Сумерки

           Ithoughtofmymothertokeepmyfeetmoving,oneinfrontoftheother.

           AsIgotcloser,Icouldseethesigninsidethedoor.Itwashandwrittenonhotpinkpaper;itsaidthedancestudiowasclosedforspringbreak.Itouchedthehandle,tuggedonitcautiously.Itwasunlocked.Ifoughttocatchmybreath,andopenedthedoor.

           Thelobbywasdarkandempty,cool,theairconditionerthrumming.Theplasticmoldedchairswerestackedalongthewalls,andthecarpetsmelledlikeshampoo.Thewestdancefloorwasdark,Icouldseethroughtheopenviewingwindow.Theeastdancefloor,thebiggerroom,waslit.Buttheblindswereclosedonthewindow.

           TerrorseizedmesostronglythatIwasliterallytrappedbyit.Icouldn’tmakemyfeetmoveforward.

           Andthenmymother’svoicecalled.

           "Bella?Bella?"Thatsametoneofhystericalpanic.Isprintedtothedoor,tothesoundofhervoice.

           "Bella,youscaredme!Don’tyoueverdothattomeagain!"HervoicecontinuedasIranintothelong,high-ceilingedroom.

           Istaredaroundme,tryingtofindwherehervoicewascomingfrom.Iheardherlaugh,andIwhirledtothesound.

           Thereshewas,ontheTVscreen,touslingmyhairinrelief.ItwasThanksgiving,andIwastwelve.We’dgonetoseemygrandmotherinCalifornia,thelastyearbeforeshedied.Wewenttothebeachoneday,andI’dleanedtoofarovertheedgeofthepier.She’dseenmyfeetflailing,tryingtoreclaimmybalance."Bella?Bella?"she’dcalledtomeinfear.

           AndthentheTVscreenwasblue.

           Iturnedslowly.