Standing Room Only

by Heidi Mastrogiovanni

  She took a step forward to hug her beloved aunt. Geraldine swatted her niece’s arms away as though they were a swarm of especially annoying mosquitoes.

  “I am not going to hug you, because I am here because I am very irritated with you.”

  Geraldine stormed past Lala and threw herself and her small suitcase down on the couch. Lala stared at her.

  “You’re here because you’re irritated with me? You couldn’t be irritated with me long distance?”

  “Well, I tried that,” Geraldine huffed, “but I frankly got quite fed up with you not responding to my e-mail. It was a work of love to put all that into words, and I got tired of not getting an answer from you.”

  “But I did answer you,” Lala began, and then stopped.

  I guess maybe Minou wasn’t communicating telepathically with my aunt? Oops . . .

  “I’m sincerely sorry,” Lala said. “But, listen, I didn’t realize it at the time, but I do now . . . You are now preaching to the choir. Don’t even take off your coat. Let’s get back to the airport.”

  “What?” Geraldine said. Her eyes narrowed. “What are you up to, young missy?”

  “I’m going to do everything I can to take the ‘to-be-my-fiancé’ part out of the equation. I don’t know why it took me so long to realize how ridiculous that sounds.”

  Geraldine jumped up off the couch and nearly knocked Lala over in her rush to hug her.

  “You are? Oh, my dear! I’m so relieved! I’m so happy!”

  “Me, too! And we’ll be officially engaged as soon as I can make David promise not to die first!”

  Every cell in Geraldine’s body froze. The cells in her arms unfroze long enough for Geraldine to thrust her niece away from her, and her facial cells unfroze long enough for her to stare at Lala with an expression of pure and utter exasperation.

  “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t work that way, Lala!” she yelled. “Did you not comprehend anything that I wrote?”

  “Kidding! I’m kidding!” Lala said. “Lighten up! Now, let’s get going, because I need to be on the next flight to San Francisco.”

  Much to Lala’s surprise and rapidly escalating dismay, Geraldine smiled at her, gave her a hug, and sashayed in the direction of her kitchen.

  “What are you doing?” Lala called after her aunt. She heard the refrigerator door open and close, and she heard a cabinet open and close. Her aunt came out carrying a bottle of white wine and one glass.

  “What are you doing?” Lala repeated.

  Her aunt spoke to her as though Lala had suddenly had a precipitous drop in her IQ standing.

  “Getting a drink?” Geraldine said. “I’d offer you one, but I don’t think you have time.”

  “Aren’t you coming to the airport with me?”

  “Goodness, no. I’m calling Monty and telling him to join me. Your apartment is adorable. And I need a vacation. Where should we get pain au chocolat in the morning? I assume you have a favorite place by now. And, by the way, what made you change your mind about getting married?”

  “You did. You and the French you. If you were ten years older and were on your third husband. You two will love each other. She can’t wait to meet you. I’ll explain another time.”

  Lala had every intention of getting a little sleep at the airport while she waited for her flight. And by any reasonable metric that shouldn’t have been a problem, since the earliest she could get on a plane to San Francisco was nine hours after she got to Charles de Gaulle and bought a ticket at the Air France counter.

  Lala made the bold and unorthodox decision to check her carry-on bag, thus negating the very nature of its carry-on aspect, so that she could, as she explained to the clearly uninterested young woman behind the check-in counter, “travel lighter than I’ve ever traveled before in my life, because I have got a life-altering job to do.”

  “That’s nice,” the young woman said, apparently quite confident that she had a secure handle on the exact minimum amount of politeness she was required to display before she would be fired.

  Having taken her passport, her wallet, her phone, and the book she was currently reading out of her carry-on and stuffed them in next to her laptop in her computer bag, Lala scanned the signs and found the arrow pointing in the direction of the Air France lounge. She walked with determination toward the sanctuary.

  I’ll have a soothing cup of chamomile tea, she thought, and then I’ll find a comfy chair in the corner and I’ll doze until they call my flight. If I turn the chair to face the wall, I should be able to banish any concern about being seen with my head tilted sideways, drooling onto my shoulder.

  The first thing Lala saw when she entered the lounge was a long counter with lots of food on it.

  Oh, she thought. I bet having something to eat would make me drowsy, and I bet that would help me sleep. I’ll just grab a quick little snack.

  After piling cubed cheese, olives, crackers, and dried apricots on one plate and finding that only one plate was not going to do the job, Lala filled another plate and carefully carried both to the next expanse she set her eyes on.

  Lala swung herself onto a stool and smiled at the robust older gentleman who was tending the bar.

  “Bonjour, Madame,” he said.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur. I’m thinking a lovely glass of red wine will help me nap a bit before my flight, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely,” the gentleman said. “I have a favorite I would like you to try.”

  He picked up a bottle and gave Lala a heavy pour in a large glass. She sniffed the wine, sipped it, and grinned.

  “Ohh, so nice,” she said. “Thank you. I’m just going to take this all over to that cushiony chair over there so I can already be in my nest when I collapse from exhaustion.”

