Finding Fraser

by kc dyer

  I heard a door slam in the back, and a cloud of cigarette smoke floated gently in through the serving window. “Hey, hey—we need some help out here,” I yelled in the direction of the smoke, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

  A startled face appeared around the corner of the kitchen wall.

  “What the hell …” he said. The face disappeared and I heard the door slam.

  The woman groaned again, and started rocking back and forth on her hands and knees. “Too soon—it’s too soon,” she panted.

  I’m not actually sure what I said at that moment, to tell you the truth. All I can remember is seeing a wash of blood on the floor and then pretty much a black wall of panic closed in. The next thing I knew a young man in chef’s whites was on his knees beside us.

  “Cara,” he said imploringly to the woman. “Are ye all’ righ’? Is the baby comin’?”

  “Uh—yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happening here,” I said. “But it seems so fast—aren’t these things supposed to take forever?”

  I revised my estimate of the man—he was more like a boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen, max.

  He looked at me as though he’d not noticed me before. I could see panic in his eyes that I was sure was reflected in my own. “Ah’ve no fookin’ idea,” he gasped. “She’s the only one on until seven. What do I do?”

  My arm had already gone to sleep—there was no way this woman was going to let go of me any time soon. “Get help,” I said. “Call 911!”

  He looked at me like I was crazy, and then a light dawned in his eyes. “It’s 999. I can do that!” He jumped to his feet. “And I’ll run to Jacquie’s,” he said. “She’s just across the street. She’ll know what to tell them.”

  “Wait! Have you got a towel or a blanket or anything I can put down—just in case?”

  He nodded and dashed into the back, returning seconds later with a giant stack of dishtowels. “We havenae anythin’ bigger,” he said. “Righ’. Back in a tick.”

  He put his hand on the doorknob and the woman—Cara—groaned. “Get me some help, Ash,” she said, through gritted teeth. “Ah cain’t bloody do this alone.”

  Ash was yelling into his cell phone on his way out the door, so, “I’m here,” I said, as soothingly as I could, all the while wishing to hell I wasn’t.

  But Cara’s one spell of lucidity had passed. She began panting in a way that I didn’t like at all. It reminded me of the birth scenes I’d seen on television. Without the tidiness. And the doctors.

  My hand had gone a grayish shade, all feeling lost.

  “Cara,” I said. “Just hold on. Someone is going to be here any minute. It’s going to be all …”

  Her face snapped up to look at me, and I thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head. Her mouth opened so wide I could see she had three silver fillings on one side—but not a sound came out.

  We stared at each other for a single long moment. Her eyes slowly closed, and she let out a perfectly gentle, relieved sigh.

  And behind her on the stack of dishtowels, was a baby, with a tangle of fabric around one leg.

  “God in heaven, that were fookin’ brutal,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “And she’s ruined ma’ knickers, ta boot.”

  The door behind me blew open, hit me in the ass and a mob scene took over.

  After that, in spite of the mob, things unfolded in a much more comfortable fashion. Someone got me a chair, and pushed a cup of tea into my hand. A pair of ambulance attendants neatly scooped Cara and her lustily crying baby onto a gurney and rolled her out the door. Even the pile of dishtowels vanished, somehow.

  The kid in the kitchen whites arrived, grinning, at my elbow, and poured a generous tot of whisky into my tea. We toasted each other silently, and he took a long slug from the bottle.

  “An interesting day,” he said.

  I nodded and sipped.

  “You a tourist?”

  I nodded again, and sipped some more. “I’m leaving tomorrow,” I clarified.

  He pointed at the ground. “Here? Or Scotland?”

  I shrugged. “Here. I need to head south to find a job, to earn money for my ticket home.”

  He was silent a moment, as the ambulance, siren on, drove away. A collection of chattering people stood around outside the cafe, laughing and smoking and waving their arms in the air.

