The elevator door closed on the three of them: the fiction writer, the mother, and the preteen boy.
The fiction writer was going to see her tax attorney on the 17th floor. It was not good. She was broken, empty. No one was buying her latest book. She couldn’t even write, she was so self-obsessed and sick of it all.
Next to her in the elevator, the mother was quietly berating her son who looked to be around 11 or 12. Her voice was low, but vicious. The more he seemed to resist, the worse she was to him. The fiction writer saw out of the corner of her eye the boy’s look change from defiance to blank stare to mortification.
Fucking worthless! the mother said, finally.
She looked up at the mother who noticed the fiction writer looking. It was clear the mother knew what she had said as soon as she said it. The woman had been trying to get a reaction from the boy, trying anything and everything to get him to understand her frustration, but it was clear, though he had been testing her, she went too far. Still, she stood there firm, unable to back down.
There was no ring on the mother’s finger. She was dressed professionally, but her hair had been styled quickly, she had missed a button on her blouse.
The fiction writer looked at the boy. Tears were forming in his eyes. He was grimacing, trying to hold them back. Already, at his age, he didn’t want to be seen crying in public.
It’s not true, the fiction writer said. It’s not true what she’s saying.
The boy looked at her. She looked in his eyes. He reached out for her, and she took the boy in her arms.
He felt good against her.
She looked at the mother, searching for what to say. The mother was in tears now.
I know it’s hard, the fiction writer told her. I know… I’m not saying it’s not. But that’s not true.
She said it to the mother, then to the boy, whom she squeezed: It’s not, she told him.
But what did she know? This woman who lied for a living. Who was starting to question whether or not she was even any good at it, the lying.
It’s not true, she said, one last time, then let the boy go.
The elevator stopped, dinged.
The doors opened.
