She watches as her students arrive one by one, never chatting. There’s a somberness about this class which the others don’t have. Zumba, her least favorite, is loud, sociable. Krav Maga is completely different.
She doesn’t tend to say hello to them, aside from a nod. She lets them scrabble about in the dark corners, dropping off bags, eyeing the boxing ring anxiously, jumping every time the metal doors scrape back and some guy enters wearing a hoodie. These girls don’t like boxers, but it’s understandable. Most of them are here because they’re scared. They have dark circles under their eyes and the jitteriness of someone who doesn’t want anyone to touch them.
It would have been better teaching them somewhere smarter, cleaner, without the smell of male sweat, but it’s all she can manage for now. Besides, many of the girls are students and her low prices suit them.
They come in cowering, leave glowing. Krav Maga’s a violent combat style, used by the Israeli military. It’s for real life, not for contrived situations in class that would never happen on the streets. It’s down and dirty: groin strikes, throat punches, eye pokes. Fast, easy to learn, quick to teach. No one has time to perfect moves when under threat. They just need to know what to do, how to do it.
There’s only one rule: do what it takes to survive.
Today, she’s showing them how to fall if knocked to the ground. She goes over to the tarnished mirrors, motioning for the girls to follow her.
She demonstrates the back fall break—what to do if pushed backward. It will help them to fall properly, reduce injury. Twenty frightened eyes track her in silence. Then there’s the side fall, backward roll, forward roll. They break off into pairs on the sticky mats, learning the moves while she circulates.
After class, they’re more vocal. One of them, maybe as young as fourteen, asks where she got her leggings from. One of them, an older woman, says she doesn’t trust her husband anymore.
She listens to these comments, giving one-word responses, keeping things on the dial down. She doesn’t want more and they don’t want to give it either. That’s okay. She keeps her distance.
They pay cash, some of which she passes on to Guts for the use of his grimy room. And then, between classes, she works out again.
* * *
“Hello?” She open the door, which is off the latch. She keeps telling her mom to lock it, but always finds it undone. “Mom?”
She tiptoes forward in case her mother’s asleep, even though it’s midday. She doesn’t want to startle her. On the hallway table, there’s a bag containing wine and Marlboro Lights.
Her mother’s watching TV in the lounge. It’s on so softly, it’s hard to hear it. “Hey, Mom. You okay?”
“Oh, hello, dear!” her mom replies, as though she’s not here every single day, checking up on her. “Busy at the bank?”
That’s where her mom thinks she works, even though she’s always in gym wear. “Yeah. Pretty busy.”
“I just saw on the television that interest rates are rising. Does that affect you?”
“Yes, Mom.” Reaching between the curtains, she cranks a window, leaving the curtains slightly parted, a spear of sunshine hitting the wall. “Have you eaten yet?”
“No, not yet.” There’s not a bit of interest in her voice.
“Would you like me to make you a sandwich?”
Her mother flaps her hand. “No, don’t you worry about that. Just see to yourself. There’s ham somewhere.” Hopefully in the fridge.
She goes through to the kitchen, eyeing the mess. Seriously, there’s no need. She rolls up her sleeves, collecting mugs, dropping them into the washing-up bowl. Then she checks the fruit bowl, examining the contents—counting the pills.
She returns to the lounge, hands on hips. “Why aren’t you taking your meds?”
“Oh, no reason.” A cigarette dangles on her lip as she speaks.
“Well, that’s not good enough. You know what the doctor said. You’ve got to keep them up, Mom. You can’t just pick and choose when.”
“I know, dear. But I’ve got these, look.” She smiles, waggles her cigarette, rising to the French doors to open them, standing half in, half out like a teenager sneaking a puff.
“That’s not going to do you any good though, is it? It’s just killing you. Honestly…” Frustrated, she stomps to the kitchen, scrubbing mugs and plates, anger rising. If her mother doesn’t take her pills, she’ll start having seizures again—full-blown panic attacks.
It’s like she doesn’t want help. It’s like she wants to spend the rest of her life here, watching daytime TV. She’s sixty-four, not ninety-four. She needs fresh air, friends, hobbies—something, anything.
Slamming cupboard doors, she wipes the surfaces, checking the fridge contains the ham. It does, but little else: a lump of cheese, a random egg. She drops the cheese into the bin, sitting down at the table to make a list of basics. She can’t make it to the shop and back before her next class—will have to come back again tonight.
Returning to the lounge, her mother is in her chair again, her mouth knitted with smoker’s wrinkles. Everything about her is shriveling, disintegrating.
“I have to go,” she says, leaning down to press a kiss onto her mother’s smoky hair. “But I’ll be back later with some supplies… You can’t live like this, Mom. It’s not…” She’s about to say right, but stops herself.
Her mother already knows this. She doesn’t need wise cracks, judgment. If she could get out of that chair and go running into the sunshine and live her life to the full, whatever that might look like, she’d be doing it.
“Why don’t you move back home with me then, hey?”
Her mother asks this every time and she always says the same thing in response. “Because I need my own space. You know that.”
“But look at all the room here! It doesn’t make sense.”
“Yes it does, to me.”
“If you say so.” Her mother’s eyes return to the TV—a program about relocating to Spain. As if that’s an option. “See you later then. Enjoy your afternoon.”
As she opens the front door, her mother calls out, “You still there?”
She stops, listens. “Yeah?”
“Love you.”
“Okay, Mom.” She leaves, her shoulders high and tight. It’s a twenty-minute walk to the harbor, which she has to run. Why does her mom always mention her moving back home? Living there would be regressing, depressing.
She just makes her next Krav Maga, entering the class at the same time as the students, which she hates doing. Guts is teaching in the ring, his voice down out of some sense of respect. He looks up, nods, as she starts the lesson. He said Krav Maga was too violent and brutal for women—that no one around here would want to do it.
It’s her biggest class.
“Okay, listen up,” she says, tossing her sweater behind her. “Today we’re focusing on hand fighting and elbow strikes again.”
An older woman in the front row pumps her fist and says, “Yes!”