Finding Orlando

At some point in Patti’s life, her eyebrows disappeared.

She used to have them, there was photographic evidence. They were perfectly ordinary, nothing like the thick, robust tufts of hair that rested above Richard’s eyes. Her husband seemed to be acquiring more body hair as he aged. It now appeared in his nostrils and ears, although none of this seemed to faze him. Patti felt slightly embarrassed each morning, penciling in her eyebrows like lines in a children’s drawing. She knew she should be thankful, that things could be much worse, but it still felt like she had lost a part of her younger self. Also, she once accidentally drew the arch too high and had to spend the day looking permanently surprised.

Patti didn’t feel old. Her mind, her desires, her interests, none of it aligned with the eighty-two-year-old face staring back at her. She had tried to bring this up with Richard over a Costco salmon dinner, and he had dismissed her fears, filed them as overdramatic. Lately, their conversations felt like they were both speaking in a second language. Details were lost in translation, until everything that mattered remained unsaid.

She was also convinced Richard no longer looked at her. His eyes seemed unfocused, wandering around the spaces beside or slightly above her head, never quite landing on her. She optimistically hoped he simply needed stronger glasses.

“How about a picnic today? It’s gorgeous outside,” she proposed to him.

He was shoving an alarming amount of green leaves in the blender their daughter, Mary, had given him for Christmas. He seemed convinced that the secret to longevity had a lot to do with kale.

“Can’t, sorry,” he said, looking somewhere near her hairline. “We’re getting that new shipment in today, so I’ll probably be back late.”

The shipment he was referring to was for his Model Train Club. Initially, Patti had been glad he joined, she thought it was good he had a hobby to keep him busy. Now, she increasingly found herself feeling jealous of miniature steam engines.

“Oh, OK. No problem. Have fun!”

“Thanks,” he said, nodding in the direction of her left ear.

Soon, she was alone, cleaning the blender and wondering what to do with her day. Patti had tried a series of clubs herself, but she was terrible at card games, and her craft projects looked like something created by her grandchildren. She decided to call Mary.

“Hello, darling!” she trilled through the phone.

“Hi, Mom,” Mary replied.

“How are you? How are Graham and Celine?” Patti had her opinions on her daughter’s decision to name her children after a cracker and a Canadian pop singer, but she kept them to herself.

“They’re good, we’re good. Things are a bit crazy right now, between the soccer games and Celine’s sudden interest in joining Junior Masterchef.”

“Celine is cooking? How wonderful! Does she want to try my lemon meringue pie recipe?”

There was a pause while Mary blasted her horn. “Do they only give licenses to idiots these days? Look, I’ve got to go, Mom. I’ll call you later, OK? Bye!”

“Oh, OK- Bye, I love-“ Patti was cut off as Mary hung up the phone.

She stared at the phone in her hand and thought about the hours that stretched before her. There were errands she should run, but there was only one thing she truly wanted to do.

Taking unnecessary caution, she quietly went upstairs and opened her sock drawer. Buried deep, she had hidden a copy of “Orlando’s Secret Desire” by Charlotte Elderwilde. It was a thrilling, romantic tale of Orlando, a knight who gets captured by an evil sorceress, only to fall in love with her daughter, Rosalind.

A couple months ago, she had walked in on Richard reading one of her Elderwilde books. She thought he might be shocked, scandalized by some of the raunchier scenes, but his reaction had been much worse. He laughed. He said the book was ridiculous, and Patti knew what he meant was, so are you. She had kept her books hidden ever since.

Hours later, she turned the last page and shut her book, sated with a happy ending. After her heartbeat resumed its normal rhythm, she went to the library website to order her next escape. Scrolling through the results for “Charlotte Elderwilde,” she realized she had already read them all. After some thorough Googling, she learned that “Orlando’s Secret Desire” was the last book Elderwilde had ever written.

Bereft and in denial, she continued to scroll and stumbled upon an online forum dedicated to Elderwilde, called “Wilde Women.”

There they were. Hundreds, maybe thousands of women like her, all united by their love of the author’s books. Patti read dozens of entries, delighted and comforted by these strangers who had found the same solace in Elderwilde’s words that she had.

Diving in deeper, she found a page labeled “Inspired by Charlotte.” It contained stories that fans had written, using Charlotte’s style or one of her characters. Patti felt like she had discovered a secret sequel to her favorite film. Although, her favorite film was Titanic, so a sequel might be a little tricky.

That night, Patti and Richard had eaten dinner while watching the evening news, then he had gone straight to bed. He said he was exhausted, although Patti wasn’t exactly sure what was so exhausting about model trains. They weren’t exactly heavy.

Once he was asleep, she snuck downstairs to the computer. She would just try it out, write a couple lines.