  “Well, if ye’re not set on headin’ south, it looks like we need a new waitress. And yeh seem pretty good at thinkin’ on yer feet. Want the job?”

  I looked at him and blinked. It seemed my time in the Highlands might not yet be at an end, after all.

  Flabbergasting Fate…

  Noon, May 15

  Nairn, Scotland

  In a flabbergasting twist of fate, I’m actually working now, and at a job I like. I still haven’t got a computer of my own, which makes regular posting pretty tough.

  On every other front, though, life is good. The people of this little town have taken me in and made me feel like I belong. I’ve found a job in a cafe, and I even helped a baby come into the world——which I would blog about in more detail if the experience hadn’t been so disgusting. Let me just say, when I met the baby again after she was all cleaned off and dressed, she was a beautiful, perfect little human being. I’m meeting all kinds of other amazing humans here, too. No sign of my Fraser, yet, but I still hold out hope!

  - ES

  Comments: 3

  SophiaSheridan, Chicago, USA:

  Working? Well, I suppose actual employment is a good thing. At least you are taking responsibility for yourself. How long will it take for you to earn enough to come home? A month? Six weeks? If you will be so kind as to let me know, I may even be able to arrange to have Paul meet you at the airport.

  (Read 2 more comments here…)

  To: emmasheridan@gmail.com

  From: JackFindlay@*range.co.uk

  May 15

  Hey Emma,

  Thanks for the email. Nice to have your email address. I feel special!

  And yeah, around here, summer starts in May. Midsummer’s Eve is on the solstice, ye ken? It’s only you Americans who are crazy enough to insist summer begins at the very time the days start getting shorter!

  The ankle is mending quickly, judging from the infernal itch right at the spot I can’t reach with even my longest pencil. The book prep seems to be going well at the publishing house. My editor tells me it should be out late this summer.

  Hope your quest continues apace. If the Highland warrior falls through and you do end up down here in Edinburgh for a bit, let me know. I’d love to take you for a ‘thank you’ cup of tea.

  Jack

  Katy the librarian began to make closing-up noises, so I quickly logged off, after sending Jack a quick note suggesting he use a ruler rather than a pencil to address his itchy ankle. A broken leg on my first attempt on an Adirondack ski hill as a teenager had given me a plethora of experience on how to best deal with the discomfort of six weeks in a cast, and I was fairly certain things hadn’t changed much in the technology of scratching an itch in that time.

  My first couple of weeks in the new job had been far less eventful than the first hour, but I have to say that I liked it that way. It was kind of reassuring to get back to the routine of regular employment after the series of disasters in Glasgow. Whoever said that the Scots are cheap had obviously never worked in this cafe—my tips were accumulating in the jar on the wee counter of my flat very nicely.

  And—for the time being, at least—I got to stay in my beloved Highlands.

  It turned out the kid in the kitchen whites was the owner’s son, Ashwin. Ash’s dad was named Sandeep Patel, who was, in his turn, the son of Indian immigrants who had moved to Scotland during the time of partition. Sandeep had a Glaswegian accent as strong as Rabbie the Gnome. Our first conversation had been tempered both by his suspicion of me as a foreigner and his relief that I actually had experience as a barista in the US.

  “We’d t
hought we’d hae plenny o’ time afore Cara’s babby arrived,” he said, kneading the dough for tea biscuits as we spoke. “Another month, at least. I were halfway to Glasgow on mah supply run when I go’ the call from Ash. Turned aroun’ fair quick, I did! As for findin’ another girl, I havenae even posted a note on the board at the local Jobs Center.”

  He punched the dough viciously with his flour-coated hands, and then rolled it flat and began cutting out rounds using one of the drinking glasses from the dishwasher. “So yeh worked at the Starbucks in Chicago, did ye?”

  I nodded. “Can make a caramel macchiato with the best of ’em,” I said, proudly, thinking it pays to trumpet one’s accomplishments to one’s new boss.

