The hardest Zumba class I had to teach

Last night I wanted to finish the story on the “fuse” prompt for The Weekly Knob after putting the little one to bed.

I came home so drained from Zumba, no, hollow is a better word, that all I could do was close my laptop and zombie walk to the couch where I stared at the wall for about an hour.

This is not what I normally experience after a Zumba class. On the contrary, after a Zumba class, I am filled with positive energy, I exude enthusiasm, and I grin like an idiot at life in general. The most stubborn headache is miraculously cured my knee pains as if they never existed… Zumba is magical. To me, it’s one of the best things that happened in my life, next to my children and my spouse.

Last night I went to sub, meaning being a substitute for an instructor who couldn’t teach. It was the third Thursday in a row, so I had become accustomed to the group and their needs and wants. A terrible headache had been all-consuming for three days; my guess the culprit is the blaring A/C in our house, which not only sounds like a hurricane but blows like one. I’m also a lizard type of person, enjoying the heat and basking in the sunshine at every opportunity. Unfortunately for me, my boys aren’t. I was extremely close to call in sick, although I never did it in my career as an instructor. I can’t bear the thought that people are waiting for me and I’m not showing up. So, no matter the problem, I drag myself to class.

I didn’t get there fifteen minutes earlier than I normally do. I stopped at the washroom to cool my head a little more and went in a few minutes before starting. Another instructor I respect and know well — I used to attend and love her classes a while back. She had been asked to sub too, two hours before the class. The coordinator forgot he contracted me for this class as well. She said she had somewhere else to be, a visitation, so I should teach the class. I thought, fine. Maybe Zumba, it’s going to do its miracle and cure my splitting headache once more.

Then she asked, ‘Do you know her?’, showing me a few pics on her cell.

And I said, ‘Yeah, why?’.

‘She’s been murdered.’

I crossed myself and thought I was about to collapse. ‘So, it’s her,’ I managed.

‘Yeah, I didn’t know either. They printed a different name on the paper. I mean, we knew her by her pet name.’

‘I heard about her,’ I said, ‘but didn’t make the connection, I, we talked, she sent me to her cousin, — ’

‘Well, you enjoy your class, have fun,’ she wasn’t sarcastic. Zumba really blasts you out of misery.

‘It’s not their fault,’ I gestured toward the participants, resolving to keep strong.

And then I started. I didn’t make too many mistakes because the choreo has become second nature to me, but I did snap out of rhythm quite a few times. Because all I could see was her. Less than two months ago, I had subbed for that very class, and she came. We had a riot. I kept remembering the smiles, the comments, the happiness, the talk after, the song she insisted on showing me some moves for because she liked it and thought it was a great easy find, as she taught some kids Zumba at a centre. I remembered our discussions in the parking lot, the talks about her three kids. She understood Spanish and appreciated my little gestures based on the Spanish words in the songs.

All throughout the class, I breathed more relaxed during the songs that were too new for her to have had in the last class she attended with me. Then I choked, thinking that she will never dance to the choreo of those songs. I tried really hard not to weep and to smile back at some participants. Luckily, they turned the lights almost off, and my hair covered my face.

I’m not one to look for signs, but I see them, maybe more than others. In one song, right when I thought if she knew how I found out that it was her, the word “morir,” meaning “to die,” trembled badly and loudly — it never does, it never did before. My heart sank.

The stupid thing is that I actually heard she was murdered in her home (age 41, mother of three) a few hours after they found her from another participant, one of my regulars, who lives across the street. Of course, I was sorry to hear but in a detached way, concluding that it was probably a paid job, someone who held a grudge on the husband most likely.

I somehow finished the class, and my tears poured, mixing with my sweat during the stretch song. I broke down at the office when another instructor asked me if I was okay. I sobbed the story out and apologized a hundred times.

On the way to my car, I looked up, and the sky was closing in greyish curtains, as in light grey clouds coming from both sides met over a patch of bright sky above me. Next to my car, I remembered she’d been there, by this very car, chatting away, as she never will again.

I realized how much I love my dear ones, how they or I could be gone just like that, with no warning, how I have to relinquish all mean thoughts and words that escape me. How I, once again, have to try better to be better.

As soon as I made it inside my home, a heavy rain shook the sky, showing me she’s sorry, it wasn’t her choice to leave. Those three girls without a mother will also live in fear all their lives.