Standing Room Only

by Heidi Mastrogiovanni

  And despite her concern that people, specifically David and Geraldine, were noticing that she was, subconsciously or not, trying to fade away from any kind of life that had the possibility of the death of loved ones in it, Lala slept surprisingly well that night. She had the Madeleines and the jam Kenny brought her for breakfast, and they surpassed her high bar of expectation. It was early enough that she thought she might have plenty of time for a long and invigorating walk along the Seine before she got together with Atticus. She put on a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt, and as she was zipping up the front, she looked at herself in the mirror and froze.

  No, she thought. Please. No.

  Kenny was in the restaurant stocking the shelves in the kitchen when Lala found him. She tried to be nonchalant as she asked him if he had a doctor he knew and trusted that preferably was female, and if his doctor wasn’t female, could he maybe get a referral from one of his friends for a female doctor? Like, right away? Like, now? She had already sent Atticus an e-mail to ask if they could please postpone their writing session to sometime in the afternoon because something urgent had come up.

  Kenny’s family doctor was a woman. He called her office, and her nurse said he should bring Lala over right away.

  “Mon cher ami, you don’t have to come with me. Just give me the address. I’ll be fine by myself,” Lala told Kenny without any conviction whatsoever.

  “Yeah, no,” Kenny said. He was walking down the street with her to the nearest Metro stop. “If anyone else saw your face right now, I mean, like, in the movie version of the Lala Pettibone saga, and then in the next scene they find out that I let you go to the doctor alone, they’d be, like, what a dickhead that guy is.”

  It was a short subway ride to Dr. Sandrine Barraya’s office. The receptionist got up from behind the desk and kissed Kenny on both cheeks. She extended her hand to Lala and smiled.

  “We will take good care of you,” the young woman said. “Doctor will be with you in just moments.”

  Lala and Kenny sat in the very comfortable chairs in the small waiting area. Lala put her head on Kenny’s shoulder.

  “Does everyone in Paris speak English? Dr. Barraya speaks English, yes?”

  “Better than I do,” Kenny said. “Better than you and I do, put together.”

  In just a few minutes, the nurse opened the door and motioned for Lala to come inside. She was led to a small exam room and was given a gown to change into. There were a few magazines on the counter next to the exam table, and Lala did her best to distract herself by trying to read an article in Paris Match. As best she could figure out, there was a lesser royal in Belgium who had eaten an entire wheel of premium cheddar at a country fair in Wisconsin while representing his country’s trade delegation there.

  That can’t possibly be right, Lala thought. I think I’m translating that verb wrong. And that noun. And just about all of those adjectives.

  The door to the exam room opened, and a woman who looked like she couldn’t have been more than a month out of medical school came in. Lala put the magazine back on the counter and started sobbing.

  “My . . . I . . . my . . . my husband . . .”

  There was only a momentary pause in Dr. Barraya’s reaction, perhaps long enough for her to wonder if Lala’s first language also wasn’t English. Dr. Barraya walked the two steps toward Lala and held both Lala’s hands in her own.

  “Let’s just breathe. Let’s just focus. You’re safe here. I’m here to help.”

  Wow, Lala thought, even as she was trying to concentrate on not hyperventilating, her English probably is better than mine.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” Dr. Barraya said. “Long, deep breaths, okay? Let’s figure out what’s going on.”

  Lala inhaled and exhaled and got her heart to stop racing to some reasonable extent, and when she finally found herself able to put sentences together, she couldn’t stop.

  “My husband had stomach cancer. He died in less than six months. I don’t want to enter the world of cancer again. If I have to die, I just want to be up and then I want to be down. I want an aneurysm or something. I don’t want to know that I’m sick. And I don’t want my boyfriend to die before I do. I can’t go through that again. And I feel like an idiot wanting all these things. Like any positive force in the universe, whatever that might be, is going to listen to me? Little kids in Syria are dying, but I want a better exit from the world than cancer? Their pleas go unheard, but mine should be acknowledged for some reason? I’m sorry, I think I’m going to barf.”

  Dr. Barraya had let go of Lala’s hands only long enough to pass her a box of tissues. As Lala was speaking, the doctor nodded and focused all her attention on what Lala was saying.

  “Why don’t you lie back,” Dr. Barraya said. She helped Lala swing her feet up and she propped a pillow under Lala’s head. She then put a pillow under Lala’s knees. “How’s that?”

  “Better,” Lala whispered.

  “Can you tell me why you wanted to see a doctor today?”

  “I think I have breast cancer,” Lala said.

  “Okay,” Dr. Barraya said. She patted Lala’s shoulder. “Can you tell me why you think that?”

  Lala had to take many deep breaths again before she could speak.

  “I was getting dressed, and I saw a red lump. Red’s not good, is it? It must mean it’s really advanced. I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before. I have to admit that I don’t do monthly breast exams. I figure I’ll just make myself crazy thinking I have cancer all the time. But I do get a mammogram whenever my gynecologist says I should.”

  “May I take a look?” Dr. Barraya asked.

  “Of course,” Lala said.

  Lala opened the top right side of her robe and looked down to find the exact location of the horrible sight she remembered with so much terror so she could show it to Dr. Barraya. Lala pointed at the noticeable spot on her breast.