  He rolled his eyes. “Ach, there’ll be none of that shite here, luv. Jes’ serve ’em the coffee out of the perc and change the grounds every coupla hours, and it’ll all be fine.”

  That had been the full extent of my interview. After a bit more than two weeks, it turned out that the job was seventy five percent serving and the rest of the time wiping tables and lugging dish trays. Pretty much zero percent barista, in fact.

  I didn’t mind a bit.

  Fins in the Firth…

  2:00 pm, May 31

  Nairn, Scotland

  Spent an amazing, glorious day chasing a pod of dolphins along the shores of Moray Firth. Dolphins!

  I’ve never even seen one dolphin, except on television. Today, there were thirty or more of ’em, bobbing and dancing and playing in the distance. I counted dorsal fins, and it was hard to keep track but still!!!!

  There were a few other people out walking along the shoreline. The rain has been falling pretty much every day, but today was supposed to be fine, and it was my day off. I headed over the shore on my bike, following Morag’s directions, just planning to read and catch a little sun. But when I got to the beach, I could see a young family hurrying up the shore, the two kids leaping up and down madly.

  So exciting to see. And to think——in Scotland!

  I overheard the mother of the young kids insisting it was good luck to see dolphins, so when I went back home after they had swum away, I asked Morag to confirm.

  “Ach——that’s a pile o’ nonsense,” she sniffed. “They’re here all the time, rain or shine. Some tourist’s story, nothin’ more.”

  Still——I like to think the dolphins might auger something special.

  Why not?

  - ES

  Comments: 3

  HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:

  Dolphins do bring luck. To old sailors, seeing dolphins mean land was near, but I think they carry spirit of joy inside. Do you still have joy even though you have no Jamie, Miss Emma?

  (Read 2 more comments here…)

  Well.

  I hadn’t heard from HiHoKitty in a few weeks, so I was delighted to see her name. I totally agreed with her take on dolphins, too. The last sentence set me back a bit, though.

  Strangely enough, when I really stopped to think about it, I did still have joy, even with no Jamie. I had found a nice rhythm, riding to and from work every day. The owner, Geordie, of the garage across from the cafe gave me a generous deal on the bike, essentially waiving any charges “until I found my footing” as he called it, with the new job.

  The cafe turned out to be great. I enjoyed the people I worked with, and I was learning how to help Morag on her farm. On top of that, I was making money, which I needed so desperately. And with little to worry about apart from the three pieces of crockery I’d broken in a minor dishwashing disaster, the rest of the month seemed to fly by. I couldn’t believe when I put up my post that it was almost June already. June!

  I’d collected my first two paychecks, and managed to set a decent amount aside toward my flight costs home before disaster struck hard.

  But this disaster? Best. Silver. Lining. EVER.

  Katy strode back to her desk, shooting me a glare as I slunk away from the public terminal. I was going to have to find another place to post my blog, as her patience for me tying up the only free computer station at the library was wearing thin. Plus, I was waging a passive-aggressive seat war with an old dude who came in every single day to play solitaire on the computer. Mind you, if Katy caught him at it, she threw him off immediately. Tough broad—she would do well in Chicago.

  Anyway, now that I was working, I guessed I could afford to pay the two pound fee at the only Internet cafe in town. It’s just—I felt kinda bad going in there, since they were our competition. They sold their coffee out of a vending machine. Also, the place was pretty sketchy-looking, and smelled like Lysol.

  I made it into work with a couple of minutes to spare, but ran straight into the back to get my apron because it was so busy. Sometimes the lunch crowd runs really early in Nairn, where everyone seems to get up before dawn for some reason.

  Things went fine until the stroke of twelve noon. I’d managed to wipe down all the empty tables, and Ash hadn’t burned anything for at least an hour. Up front, I had a young couple in one of the booths, and was just about to pour coffee for them when their baby leaned forward and smacked his mother’s cup off the table. The mom pulled her baby back into his seat, the dad retrieved the cup and I managed to swoop my carafe back in time so as to not scald anyone at the table.