Orlando’s hand reached between the bars, stroking Rosalind’s…

What do sorceress’s daughters wear? Gowns? Cloaks? Leggings?

…cheek. He leaned slowly towards her, his mouth inching towards hers-

“What are you doing?”

She jumped out of her chair as Richard flicked on the living room light.

“Richard! You scared me!” Patti cried.

“Sorry. Why were you down here in the dark?”

“I, um…” she quickly closed her tab and offered a prayer of thanks that he wasn’t wearing his glasses. “I was looking at cooking classes. For Celine.”

“Oh. OK.” The mention of grandchildren seemed to pacify Richard. That was all Patti was supposed to think about, her grandchildren and what to cook him for dinner. He padded back upstairs, and Patti waited until she heard the bedroom door shut. She re-opened her tab.

“Orlando!” she cried. “I think I heard something. What if we get caught?”

“I don’t care,” he said, kissing her passionately.

Patti woke up late the next morning, Richard had already left. As she stretched across her orthopedic mattress, last night’s online adventure came to her like a dream. Patti raced to the computer.

A like! Her story had a like! And a comment, from someone calling themselves peasantwench54.

Gr8 story, love Orlando!

In spite of this woman’s questionable exchange of vowels for numbers, Patti felt a rush of gratitude towards her. The women on this site were frank with their desires, they encased them in words and shared them without shame. With a thrill, Patti realized she was now one of them.

The remainder of the day passed by in a blur as she expanded on Orlando’s exploits. The words seemed to pour out of her effortlessly. As the light seeped out of the living room, she felt the satisfied peace that followed a productive day. Her fingers ached from her slow, deliberate typing, and she craved a glass of wine. No- a Martini!

By the time Richard got home she was on her second cocktail and felt like Katherine Hepburn.

“I’ve missed you,” she said huskily.

“What?”

“I’ve missed you!”

He looked flustered at this remark and fiddled with his house keys. “Why are you in your pajamas? Did you wear them all day?”

“I…might have.”

“Is that a Martini?”

“Yes! Would you like one?” she asked. Patti tried to remain upbeat as she watched her hopeful plans for the evening evaporate.

“It’s a Tuesday.”

She had never heard someone pronounce a weekday with such judgement.

“We’re retired, Richard. Isn’t this sort of the point? This…freedom?”

“Well, I actually have to be up quite early tomorrow.”

He left the room, closing the discussion has he closed the door. Patti downed the rest of her Martini. Did Richard even care about her anymore? He seemed to be running his life parallel to Patti’s, taking great pains to minimize any overlap. Would he miss her, truly miss her, if she were gone?

She stared at the photo of them that was displayed proudly on the bookshelf. Richard’s arm was wrapped tightly around her. Back then, he was incapable of going more than five minutes without touching her. Holding her hand, brushing her arm, kissing her cheek. It was as if he wanted to remind himself that she was real, she was his.

She searched their life now for some trace of that couple in the photo, and found none.

The next morning, Patti continued to feign sleep until she knew Richard was safely out of the house. Then she ran to the computer, eager to see if there was any response to Orlando’s latest tale.

Eighteen likes! And a follower! Someone was actually following Patti’s work. She thought about this person. They thought she was more than just a silly, harmless grandma past her prime. Were they on the site now, wondering when Patti’s next piece might be posted?

Each day, Patti escaped each day to a world of fantasy. The one character she kept returning to, that her followers- sixty now! - kept asking for, was Orlando. Her Orlando was different from Elderwilde’s, though. He was still brave and dashingly handsome, but he was also softer, kinder. Patti’s Orlando could cook, he would bring Rosalind wildflowers, he made amends with his evil sorceress mother-in-law.

Patti was typing furiously one day, when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Mom! It’s me,” Mary said breathlessly. From the meaningless jingles playing in the background, Patti could tell she was at the supermarket.

“Hi honey! How are you? Did Celine get those cookbooks I sent?”

“Yes, thank you. Sorry I forgot to tell you, but she’s not cooking anymore, I’m afraid.”

“Oh! Oh, well. What’s she into now?” Patti asked.

“Fencing.”

“Fencing! Now, does she use a foil or a sabre?”

“Foil,” Mary replied, her voice rising with suspicion. “How do you know so much about swords?”

“Oh, you know. Oprah,” Patti said airily.

“Right. Well, anyway, I just wanted to check in. Dad said you’ve been acting a little, um, strange recently?”

“Did he?” Patti fought to keep the rage out of her voice.

“Yes, not leaving the house much, drinking more, not cooking-“

“That man isn’t concerned about me, he’s concerned about his stomach!” Patti cried.

“He’s worried about you! We both are!”

