Boston Avant-Garde 4: Encore Read Online Free PDF Page B

don’t want to talk about yesterday?”
    She was so tired of hiding everything. The worst part was that Leslie would’ve been a great person to confide in, if Suri wasn’t afraid of how she’d react. She was tired of seeing shock turn to pity when someone found out what she did. Stripping made great money. It just wasn’t the most respectable way to do it. The humiliation from the day before was still hot on her mind. She’d been recognized in public and called on it. How many times would that happen?
    “Jen?”
    How she hated that name! It represented everything in her life she wanted to leave behind. Her toes were going tingly from cold. This was not the time to discuss any of it, much less her moonlighting. “Have your driver pop the trunk so I can put the cello in. I’ll see you at the luncheon tomorrow, okay? I’ll try to explain then. Will that satisfy you?”
    Leslie gave a sharp shake of her head. “It isn’t about satisfying me, Jen. I’m worried about you. You’ve been so stressed lately, and I want to help.”
    “Of course you do.” Suri gave Leslie a quick hug and nudged her toward the car. “Just go, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    “Fine, but I’m going to sit on you until you talk.” Leslie opened the door and stuck her head inside. Moments later, the trunk lid opened.
    Suri carefully stowed her instrument while her friend climbed into the Lincoln. She watched the car disappear around the corner before she set off down the bumpy sidewalk to catch the Red Line. She wished she could be like Leslie and have some Prince Charming sweep in and whisk her off to a world of private cars, high-rise penthouses, and mouthwatering sex with two guys who actually gave a shit.
    * * * *
    “Your mother’s mental condition is deteriorating at a faster rate than I would have expected.”
    Suri was glad Dr. O’Neil’s words were flat and monotone. Had the man showed one ounce of pity, she would’ve broken down. “So what does that mean, exactly?”
    There was nothing soothing about the consultation room at Our Lady of Perpetual Hope’s private nursing facility. Considering the huge amount of money Suri paid them every month for her mother’s care, it should’ve looked like the Ritz. In fact, the place should’ve changed its name. She never felt hope when she walked through the sterile white hallways that always smelled faintly of antiseptic and urine. The consultation room was in a tiny nook sandwiched between two staff offices. Someone had attempted to make it friendly with a coat of rose-colored paint and some faded art prints, but the hard ladder-back chairs were as unforgiving as the doctor’s words.
    “The dementia is really not the issue, although her mental faculties and periods of lucidity have decreased exponentially.”
    Suri wasn’t certain that the dementia wasn’t a secret blessing. At least it kept her mother from being fully aware that Suri had had to put her in this awful place.
    O’Neil’s eyes were glued to his clipboard as if he were reciting a speech someone else had pasted there. “My real concern is the progression of the Parkinson’s disease. The medications we’ve been trying don’t seem to be helping the rigidity. She’s having difficulty swallowing, and I’m concerned about malnutrition and dehydration.”
    Sometimes it was hard for Suri to remember her mother before all of this. Fifteen years had passed since the first time she’d fallen while tending bar at a strip club in South Boston. Mellie Robertson hadn’t told her girls that her muscles had been stiff and she’d been having trouble getting around. Until that moment, she’d always been Suri’s rock, a strong woman who didn’t take crap from anybody. Without early treatment for her Parkinson’s, Mellie had declined quickly. Five years after the diagnosis, just after Suri finished Boston School for the Arts on scholarship, there had been no choice but to put Mellie in a nursing facility. Suri had always