  Unfortunately, the guy at the next table was not so lucky.

  As I swung my arm away, the competing forces of gravity and arm momentum took their toll on the lid of the carafe, which flew into the next booth. Centrifugal force kept most of the coffee inside, but the steam that had condensed under the lid poured down the collar of a man sitting with his back to me.

  “Christ Jesus,” he roared, and jumped out of his booth, frantically trying to brush the steaming droplets away from the back of his neck.

  I didn’t know who to handle first, so I quickly turned to check that the young couple were okay, before dealing with the man still swearing behind me.

  “I’m so sorry, “ I began, as he swung around to face me—and I stared at him while his features clicked into place. It was Hamish.

  Hamish of the bar in Edinburgh. Hamish of the spilled beer in lap. Hamish with the well-muscled forearms.

  Hamish, now freshly scalded. By me.

  “You!” he choked. “The American girl from Edinburgh.”

  “Em—Emma,” I said. “I’m so sorry—are you okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  He untucked the dishtowel from my apron and wiped the back of his neck with it.

  “No harm done,” he said, and then hummed in a slightly strangled voice: “It’s all right—to be a redneck …”

  “No—no, it’s not. It’s not all right. It’s all my fault, is what it is. Let me at least get you some ice, okay?”

  He put his hand on my arm. “I’m grand, Emma. I promise yeh. Now, tell me how it is yeh come to be here in mah own town?”

  The lunch rush had gotten in the way, but Hamish had promised to come by after work, and he did. He told me that he worked across the street in Geordie’s garage. And how he never ate at the Nairn Cafe but his favorite Chinese takeaway happened to be closed that day. We walked through Nairn and talked about how much I loved his country. He told me how he’d yelled at his boss for not telling him that he’d rented the bicycle to a lovely American. I made him repeat the words “lovely American” several times, just to be sure. Then we talked about how much he loved my country.

  Afterwards, we went for dinner at the Chinese takeaway, where it turned out the owner had just slept in that morning. And after dinner …

  He took my hand as we walked over to my bike, which was leaning up against the coffee shop. He had long, square fingers that fit just perfectly between my own. The air was quiet and balmy—the first truly warm evening I had experienced in Scotland.

  “I’m so sorry about splashing you today,” I said, to the sound of our feet on the gravel.

  “It doesnae hurt a bit,” Hamish said. “An it means I can welcome yeh to mah town properl
y, aye?”

  Before I could ask what he meant, he leaned down and made himself clear by kissing me. A dizzying, head-spinning, perfectly wonderful kiss.

  And I pedaled off into the moonrise as purely, sweetly, and divinely happy as I had ever been in my life.

  Part Three: The Finding

  Fraser Found…

  4:00 pm, June 8

  Nairn, Scotland

  I’m not sure I believe in love at first sight.

  But I might.

  And Sophia? I may never come home. Bite that, will ya?

  - ES

  Comments: 70

  Gerald Abernathy, Fort William, Scotland:

  DETAILS!!!!

  (Read 69 more comments here…)

  So.

  Now that it had come to pass, I felt strangely reluctant to blog about it. Like telling the story might let the magic out, somehow. Even my longing to rub my sister’s nose in my success was tempered by a sudden need to keep things private.

  The massive number of comments over the week following my reunion with Hamish was a bit daunting, as well. Most of them were variants on Gerald’s theme. What does he look like? How does he act? Will there be a hand-fast? A wedding? How was your first night together?

  Things had changed. The blog had changed. I had no intention of posting his picture. And describe what he looked like? How we were together? It was—it was just not what I wanted to do any longer.

  Besides—what if he ever saw it?

  I began to think about taking the blog down.

  He was away on deliveries for most of a week before I saw him again. But on the Tuesday, there had been flowers waiting for me on the front counter. And on Thursday, a very sour-faced Ashwin had handed me a note. The envelope it came in was torn.