his pocket and hauled out a second balloon, I acted on instinct, grabbing his wrist, and twisting it sideways. The bright yellow balloon splashed on the ground, soaking my shoes.

He whirled and faced me—crooked nose, rank garbage breath, a jagged scar near his left eyebrow. “Cunt.” He pulled back his fist.

You picked the wrong woman this time, buddy. I snapped the heel of my hand into his nose, landing a solid blow.