The Death Catchers (19 page)

I wanted to talk to Drake … to tell him all that I'd learned. For the first time, I felt the pang of longing.

I resisted the urge to yell up at his window that he needed to stay as far away from the cannery as possible. I thought about what had happened when I'd tried to warn Jodi. If I told Drake to avoid the cannery on Tuesday, that's exactly where he'd end up. I'd never be able to forgive myself and if what Merlin wrote about Agatha the Enchantress's last prophecy was true, neither would the rest of the world. Vivienne le Mort would do everything she could to ensure Drake died the way he was supposed to. She'd approached Drake across the field that day and looked into his eyes to confirm that he had the Mark of Arthur. I was sure of it.

I'm not quite certain how long I stared up at Drake before the chill in the air grabbed my spine and began climbing down it. Within a moment, my whole body shivered.

In the distance, I heard Mom's anxious voice, wondering where I'd gone as she called out my name.

 

The Personification of a Secret

The true meaning of Merlin's words became apparent when I decided to show Bizzy
The Last Descendant
at the hospital that night. When she opened the book she gave me a puzzled look.

“What in tarnation kinda writin' is this?” she asked.

In Bizzy's hands the text, which had been perfectly clear to me, turned into a jumble of meaningless symbols. Merlin had written, “
If, as you hold this volume in your hands, you are able to read it, then you are the fated Keeper of the Last Descendant.
”

Could this really be? Once I caught my breath, I took back the book and read to Bizzy the words I saw, clear as could be, on those ancient pages. Bizzy and I went over and over the meaning of the last pages, but neither of us was certain what the future held for me. Even though I was able to read the book, was I really the Keeper? Would I be the Keeper forever? I'd just started to adjust to being a Death Catcher, but how would I ever cope with this? I didn't sleep much when I finally went to bed that night.

The next day, breakfast, lunch, and dinner came and went. Even though I could see the concern on Mom's face as I pushed the green beans around on my plate without eating them, I couldn't force any down. I tried, for Mom's sake, but I felt nauseous and it wasn't just from Mom's cooking this time.

That night, Jodi and I figured out a perfect way to keep tabs on Drake and Damon. We found the ideal elm tree. It was Bizzy's idea. She suggested we track the Westfalls by climbing up a tree so we could see inside their rooms. It sounds creepy, I know, Mrs. Tweedy, but we had good reasons—Jodi was doing it to protect her mom's store and I was doing it to protect Drake (and, just maybe the whole world by keeping Doomsday from happening). When I objected to Bizzy's suggestion because I thought someone would be able to see us, Bizzy laughed.

“Pick one at an angle,” she said. “Why, if people were horses, they wouldn't need blinders. We got the self-imposed kind. People are too busy lookin' straight ahead of 'em to ever look to the side. They'll never see ya, trust me.” I let out a mischievous laugh. Had Bizzy climbed a tree to get a look in someone's window before? I could see her in her purple nightgown and slippers hanging from an elm branch. It wasn't all that hard to imagine.

Jodi and I met outside the Westfall house at 10 p.m. I hadn't climbed a tree in about five years, but I soon learned it was like riding a bike—it came back quickly. I hugged the trunk. Squeezing it between my thighs, I scooted up one inch at a time. Finally I could reach the lowest branch with my hands. I grabbed it and swung my legs over. The tree leaves rustled in the dark night. I moved from one branch to another until I was across from Drake's second-story window, a few feet above it. I could hear Jodi's muffled laughter from below as she watched me watch Drake. She moved three trees down and climbed to a spot for viewing Damon's room.

I could see everything clearly. Drake's desk lamp was on, his bed was unmade. He was lying on his back on the floor, mindlessly tossing a water polo ball from one hand to the other. I studied his features. His square chin, his wide chest, his long, lean arms. The ball pounded against the flesh of one of his palms, then the other.
Bong, bong, bong,
in perfect rhythm. Drake's eyes stared up at the ceiling. His lips were in the shape of a small
o
and his eyes brilliant blue—like someone had put two bits of shimmering ocean in his sockets. From that distance, I couldn't make out the brown streak in his left eye, but I knew it was there.

He got up and sat down at his desk, opening a textbook. Yawning, he made his hand into fists. He rubbed his eyes with them, turning his hands in his eye sockets. I couldn't help but smile at the childlike act. Especially coming from Drake, who could now grow facial hair and was all hard, wiry muscle. I wanted to reach out and grab him. As soon as I thought it, I became self-conscious.