“Well, maybe you should worry about him! Why don’t you say anything about the fact that he spends more time with tiny trains than he does with his wife?”

“That’s his hobby, Mom,” Mary said evenly.

“I’m afraid I’ve got to go, dear. The chicken won’t defrost itself.”

She said a quick goodbye before her temper ran further away from her. It had broken her heart when Mary and her family had moved across the country. Patti felt rudderless, she ached for her grandchildren and their beautiful chaos.

Yet Mary still judged Patti’s life from afar, a life she now knew nothing about. It was different with Richard, Mary had always thought the world of her father. He could do no wrong, and now it seemed Patti could do no right.

She paced, her feet propelled by her conviction. There were people now, eighty-seven of them, in fact, who found the writing she did valuable. They found her valuable, which was more than she could say for her husband.

That night, Richard paused before entering the living room, sensing the discontentment that awaited him inside.

“Hi, Patti,” he said cautiously.

“Evening, Richard.”

“What’s for-“

Patti raised her hand to silence him. “I swear, Richard, if you ask me what’s for dinner, you will be eating Cup of Soup of the rest of your natural born life.”

He visibly swallowed.

“Is everything OK, Patricia?” He used her full name when he sensed an argument, a tactic that made Patti feel like a scolded child.

“No, actually, it isn’t. It hasn’t been for a while, Richard. You don’t touch me, you barely even look at me. The conversations we have are about dinner or trains or whether we should get a doorbell with a video camera. Do you even love me anymore?”

“Of course, I do!”

“Then show me! Let’s go away. Just the two of us, no children, no grandchildren. Just us, Richard. We can leave tomorrow, we don’t even need a destination. We’ll just drive!”

His eyes returned to their familiar spot above her head, and Patti’s heart sank.

“I would love to. Truly, Patricia. It’s just tomorrow, well, the club is hosting the Regional Model Train meet up.”

She knew the tears were imminent and wanted to be alone for their arrival.

“I’m sleeping in the guest room tonight.”

Patti was out of the room before she had to listen to another one of his excuses.

Sometime around midnight, she rose groggily, cursing her bladder. She was halfway to the bathroom when she noticed the light coming from the living room.

Richard was sitting in front of the computer. Patti didn’t need to move any closer, she immediately recognized the comforting background of “Wilde Women.” She edged towards him. Patti wanted to read his expression, his reaction to her stories, before he got a chance to hide it.

He was smiling, that was clear. It was a gentle smile, though, with none of the sarcastic malice she had seen him wear before.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Patti! God, you scared me.”

 “Good. Now, do you want to tell me what you’re doing?”

“Reading. Patti, your story, it’s,” he shook his head. “Amazing.”

“Don’t make fun of me, Richard. I know you hate her books.”

“I don’t hate them! They’re completely ridiculous-“

Patti turned to leave.

“-but your work isn’t! I mean it, Patti. You’ve stripped away all the fantastical stuff, and you’ve made the characters real. Flawed. Human. To tell you the truth, this Orlando and Rosalind, they kind of remind me of us. When we were younger, of course.”

Patti smiled in spite of herself. “Some of it may have been inspired by true events.”

“Inspired by? That scene where the boat capsizes was straight out of our honeymoon!”

She laughed, and soon they were both struggling for breath. She couldn’t remember the last time they had laughed like that. It filled her with both happiness and confusion.  

“It’s wonderful, Patti,” Richard said sincerely.

“Thank you.”

He reached for her and she let herself be pulled into his arms. “Let’s do it. The trip, let’s go tomorrow.”

Slowly, she removed herself from his embrace. “I’m glad you liked my work, Richard. But after we spoke, I did some thinking.”

She took his hands in hers. “There’s a writer’s retreat run by one of the Wilde Women. I’m going to go. I need to do this, Richard. For me.”

She kissed him gently and went back to bed, not waiting for his reply. She no longer needed his permission.

The next morning, Patti woke up to the smell of smoke. She walked into the kitchen, which was now covered in flour, as was Richard. Something that possibly used to be bacon was resting in a pan, and Richard was frantically jabbing buttons on the oven. He caught Patti’s eye as she entered, and they both burst out laughing.

“It looks more like the Battle of Dunkirk than the Masterchef kitchen, doesn’t it?” Richard asked.

“Yes, if the Battle of Dunkirk had been fought with self-rising flour,” Patti replied.

Richard opened the oven and they both peered inside.

“What’s it supposed to be?”

“Coal.”

They both collapsed into giggles again. When they caught their breath, Richard pulled her towards him.

“I’m going to try harder, Patti. I’m going to show you. I haven’t quite figured out how, yet. But I will.”

“I know you will.” Patti looked up at him and smiled. “And when in doubt, just ask yourself- what would Orlando do?”