If You Want to Live

“Here you go,” the waitress materialized with Mark’s order, slamming it down a little loudly.  “Here’s the ketchup if you want it.”  She grabbed a bottle from another booth and set it down beside his plate.

“Be back with the coffee in a minute, Sweetie,” she directed to Claire.  The few moments before she returned were silent as Mark shook the bottle and squeezed the ketchup onto his plate.

“Sorry,” he apologized at its rude noise.  Claire tried not to giggle.  How many times had her high school friends embarrassed her with that same sound, not always from the ketchup bottle?  The association made her feel young and light.

“I saw it,” Mark quipped, “a smile.  Watch out, you might lose control.”

And suddenly she did, laughing until tears ran down her cheeks, unable to stop.  Everything was suddenly so funny –Mark’s pink hair, the silly stern look of disapproval he was working hard to keep on his face. Even his plate, filled with food a teenager would order on a first date, beside her half empty coffee cup, seemed ridiculous.  The fact that they were sitting in a diner holding a therapy session in the presence of strangers, the waitress’ assumption they were lovers, the weeks she had spent alone in her tiny apartment, watching soap operas and talking only to her cat.  It was all suddenly so funny…and pathetic.

Claire’s body shook with convulsions as the laughter turned into deep wrenching sobs.  She lay her head down on the hard table. Tears fell into pools beside her cup, but she was aware of nothing other than the violent feelings that seemed to erupt from her with the force of an uncorked geyser.  She cried until her insides ached, until she had no energy left and the sobs slowly gave way to silence and an occasional catch in her throat.

“Claire?”  She could hear Mark’s voice but did not even have the strength to lift her head off the table.

“Claire, it’s all right.  I’m here.”  Again, she felt the pressure of his hands on her shoulder.  After awhile, she could hear him sucking his milkshake through the straw –could hear him chewing and swallowing -imagined the muscles clinching in his sharp jaw line.  She heard the scrape of the plate as he pushed it away.

“Claire, look at me.”  She raised her head then, aware of the wetness on her cheeks and upper lip, the strands of hair stuck to her face that she didn’t even try to brush away.

Rising slightly from his seat, Mark reached over with his napkin and gently wiped the skin beneath her eyes.  “Now, blow,” he said, bringing the napkin to her nose and holding the back of her head with his other hand the way her mother had when she was a little girl.

Only then did she notice music coming from the jukebox, the familiar voice of Andy Williams crooning the dreamy melody of her mother’s favorite song, “Moon River.”

Another hand touched her shoulder.  “Thought a little music might help, Hon. Are you feeling better?”  She looked up at the waitress’ worn face, now softened with a worried smile.

“Yes, thank you,” Claire whispered.

“I’ll leave you two alone, then.”  She patted Claire’s shoulder again then turned and walked quietly away.

Claire let the singer’s mellow voice carry her off, rocking her gently as if she were in her mother’s arms.  She looked at Mark.

“You did it,” he said.  “You lost control.  Was it so very bad, after all?”  He covered her hands with his.