  God, it’s even bigger than I thought it was, Lala silently gasped.

  Dr. Barraya leaned in to take a closer look. She paused for several long moments as she studied the spot. She turned to the cabinet next to her, took a pair of latex gloves out of a dispenser, and put them on.

  “I’m going to touch it,” Dr. Barraya said. “Let me know if this hurts.”

  Oh, god, Lala thought. Please, just let me die now.

  Dr. Barraya gently ran her index finger on the lump. She picked something up off of Lala’s skin and rubbed it between her index finger and her thumb.

  “I think that’s jam,” she finally said. “I would say, strawberry.”

  “Jam?” Kenny said. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, the delicious stuff you gave me last night, so thanks fer nuthin’, pal.”

  “Seriously? Jam?”

  “Okay, in my defense, I found out in one hellish week that my husband had stage four stomach cancer that had spread to his bones and lungs. I’m a little skittish vis-à-vis that particular disease.”

  They were walking back along the Seine to the apartment building because it was a beautiful day and, as Lala kept repeating, “I’m alive! You’re alive! We’re alive! Marchons!”

  And then she began singing La Marseillaise, all the lyrics of which she had memorized once upon a time, in her less-than-stellar French accent and less-than-stellar singing voice. But what Lala lacked in authentic Gallic enunciation and pleasing tonal delivery, she more than made up for in pure joie de vivre.

  “Allons, enfants de la patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé! Come on, bubbeleh, sing it with me! You know the words, right?”

  “Of course I do,” Kenny grunted, nodding at the staring passersby with an apologetic expression.

  “Contre nous, de la tyrannie! Can you sing? You have to sing with me! Apparently I do something that’s called ‘singing in perfect thirds.’ I have no idea what that means. I think I’m singin
g the right notes. Apparently I’m harmonizing. Who knew? Which, I’ve been told, doesn’t sound all that great on its own.”

  “It really doesn’t.” Kenny pulled her into their courtyard. “Come on, let’s get you upstairs. Don’t you have a meeting to write or something? A meeting that doesn’t involve singing?”

  Lala kissed Kenny on both cheeks and skipped across the courtyard. She took the stairs by twos and made a tempting platter of cheeses and breads for the new writing partner who had been imposed on her. Which, at the moment, wasn’t bothering her at all.

  Lala had her front door open before Atticus could deliver a second knock.

  “Hi, there, mon cher colleague! Come on in! We are writing together because we’re both alive! YES! Let’s do this, huh!”

  Lala smiled warmly at Atticus. Her voice was like ice. The really deep kind in Antarctica.

  “Terry wouldn’t do that.” You smug little pisher, she silently added.

  If Atticus noticed that Lala was hoping her words might magically form into tiny little daggers that would keep flying and swooping to torment Atticus like villains in a twisted Disney movie, his convivial enthusiasm was working as a very effective diversion.

  “Okay. Sure. I understand that. But, you know, just for the heck of it, what if he did? Because he and Frances get back together, right?”

  “Yes, of course they do,” Lala huffed. “They’re in love. They’ll always be in love.”

  “Right, which is so wonderful. I love that. What I’m thinking is maybe we try a scene in the beginning, right when Terry gets to Paris, after he’s broken up with Frances? And she’s desperately trying to get in touch with him, and he’s ignoring her. And we see how hurt she is. Wow, this brie is really good.”

  “This film is a comedy, Atticus,” Lala said, trying very hard not to sneer quite as much as she wanted to.

  “Right, and I love that. It’s hilarious in such a smart way.”

  Oh, jeez, Lala thought. Don’t even try to make me like you, because I swear I will get really pissed if it starts working.

  “I mean, I don’t even miss having any fart jokes. I love it, and it’s great, and I’m kinda just wondering if maybe Terry were kind of a shithead in the beginning—”

  Terry would never be a shithead, Lala thought.

  “Terry would never be a shithead,” Lala said. “Never.”

  “Okay, but if he maybe were, maybe there could be a great payoff because maybe that could set us up to love him even more at the end, when he does get back together with Frances. I know we’d have to adjust part of Act Three, because he’d have a lot to make up to Frances, but maybe it could be really sweet?”

  I do like really sweet . . . Wait a minute!

  “No bathos!” Lala yelled. “Maybe a little pathos! But absolutely no bathos!”

  “Right! No, I agree! Bathos! Yuck! Where did you get this crusty French bread? This is especially wonderful crusty French bread.”

  Man, is this kid playing me, or what? Lala thought. And is it working? Should I give this little pisher’s idea a try?

  “What’s next? You tell me that, in addition to being very talented and smart, I’m also very attractive and I look much younger than I am?”

  Atticus peered at Lala, looking confused.

  “I kinda figured that wouldn’t work with you. You seem way too smart for that. Sincerely, you do. And I also figured you’d clean my clock if I went for superficial instead of substantial.”

  Oh. Okay. Good point.

  “Would that have worked? Because you really are very pretty and—”

  Lala, before she could stop herself, guffawed.