I pulled my eyes away from Drake to the empty street below. I hopped down from one branch to the next, jumping the last four feet before tumbling onto a neighbor's front lawn.

“You okay?” Jodi whispered. She'd already gotten down from her post.

“Fine,” I said.

“I don't know why I got stuck with spying on Damon and you got Drake,” Jodi said.

“That's because I'm a POIBA,” I answered. Jodi rolled her eyes.

“Did you see anything?” I asked.

“Damon was sleeping. You?”

“No,” I responded.

“See you at the cannery tomorrow?”

“Yup,” I said. Jodi turned on the light attached to her fixie and hopped on the seat. She pedaled into the darkness.

Scrambling across the street, I reached our backyard in moments.

Sleep that night once again battled with restlessness. Restlessness won. Morning came, but my anxiety was undiminished. Saving Drake's life would have been enough to keep me awake, but my mind kept returning to
The Last Descendant
. Was it true? Was Drake's premature death going to bring on some kind of apocalypse? Was I really the one who had been chosen to stop it?

In the past I'd impatiently waited for a particular day to arrive—Christmas, for instance. But this was different. Unlike Christmas, all that waited for me wrapped under this tree was uncertainty and dread.

The walls of my bedroom seemed to be closing in on me. On Sunday afternoon, after Jodi and I had checked out the cannery, which was still deserted, I decided I needed to get out of the house. I followed the sandy path that was a switchback down the cliffs to the beach. It was another in a long line of gray, foggy, cold Crabapple days. I walked a ways down the shore and then sat on the beach. I lay flat on my back. The thicket of clouds above didn't seem to be moving at all and the sand was cold on my back and neck. Even the cypress trees had a slanted sogginess to them.

My mind wandered. I thought of the dozens of my Hands of Fate ancestors. I marveled at the fact that they'd managed to pass down certain stories and legends all these years, through oral tradition alone, over fear of being discovered. Maybe it was better that way. Of course, it would have been nice if there was some structure to it—like maybe a website or a convention. Or a support group.

I wondered who they'd saved. I also wondered what kind of trouble they'd seen as Death Catchers. So far, I'd had my hand involuntarily tattooed twice, saved my best friend, been kissed and then ignored, and been threatened by thugs. Maybe the whole thing wasn't changing
me
, but it sure was changing my life.

Bizzy seemed to bask in the weirdness of it all. Perhaps it was the strange power that came with knowing people's fate before they did. But Bizzy and I were different. Bizzy was stronger. And louder. If life gave her lemons, I had no doubt she'd throw them at whoever stood in her way. But that wasn't really me, was it? I was more likely to tire myself out searching for someone who liked the tart taste of lemons.

I wasn't cut out to be a Keeper of anything. What if I failed?

“Lizzy?”

I opened my eyes and felt the sting of my own tears. So lost in my own thoughts, I hadn't even noticed I was crying. I wiped the tears away quickly. Mom's face hovered a few feet above mine. Her reading glasses dangled from her neck. She was wearing a bulky knit sweater, sweatpants, and furry clogs—very much the crunchy librarian.

Without a word, she dropped to the sand and lay down right next to me. From Lookout Point, it must have appeared as if we were taking naps right next to each other. Or sunbathing. Except there was no sun and we were fully clothed. I could feel the mist from the crashing waves gather on my eyelashes, making them heavier.

The tide was coming in.

As on most cold and dreary December days, the beach was deserted.

“What are you doing out here?” Mom asked. The left side of her body was about an inch away from my right.

“Thinking.”

“About?”

“I don't know.” Of course, I did know. I could see Mom's chest rise up and then flatten out as she exhaled a large swallow of air. We lay there for minutes without speaking, like two people who'd finally run out of things to say to one another, on side-by-side rafts, adrift in a sea of sand.

“Did you know that your father wakes up early on Sundays and goes into the backyard to smoke?” Mom blurted it out like she wanted to get the thought out before she lost the courage to say it at all.

I pushed my head back a little so that I could see Mom's face without moving my eyes. I knew I was raising my eyebrows at her, but I couldn't help it.

“Really?”

“Yes. He keeps a pack of cigarettes in his underwear drawer.” Mom put her hand under her cheek, lifting her head up ever so slightly.

