Finding Fraser (7 page)

I racked my brain. “I—I don’t remember
a character called Nigel,” I said. “Is he in THE SCOTTISH PRISONER? I’ve only
read that one through once, and it was on a borrowed Kindle with half the
screen that wouldn’t light.”

She shook her head at me and tut-tutted
gently. “Nigel. From our group at the library. You must have seen him—black
jacket and long hair?”

“Oh! The guy with the—ah—dental
issues?”

The nameless lady leaned forward. “I think
he has lovely teeth,” she said, seriously.

Genesie rattled her needles at me. She’d
knit two rows since we’d sat down.

“Nigel is a sweet young man. Writes very
interesting stories, too—usually in the Harry Potter genre, but occasionally
in the OUTLANDER universe. And we try never to judge based on appearance in
this group.”

“Perhaps he’ll join us later,” Marlene added
placidly.

Right about then, Genesie ordered two
tequila shooters, and the evening took on a dream-like quality from that moment
onward.

“So,” she said, clutching me by the arm
after downing the first in a single gulp. “You’re a fan of the OUTLANDER books,
are you?”

As I nodded, the table fell silent. It was
like the group was collectively holding its breath.

“Betcha like that Jamie Fraser, then, do
ya?” she said, pounding the second tequila and waving her glass at the server
in a smooth, practiced move.

I nodded again.

Genesie slammed her hand on the tabletop.
“What—and I’m looking for details here, mind you—just WHAT do you
think some fictional character like Jamie Fraser has over a REAL man like
Braveheart?”

“I—he —I guess what I really like
is the relationship he has with Claire,” I stumbled. “I love Jamie because he
is such a manly man. He’s a man of honor, but the love he holds for Claire is
what really touches me.”

Marlene sipped her Irish coffee, oblivious
to Genesie’s change of state. “I do enjoy the OUTLANDER books,” she said, “but
only in the way one enjoys the pioneers within any milieu. Certainly the series
opened a door to the Scottish Time Travel genre, but it remains for those of us
who REALLY care about the field to polish and improve upon the genre.”

“Scottish Time Travel … genre …” I said,
slowly. I’d never heard the expression before, and the idea that anyone could
improve upon Jamie made me want to laugh.

So I did.

Genesie’s face turned an interesting shade
of plum, beginning with her nose and slowly spreading outward. The server
scooped up her empty shot glasses and replaced them with full ones. The yellow
liquid danced in the light as Genesie threw the first one down her throat.

“You think something’s funny?” she said to me,
after she’d swallowed.

I shrugged back into the sleeves of my coat.
It didn’t seem like I’d be doing too much research here after all. “Well,
yeah,” I said, taking a reckless slug of my wine. If she could shoot her
alcohol, so could I.

The problem wasn’t so much the wine, as the
candor that came along with it.

“I think the OUTLANDER books show Jamie as a
man who all men could aspire to emulate. And I know a cop in Pittsburgh who
agrees with me, too.”

Genesie’s voice dropped dangerously low. “He
is no man,” she snarled. “He is merely a
character
!
The truth, no matter how you cut it, is that Jamie Fraser may have made a good
lad in a story, but he never existed.”

“I don’t know,” I said, the wine making me
bold. “I’d like to believe there is a Jamie Fraser out there somewhere. In
fact, I’m going to try to find him.”

Genesie looked at me as if I was insane. “You’re
going to find someone who’s never existed? That’s ridiculous.”

“Look—Jamie’s more than a character to
me. He’s—he’s like a sort of blueprint for what I’d like to find in a
man. He’s smart and heroic …” I struggled to put into words all that I was
feeling, but she waved me down.

“Heroic? Emma, if you want a hero, you need
only look to William Wallace. He was a
real
man. A true Scot. Just one look at those wild eyes, the blue woad on his face,
avenging his family and his country—now THERE was a man of honor.”

Marlene tilted her head. “You’ve got a
point,” she said. “That Mel what’s-his-member
did
cut a fine figure in a kilt.”

“Oh, you’re talking about the movie?” I
swallowed the last of my wine in a single gulp. “I don’t think you can rely on
that movie as a reliable historical source. I heard they got a lot of the
details wrong. By contrast, I happen to know the Jamie and Claire books are
scrupulously researched.”

Genesie stood up so suddenly that her chair
flew backwards onto the floor behind her. Her voice, after four shots of
tequila, had taken on a certain movie-variety Gaelic twang. “Are ye questioning
the director’s histor-r-r-r-ical accuracy?” she roared.

Now, in just about any other circumstances,
I would have indeed questioned that particular director’s veracity on any
number of fronts. But I am no fool. And at that moment, I was pretty sure I
could see steam emerging from the ears of the enraged woman in front of me.
Also? She was in possession of knitting needles.

She began pushing up her sleeves.