  “Oh, knock it off, you little pisher! And I am so annoyed at myself for laughing at the ridiculously charming way you delivered that comment. Fine, fine, fine! Let’s give it a try. But I am not, je répète, I am NOT committing Terry to anything. Got it?”

  Barf, Lala thought. Damn it, this scene is looking really good. Merde.

  She had been standing behind Matthew for most of the day while he directed Clive and Rebecca, the superb New York-based actress who was playing Frances, a character that was a very thinly-disguised version of Lala’s younger self. They were in an apartment that the production had rented to serve as the place where Terry crashes with an old college friend when he first gets to Paris.

  And jeez, can that woman act. Her talent is a justified slap in the face to my own lack of thespianic ability. That’s not a word. Thespianic. It’s not, but it should be.

  Rebecca went in to give Clive’s character a desperate kiss, and Clive put his outstretched arm up to stop her from coming any closer. Matthew slapped his hand on his thigh.

  “Cut!” he said. “Excellent work, you two! Okay, let’s take a break.”

  The crew applauded with spontaneous enthusiasm.

  Okay, okay, Lala thought. No particular need to rub my nose in it. I generally have a fairly acute sense of when I’m entirely wrong.

  Rebecca and Clive hugged each other, and then turned to Lala and Matthew, and Atticus, who was standing behind them at the craft services table shoving one granola bar after another into his mouth virtually whole, and blew them all a kiss.

  Matthew turned around to look at Lala with the nervous questioning of a beagle who had eaten her usual breakfast and lunch and who feared, as the sun set, that perhaps this might be the day that her devoted mama decided to not provide her with her usual dinner.

  “Is it okay?” he asked her.

  “Oy vey. It’s great, and you know it.”

  Matthew jumped out of his director’s chair and grabbed Lala and danced her around in a hug that grew into a trio when Atticus ran over, spewing bits of unchewed oat and nut as he moved, and tried to circle Matthew and Lala with his arms.

  “I just really love working with you two,” Atticus said through far too many organic snack items.

  It came out as, “Rm mss lff wrrrr” followed by a series of unnerving coughs that made Lala wonder if she still knew how to properly execute a Heimlich.

  “I can’t take credit for this,” Lala said. “It was Atticus’s idea.”

  “So?” Atticus sputtered. He seemed to have cleared his mouth of food, if the copious crumbs that covered his jacket were reliable evidence. Lala and Matthew watched with a lingering bit of concern as Atticus swallowed loudly and dramatically several times. “You wrote just about all the dialogue.” He frantically swept his hands on his jacket to get the chomping debris off. “I eat when I’m nervous.”

  “Right there with ya, pumpkin,” Lala said. “And, P.S., dialogue is bupkes without a great idea. Ideas? Not always my strongest suit. I appreciate you, Atticus. I really do.”

  They finished shooting just a little more than an hour after they took that last break, and it was early enough in the day for Lala to be able to call David in California, no matter how much she stalled.

  “Merde,” she said, glancing at her watch. She was sitting on a bench with Clive facing the Seine and the back of Notre Dame at the end of the street from her apartment. They had walked from the day’s location. Clive had invited Lala to dinner, but she asked for a rain check so she could get some work done tonight. Her new novel was turning out to be a lot of fun, and she looked forward to spending a few hours on it before she went to sleep. As a compromise, because they both had to eat, Lala had taken Clive to a little sandwich shop she had found on one of her walks, and they had gotten brie sandwiches and Diet Cokes, because, as Lala announced, “sometimes you just need a fizzy low-cal drink, y’know?”

  “Too late to call David?” Clive asked.

  “No, plenty of time,” Lala admitted. “Okay, let’s change the subject.”

  “I had no idea I loved Diet Coke so much,” Clive said.

  “You know, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Your manager?”


  “Yup,” Clive said. He nodded vigorously, smiled, and took a big bite of his sandwich.

  “Was he in prison?”

  “No,” Clive said. “Why do you ask?”

  “He made a reference to a grand jury at our first meeting.”

  “Oh, no. He’s a bit melodramatic. He had to go to traffic school once when we were in LA”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, I was also wondering . . . Is he just grumpy round me?”

  “Oh, goodness, no. He’s that way with everyone,” Clive assured her.

  “Well, what is he, in the Witness Relocation Program? Or he’s a spy or something? And that grumpy persona is just a character he’s using to be undercover?”

  “No,” Clive said. He chuckled and took a big swig of Diet Coke.

  “I . . . Well, maybe you can guess what my next question is?”

  “Why do I keep such an unpleasant person around?”

  “Umm,” Lala began. She paused. “In a nutshell, yeah.”

  Clive took apart what was left of his sandwich and studied it as though the bread and cheese and lettuce and tomatoes and Dijon mustard offered the key to all the riddles of the ages. He spoke to Lala without looking at her.

  “I don’t want to tell you about my manager.”

  “Why not?” Lala asked.

  “I’m afraid it’s going to hit way too close to home.”

  Oy, Lala thought. And I had to ask.

  There was a pause in their conversation, and then Clive looked at Lala again. Lala studied his expression.

  “Are you looking at me like you’re the Ghost of Christmas Future and I’m Ebenezer Scrooge?”