  The gentleman gave her a caring smile and a soothing nod, and Lala toddled off to a chair that was far away from the center of the large lounge. She got herself comfortable, and she gazed out the window at the landing and taxiing and taking off airplanes. She ate all the food she had brought with her and debated getting up to get some more because it was delicious. She finished the excellent wine and mustered enough energy to go back to the bar and ask her sweet new friend for a refill, which she finished with even more urgent enthusiasm than the first glass.

  She sat quietly and looked around her. The lounge was fairly empty. Lala debated finding someone to engage in a little light-hearted conversation, but thought better of it when she realized that she would probably fall face forward in the middle of a sentence and start snoring, which she reasoned would be very rude, especially given that she had been the one to initiate contact.

  Lala considered taking out her laptop and doing some work on the manuscript for A Woman of a Certain Age, but she decided she was probably too tired to write anything of passable quality even for a shitty first draft.

  She took out the book she was reading, a collection of short stories by one of her favorite New Yorker writers, and read the first paragraph of the new story that began on the page separated by her Strand Bookstore bookmark. She read the six sentences of the paragraph once. And then again. And then a third time. She began to read them a fourth time, but gave up halfway through when she was forced to concede that the book had somehow been magically transformed between then and the last time she had picked it up from English to some unclassifiable language she didn’t recognize. That, Lala paused to reflect, was happening to her more often than she liked.

  Lala put the book back in the computer bag. Her fingers brushed against her phone. She had to stop herself from calling or texting David.

  You must not blurt, she silently commanded herself. This must be a grand and dramatic and supremely romantic surprise! You need every advantage on your side if you’re going to pull this off.

  She slammed the computer bag shut and ran back to the bar to ask for and receive a se
t of earphones from the “lovely bartender, really, you are such a dear and sweet man and I appreciate you very, very, very much.” Lala leaned back in the chair, stretched out, and watched the fare that the large television on the wall opposite her was providing for the assembled travelers.

  This will be great, Lala thought. I have no idea what’s going on in this show. I don’t even know if it’s a show or a documentary or a movie or a reality mishmash. They are speaking way too quickly for me to catch any words that I could have any hope of understanding. I’m not even sure if that’s actually French that they’re speaking. I’ll be asleep before I can bring this inner monologue to a close . . .

  Six hours later the loudspeaker announced boarding for Air France Flight 84, non-stop service to San Francisco. Lala mustered every fragile remaining milligram of strength and consciousness she had left and hoisted herself up out of the chair. Her eyes were bloodshot and her back ached. Two hours earlier, after watching the entirety of what her best guess assessment decided was a Spanish-language mini series set in Barcelona that had been dubbed into French and concerned the bodice-ripping exploits of a docent-by-day at the Picasso Museum who spent her evenings as a concierge at her family’s boutique hotel, Lala had managed to fall asleep, only to be woken after five minutes by a thundering crash of trays and cutlery and glassware from the lounge kitchen. After that, she hadn’t fallen asleep for another moment. She was, however, relieved to see that Sofia, the heroine of the mini series, found true and hopefully lasting love in the final installment.

  Oh, well, Lala thought as she shuffled her way to the gate and considered for a moment flagging down an airport cart and begging the driver to let her hitch a ride, I’ll just sleep through the whole flight, and then when I get to San Francisco, I’ll be rested and renewed and ready to conquer this monumental, life-altering challenge.

  Lala smiled at all the lovely people waiting to greet her and the other passengers at the entrance to the plane. She stumbled over to her Business Class seat. The configuration of the plane had a single seat at either window and two seats together in the middle, with ample room in each location for the passengers to be comfortable. Lala had gotten the last seat available on the plane, in the middle. She collapsed onto the large and cozy seat, adjusting it so that it would lean backward. Even with a passenger right next to her, she would have sufficient privacy, and Lala hoped that she would finally be able to relax and fall asleep for at least a few hours.

  Lala shut her eyes and tried to empty her mind of worry and anticipation. She couldn’t stop herself from imagining what she would say to David when she saw him again.

  I’m so sorry.

  I was scared.

  I’m still scared.

  I would love to get married. I would love to take that ridiculous “to-be-my-fiancé” out of the equation. As long as you promise not to die before I do.

  Kidding! I’m kidding!

  Not really.

  I need a glass of champagne or something. And an eye mask.

  Lala put her seat back in the upright position. She saw a woman and what was presumably her teenage daughter coming right toward her. They were both tall and thin and brunette and attractive, and they were both wearing stylish, elegant clothes that looked very expensive. And they were both scowling to such an extent that their features were distorted with irritation.

  Uh oh, Lala thought, I’d better get myself into the “I’m asleep and I can’t chat” position . . .

  Just as the thought materialized, the daughter scurried into the seat next to Lala’s, while the mother sat down in the window seat across the aisle. The next thing the daughter did was to completely change her expression by giving Lala what Lala read as a sweet and sincere smile.

  Well, damn it, I can’t very well be rude to this nice young lady and ignore her . . .

  “Hello!” Lala said.

  “Hi,” the nice young lady said.

  Lala leaned forward and waved to the nice young lady’s mother, who was still looking quite annoyed.