“I—uh—I’m sure Braveheart was tremendously,
uh—Brave,” I stammered, scrambling quickly to my feet. “From—from
his heart.”

“Couldn’t find a cab,” came a hissing voice
from behind my left ear. “Who’s up for Jello shots?”

I grabbed my backpack and fled.

Fans & Fiction…

2:30 pm, February 24

New York City, USA

So, it turns out Sophia and Paul are
right.

I am a novice. A lightweight. An abject beginner.
A loser who gets her details wrong. And I am chasing a man to whom I have no
right.

But not because he belongs to Claire.

The woman who set me straight is named
Genesie. She’s a knitter who writes. I’m fairly certain she’ll never read this
post, but, if she does… Well, here’s to you, Genesie.

She’s a complete expert on all things Scottish,
with a particular major in Braveheart.

But right now I’m typing this on the
subway on the way to the airport, and I don’t like the way a guy down at the
end of the car is eyeing my laptop. I’m going to be massively early for my
flight, so maybe I’ll find someplace to write the whole story out properly when
I get there.

- ES

Comments: 2

HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:

You crazy. Dream not crazy. I, too, wish
marry Jamie. I envy you, Miss Emma.

SophiaSheridan, Chicago, USA:

Know what? Your single, obsessed fan is
correct. You ARE crazy. What kind of weird person takes off on a trip halfway
around the world in search of a FICTIONAL BOYFRIEND? Give your head a shake, Emma.
You’re pretty critical of Paul, but at least he’s a REAL man. And you know what
else? Paul, who is a much bigger person than you, says you need to educate
yourself about Internet memes. This HiHoKitty person is playing you for a fool,
as if you aren’t enough of one already.

WHY WON’T YOU CALL ME????

Holy
crow.
I am all set to go, with a boarding pass in
my pocket and everything. I’m actually doing this. I can’t believe it.

I feel strangely calm. Of course, right
after I got here and checked in, I threw up for about half an hour in the
restroom. My cover story involved copious amounts of drinking while partying it
up in Manhattan the night before, but strangely enough, no one asked.

It wouldn’t have been a total lie, anyway. I’ve
decided never to enter a hotel bar again.

Fear of Flying…

9:00 pm, February 24

John Fitzgerald Kennedy Airport, New
York, USA

Things I have learned since this journey
began.

I am not crazy. Or, at least less crazy
than some.

There are many, many people out there who
know an encyclopedic amount about the world of Jamie and Claire. Most of them
are warm and wonderful, but it is quite clear I will never know all they know.

It is not ever a good idea to get into an
argument with said well-researched people. I always lose.

Perhaps the next time I try something
like this, I should keep it to myself. The public humiliation element is
perhaps More Than I Bargained For. (Resulting also in my growing need to
Excessively Capitalize Items of Importance.)

I really hope this information is
helpful, because these are probably the final words I’ll ever write.

My plane is due to board in five minutes.

And…and…I have a confession to make.

The truth is that I haven’t actually
taken an international flight since I was in high school, when my Spanish class
flew to Barcelona for a week. My financial situation has kept my travel pretty
local since then. Not to mention the whole freaked out about leaving home
thing.

Yeah——you know that little
issue I had on the bus to Philadelphia? I’m fairly certain the feeling of being
strapped to a seat at 40,000 feet has not improved since high school.

My earlier sense of calm has vanished.
I’m pretty much in a state of dry-mouthed fear. There is no way I am going to
make it to Glasgow alive. I’ve written a goodbye note to my parents on the back
of my boarding pass, but it’s really small and I ran out of space before I got
to my sister.

And besides, looking back over these blog
posts, I’m worried I’ve left the impression that I don’t like my sister.

Therefore, now, as I face my death at age
twenty-nine and ten days, it is the time to get real. The truth is, I do NOT
dislike my sister. We don’t hang out much and we don’t agree on anything,
really, but I love her, and in the event of my demise it’s important to me that
she knows that. She’s my sister. I have to love her, right?

So, Sophia——I do love you.
Even when you invariably notice the rip in whatever I am wearing. Even when you
point out the bags under my eyes from staying up all night playing Xbox. Even
when you criticize my current quest.

Okay. I’ve done it. I’ve said all I need
to say. Now I can go to my end in peace. I wish I’d talked more to that writer
Jack about Scotland when I had the chance in the cab. And it kind of kills me
not to ever know what it’s going to be like to be thirty. I’ve heard the
thirties as a decade really kick ass.

Goodbye. I love you all. Remember me.
Thank you for reading.

- ES

Comments: 2

HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:

It so brave to fly to find Jamie in spite
your fear. I read your earlier posts to my book club. We all behind you, Miss
Emma.

ParisiansLovePipers, Paris, France:

We love Jamie,
et nous vous aimont trop, Emma.
Bon
voyage!