“She lives here now, Claire.” Sefina speaks low, calm. “You know this but I think it’s been hard for you to accept. She’s different, though, I promise. But I don’t think that’s why you’re—”

Music booms from a large speaker, drowning out whatever else she was going to say. I turn to see my mother has gone, and Ruth is at the front of the room. “Let’s stop the chatter, ladies, and work up a sweat instead. I know I need to. Anyone else?”

The few half-hearted woo-hoos that float around the room are quickly drowned out by Sefina’s exuberant “Hell to the yeah!” shout that earns her a pressed-lips look from Ruth. I laugh and begin to move, and soon the music and my own exertions drown out my breathing, Sefina’s grunts, and, most especially, my thoughts. I’ve done Jazzercise for so long that I don’t need to think in here. I can just do, so the time passes and I enjoy the physical effort without the added job of having to think too hard.

“And five, six, seven, eight, now rock lunge, ladies! Side to side. There you go. Pump your elbows. Sefina!” Ruth admonishes. “I said pump your elbows, not dance like a chicken. Heel hop! Squeeze those legs. Heel, together, heel, together. That’s better, Ann Marie. Maybe next time wear your hearing aids so you can stay on the beat. I said, next time—oh, forget it!”

I smile. Ruth is still Ruth, even as a Jazzercise instructor.

“Chassé, ladies!”

I fly across the room, my legs moving without me. It’s a glorious feeling. I never took dance as a kid; it was too expensive and too far away, but I think I would have been good at it.

Sefina huffs and puffs by my side, her face mottled and shiny from sweat. “You’re killing the chassé today, Claire.”