“You're okay with that?” I asked. In truth, Mom hated smoking. As with a lot of other things, she's pretty judgmental about it, actually. She rolls her eyes and hacks when someone lights up in front of her. I usually try to distance myself when she starts into her don't-smoke routine.

“Oh yes. He doesn't think I know, and he'd just about die if he knew I was telling you.”

“I'm surprised you didn't kick him out of the house or something when you found out.”

Mom's tone turned serious. “Your father is so good in so many ways, Lizzy. His sense of duty is sharper than just about anyone I know. He works so hard. Sometimes I think he'll drown in responsibility. I've thought about it and, honestly, I think it's a release for him. I may not love the habit, but I just don't have the heart to take it away from him.” Mom let out a small sigh. I must have looked puzzled because Mom readjusted and pointed her face straight at the sky again.

“He smokes—as a release?” I questioned, looking at Mom's profile. With her glasses off, she looked younger and prettier. It wasn't hard to imagine how Dad could've fallen in love with her.

“That's my guess.”

“Why don't you tell him to stop? Or at least tell him that you know about it and that it's okay and that he doesn't have to hide it anymore.”

“I guess that's my point, Lizzy. It's
his
secret. And secrets are a part of life,” Mom said. Her words startled me. I turned my head toward her and could feel the damp sand on my cheek. Mom turned toward me, too, so that our faces were inches apart. I had no idea what she was getting at, but I was growing uncomfortable with the direction. “Everybody has at least one,” she continued.

“But it doesn't bother you that Dad's never told you? That he thinks he has to keep it from you? What if he isn't telling you about a bunch of other things?” I began to wonder if Mom and Dad's relationship was as rock solid as I thought it was.

“I think sometimes people need their secrets to be exactly that—secret. Communication is important, of course, but we all need a private life … We all need something that's just ours and ours alone.” Mom lifted up her head and put both hands behind it, like she was relaxing on her imaginary raft. Maybe I hadn't given her enough credit.

Was it possible that Mom knew I was a Death Catcher? That Bizzy was?

“I have my share. Have I ever told you that when I was little, I never learned how to read?”

“No.” I was shocked. I always figured Mom came out of the womb with a book in her hand.

“I never learned and then I got left behind. As each semester passed, I lived in constant fear every day that my teacher would find me out. It was torture. Finally, I broke down one day and told my mother everything. I thought she'd spank me or yell at me, or worse. Of course she didn't. She only marveled that I had been able to fool everyone for so long. The next morning, my mother woke me up an hour before everyone else in the house, and brought me down to the kitchen table. She began my first lesson—teaching me how to read, until my father woke up. Then she would stop, hide the books we were working with, and pretend that we'd both awakened moments ago. I caught up before long. No one ever knew.” Mom wasn't a natural storyteller, but under the dark gray clouds, there on the sand, her words came out smoothly. Her voice had a different quality to it than it normally had—like she was thinking out loud.

“Is that why you love to read? Because you couldn't for so long?” I asked.

“I'm sure that's part of it. It's funny. Years later, I asked my mother if she was upset I never told her I couldn't read for so long. I'll never forget what she said. ‘All secrets have wings,' she told me. ‘Your secret just wasn't ready to fly until that afternoon in the kitchen and there's no way I can blame you for that.' My mother was right, but I think I just didn't realize early enough that mine was ready to fly … all those anxious nights I spent crying in my bed. All those days I spent cowering in the classroom. Everyone needs a private life. I truly believe that. But I also believe that saying something out loud to someone who loves you can make all the difference. Sometimes, the hardest thing to do is to recognize when you need help and then ask for it.”

A single seagull flapped its wings in the sky above us. I stared at it and I could feel hot tears on my cheeks. I wasn't sure what Mom knew and what she didn't. But she'd been watching me. I mean
really watching
me. She'd noticed. Maybe she'd noticed everything. It was frustrating because as much as I wanted to tell her all of it, starting with that first day when I saw Jodi's death-specter in the paper, she couldn't possibly understand.

Sure,
most
secrets have wings. But this one I was keeping from her had been born deformed, I was sure of it. Either that or it was so big and heavy that its wings could never lift it—like an ostrich or an emu.

Mom sat up so that she was sitting with her hands around her knees. The back of her sweater was covered with sand. She stared out at the ocean waves making their way to the shore.