The Night Singers by Valerie Miner Page B

routines is to sprint back and forth across the gym five times. Then we continue the torture circuit on the other side of the room—squats, back curls, double crunches … The single pleasure here is the vibrant beat of reggae music.
    Despite the virtues of this invigorating work-out, I find my glance wandering toward the fashion show. Toward the plump blonde in black lace exercise brassiere and stripped pedal pushers. The young Islamic woman performing jumping jacks in baggy sweatshirt and black scarf. Isn’t she baking in there? Then there’s the brave, solitary man in his veteran university shorts and threadbare t-shirt. Concentrate, I scold myself, zen into an alternative state. Attitude. You in your body. You are your body.
    When I return from Circuit Class, a pouting Marta stands by the locker, dripping from her yellow stripes onto the floor.
    My first thought is not about this little one, but about Mrs Hanson, whom I haven’t seen yesterday or today. Is she OK? It’s too early for her San Francisco trip, right?
    Soon, Marta’s sullenness fills the room.
    â€œWhat’s up?” I ask.
    â€œNothing,” Marta mutters, wringing the purple rubber swim cap in her strong little hands.
    Marta’s mother shrugs and returns to her heavy textbook.
    â€œDidn’t you have a good swim today?” I try again.
    Silence.
    Suddenly, I remember. “Did you make it? Did you swim from one end of the pool to the other without stopping?”
    Head down, Marta glowers at her turquoise toe-nails.
    â€œAnswer the lady,” instructs Rosa gently.
    â€œStupid!” exclaims Marta. “What’s the point of getting all the way across? You just have to swim back.”
    Grinning, Rosa encourages, “It’s the next stage in learning.”
    â€œYou can’t talk,” Marta snaps, “you won’t even stick your foot in the water!”
    Often I am given free reminders like this that I would flunk motherhood. How will she answer?
    Rosa is spared because a tall, red-haired woman has just appeared from the shower, a white towel around her waist. We are all surprised by the left side of her chest, by the long red scar, the missing breast. Marta moves forward for a better look. Rosa and I glance away, maturely pretending to busy ourselves with important thoughts. Marta continues to stare and when I turn back, the woman has noticed Marta. She bends down to the little girl and winks. Marta puts her hand over her heart and winks back. They both break into wide smiles.
    It is the last day of August and I am leaning on the registration desk renewing my membership, when Mrs Hanson hobbles up behind me to sign in.
    â€œHello! I was worried,” I say hectically, then note the cane. “Oh! Are you OK? What happened?”
    A little fall, she explains, as we walk gingerly together toward the locker-room. I hold the door open, wincing at her ragged gait. She’ll never make it to San Francisco at this rate.
    â€œYour grandson,” I ask. “Did you visit him?”
    Deftly, she slips into her waterbird suit. “Well,” she sighs, “there’s good news and bad news.”
    I hate this expression, but have never heard it uttered with Mrs Hanson’s charming fortitude.
    â€œThe bad news, of course, is the fall. I had to postpone my visit until December.”
    I nod, waiting.
    â€œThe good news is that he’s taking me down to Disneyland for Christmas!”
    â€œHow wonderful,” I say, that and a few other empty phrases, as she proceeds purposefully with her cane toward the pool.
    My favourite class is step aerobics. Maybe because the teacher plays Aretha and Bonnie Raitt and La Belle. Never before have I felt graceful. Yet here I accomplish knee lifts, hamstring curls, side leg lifts, V-steps, diagonals, L-steps, repeater knees, side lunges, back lunges and turn steps. Before joining the gym, I lived in my head, which seemed roomy enough,