  “Would you two like to sit together?” Lala asked. “I’m happy to switch seats, if you—”

  “No!” the two women yelled.

  “That’s very nice of you,” the mother added with exaggerated good cheer. “But we’re fine. Thank you.”

  “Thank you,” the daughter said.

  Ohh boy, Lala thought. Well, I may not know what it’s like to be the mother of a teenager, but I certainly vaguely remember being a teenager . . .

  Lala smiled and nodded at both the women. She debated trying to fall asleep right away, but then she thought she might wait for that glass of champagne after all and maybe see how long after takeoff dinner would be served.

  The nice young woman opened her carry-on bag and took out a thick book. Lala saw the title on the cover. It was one of the volumes in a trilogy she didn’t know much about, other than that it concerned a young woman in a dystopian future, it was globally and outrageously popular, and the movie versions were just as successful as the books. The young woman noticed Lala noticing the cover.

  “It’s really good,” she said.

  “Mmm,” Lala said. “I’ve never read it.” Lala saw the young woman’s face register disappointment and what looked like pity. “I’ve read all the Harry Potter books,” Lala offered.

  The young woman reached into her bag and pulled out another hefty volume. She handed it to Lala.

  “It’s the first book in the series,” she said. “It’s really good. I’ve read it seven times.”

  When dinner was served two hours later, Lala and Bethany discovered that they were both vegetarians. While Bethany’s mother, Jennifer, enjoyed her dinner in her private island seat and watched a movie on her personal screen, Lala and Bethany enjoyed their first chance to talk, because eating necessitated both of them releasing for the first time the books they were reading since the plane had taken off.

  “It’s just so . . . this book . . . I just . . . the courage and the injustice and the romance . . . yikes . . .”

  “I know, right?” Bethany said. She chewed on a big twirl of pasta and nodded.

  They chatted through dinner and dessert. Bethany told Lala that she wanted to go to college at UCLA and study creative writing and film production. Lala gave Bethany her business card and told her that she would have an internship waiting for her at Lala’s production company any summer that she wanted one, starting right now. Bethany got teary when Lala said that, and then Lala got teary, and Bethany’s mother was asleep by then and missed the whole episode, which was probably fine with her.

  As soon as their dessert plates had been taken away, Lala and Bethany went back to their books. Lala finished the first volume of the trilogy half an hour before the pilot informed the passengers that they were beginning their descent into San Francisco International Airport. Lala shut her eyes and fell into a deep and not at all restorative sleep. After fifteen minutes, she woke up feeling even more exhausted than ever.

  Lala and Bethany gathered their things and stood to exit the plane. Bethany stepped into the aisle first, and Lala motioned to Bethany’s mother to go ahead of her. Jennifer smiled at Lala.

  “Your daughter is a very smart and gracious young person,” Lala told her.

  “Thank you,” Jennifer said. “Sometimes I forget that.”

  Jennifer gave Lala’s hand a grateful squeeze and rushed ahead to catch up with her daughter. Lala watched Jennifer put her arm around Bethany’s shoulder and Bethany put her arm around her mom. Lala watched them lean their heads together as they walked out.

  Lala headed for the exits leading to ground transportation, and then she remembered that she had checked her carry-on bag. She sighed, rued her earlier foolishness, and dragged herself to the baggage claim area.

  Her carry-on bag was among the very last to be ejected from the plane.

  I can’t beli
eve I didn’t think this through, Lala told herself as she watched the baggage carousel slowly and relentlessly trudge past her. This may break me. This may be the last straw. I think I’m going to barf.

  When Lala finally saw her bag, she lunged for it, grabbed it, and ran outside to find a taxi stand. She was convinced that she was about to pass out, and she wanted to at least be in a car on the way to David’s apartment before that happened.

  After she gasped David’s address to the driver, she put her head back and essentially fainted, coming to only when, just over an hour later, the car stopped in front of a cute old one-story building of garden apartments surrounding a small courtyard.

  She found Apartment #4 and stood in front of the door for a minute, taking deep breaths. She knocked very tentatively. There was no answer, so she knocked again, a bit harder this time. No response.

  Merde, Lala thought. What do I do now?

  Lala considered taking a cab to the UC Davis campus to find David’s office at the veterinary school, but decided it would be better to keep their reunion more private than that. She took out her phone and looked up the main number for the veterinary school. She asked the person who answered if he could tell her if Dr. McLellan was in class at the moment? The man asked her to hold, and when he came back on the line, he informed Lala that Dr. McLellan was on vacation for the week.

  “He’s . . . on . . . vacation for the week,” Lala repeated. “Right. Okay. Thank you so much.”

  Lala disconnected the call and sat down on the step in front of David’s door. She mashed her carry-on bag like it was a pillow, and put her head on it while she stretched her legs out. She looked up at the sky and wrinkled her nose.

  Fuck it, she thought.

  Lala sat up, grabbed her phone again, and hit David’s number in her contacts list. The call went straight to voicemail.

  Fuck this, Lala thought.

  She typed a text, “Where are you?” and hit the arrow that sent it to David’s phone.

  She waited. And waited. And then her phone rang and she answered and yelled.