The Catch

An excerpt from Cathy’s featured book project, THE CATCH.
 
Christine chooses the country star’s eyes to stare into and lets the next bars leave her lips toward his smile. Suddenly, she is not on an LA soundstage surrounded by cameras and glistening celebrity judges waiting to write down her every imperfection, but she is singing in San Francisco, watching Mike move his fingers fluidly up the neck of his black steel guitar. She remembers the drumbeat syncing with her heartbeat. She remembers the words her voice sends off the stage, melting with the notes Mike plays. She feels her breath as the same breath of their whole band. The lights above the performers are blinding and blinking blue, white, pink, blue, but in this moment Christine and Mike are in their own light, the light of their stare. His lead guitar wills the words not from her throat, but coaxes melody from a place inside and outside and above and below everything. In her mind she can see the tattooed fingers on Mike’s left hand feverishly bending chord changes, climbing up and down from fret to fret, while his right hand plucks clear, piercing notes. She channels the lyrics, words her brain has forgotten but her tongue remembers. Her voice flows over clapping hands she can’t hear. She can’t actually hear what she is saying, but it doesn’t matter—what she is singing is her old self, her young self. Christine twirls like a gypsy across the stage, casting her spell with the wizard on the black glaring guitar who wrote these words with her. She waltzes through the chorus, her silk shirt flowing with her like a shadow until all of a sudden, there are no more words. The last chords of the refrain have faded. The music stops.
 
There is not silence. The country star is smiling ear to ear, clapping his sturdy hands with strong slow slaps. Pop star is jumping up and down, her rhinestone ponytail swaying like an old-fashioned metronome. Rock star is on his feet, applauding with such vigor his unbuttoned shirt opens and closes, revealing his tattoo of a red and purple heart split by lightning.
 
When the TV host stands next to Christine to ask her how it feels to see all these people on their feet, she looks down at the tiny drop of blood on the side of her shirt and mutters, “It feels like it felt.” Then she smiles into camera three for the tight shot that shows her wrinkles and tears.