The Death Catchers (24 page)

“Where is Vivienne le Mort?” I asked. Now that things had settled down, I kept thinking she'd appear behind me at any moment.

“She has been taken care of,” Morgan announced.

“But what about her army and the threads and all that?” I asked.

“Do not torment yourselves with thoughts of her reappearance,” Fial said in a reassuring tone.

“It should also be mentioned that if Drake is to carry out his fate,” Morgan added, changing the subject, “it is important you do not reveal his destiny to him.”

“I'm not planning on it, don't worry,” I said. Drake had stared at me the entire ride home from the cannery as if I'd just landed from outer space. There was no chance I was going to tell him anything else that would only confirm his suspicions. Drake's status as the Last Descendant was one secret I wasn't sure would
ever
be flight ready.

“There is one last question I must ask you,” Morgan said, beginning to pace with her arms folded behind her back. She stopped in front of me with her gleaming green eyes. “My reason for sending the specters—to both save people from untimely deaths and to allow my descendants the practice and experience to be ready when it came time to save the boy with the Mark of Arthur—has vanished. My sisters and I have decided, however, that as a reward for your courage, you should be permitted to decide whether or not you want to continue to have them.”

Speechless, I hesitated.

How could anyone possibly make that choice?

“If you do choose to remain a Hand of Fate, you will only see the specters of preventable deaths of those you care about, as you did before.”

“Does she have to decide now?” Bizzy asked, her voice filled with concern. “Can't she have some time to cogitate on it?”

“I'm afraid we must return to Avalon shortly with an answer,” Fial said.

I thought of the extraordinary burden that came with knowing the details of another person's impending death. Someday, I would grow tired of having death-specters. But the fact that I would
have
a someday—hopefully many somedays—was a pretty spectacular thing. My next death-specter could be Mom or Dad or someone else I cared about. How could I turn down the chance to give them more somedays?

In the back of my mind, thoughts of Drake emerged. Morgan and Fial hadn't mentioned my role as his Keeper. For some reason, I couldn't shake the idea that my job was not done. If he was as important as everyone seemed to think he was, chances are he'd be in danger again. Was it delusional to think he still needed me, even when he was probably never going to talk to me again?

“I want to keep having death-specters,” I declared. I doubted my decision as soon as I said it out loud.

“Are you sure, Sweet Pea?” Bizzy said, growing emotional. She grabbed one of my hands in between hers. “You don't have to do this!”

“I know I don't, Bizzy. But it's what a hedgehog would do, right?” I asked, staring earnestly into her eyes. “And you'll be here to help me.”

“You betcha I will,” she exclaimed, lifting my hand up in the air with hers.

“I told you, Morgie,” Fial said, elbowing her sister. “We gave her the choice this time. She really is the Keeper we've been waiting for.”

“Waiting for?” I asked, nervous energy pumping through me in light of my enormous decision.

“Never mind,” Morgan said. For the first time, she smiled at me. “Our paths may cross again, but for now, we wish you well, Beatrice and Elizabeth. May fate be with you, and if it is not, may you—”

“Make it so … yes, yes, we get it, Morgie.” Fial said, laughing as she interrupted her sister. She stood up as a yellow cloud began to creep into the room. “Morgie's all for the formal good-bye, but sometimes I cannot help but think a hug is in order.”

With that, Fial put her arms around me once again and squeezed tightly. It was all I could do to keep from crying out as pain shot through my broken ribs. She moved on to Bizzy.

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” she said earnestly to my grandmother. “You watch over our girl!”

“Count on it,” Bizzy said with a wink. Soon the haze was so thick, I couldn't see Bizzy a few feet away from me.

“Good-bye, Death Catchers!” Fial said, as she disappeared within the cloud she produced.

After a few seconds, with a whooshing sound, the fog rushed out the window, leaving behind nothing but the now-familiar smell of apple-cinnamon oatmeal.

Bizzy and I were alone again.

“Do you think we'll ever see Morgan le Faye and Fial again?” I asked, breaking the silence.

“Dunno, Sweet Pea. The one thing I've learned in all this is that the word ‘never' is the most useless one in the English language.”

Bizzy, I knew, was prone to exaggeration, but in that instance she was probably right. It had been a little over two months since I'd learned I was a Death Catcher. The sheer number of things I
never
thought would happen that, in the past months, had happened was astonishing.

“What are you thinkin' about?”

“Nothing really,” I answered Bizzy.

“Cogitatin' on your gift?” I could no longer roll my eyes every time Bizzy called death catching a “gift.” It was now a choice I'd made. I hope I didn't live to regret it.

Emily Dickinson had it pegged all along.
Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough
, she wrote in one of her poems. Maybe Emily meant that if fate is a delicate balance of occurrences and circumstances, where any slight change drastically alters a person's course, then the real “gift” was life itself—a life full of choices, beauty, love, and most of all, people to share it with. Death is so scary to all of us, I realized, because it seems like an unknowable end to all that. Perhaps doling out life extensions was a gift after all.

That night, we stayed in Bizzy's room for several hours, gossiping about the people in her life she'd saved. She recounted some of the stories she'd collected over the years. I grew excited about what the future held. It was two o'clock by the time I stumbled upstairs and into bed.

I don't think I'll ever be that exhausted again in my life.

When I woke up the next morning, my ribs were killing me, so Mom let me stay home again. Jodi visited me after school and told me that if I wasn't a POI before, after the article in the paper, I was now. Although she protested at the time, she was grateful that Bizzy had insisted she go home for her own safety when she returned to the cannery from her watch at the storm drain. Fortunately, she'd been able to sneak back into her bedroom without Miss Mora ever realizing she'd been gone the night of the quake.

On the third day of my recuperation, Mom insisted I go to school.

Because of my ribs, Mom said she would drop me off. As we made our way out to the driveway, I heard a familiar voice calling my name.

Drake was running down the street toward our house.

 

The Paradox

If I had to define my relationship with Drake Westfall, I'd say it was a paradox. Maybe the word doesn't precisely apply to two people, but our relationship certainly seems contradictory. I've had a little time to get used to it and I still think it defies logic.

When Drake crossed the street that morning before school, I had no idea what he was up to.

“Good morning, Mrs. Mortimer,” Drake said. His golden hair flashed though there was no sunlight to be found in the gray Crabapple morning. I wished our relationship could go back to what it had been before he found my journal.

“Hello, Drake,” Mom answered.

“I wondered if I could give Lizzy a ride to school,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets. “I'm headed that way.” Drake smiled brightly at me.

“Well,” Mom considered, “that would be a huge help. I've got a book inventory to do this morning because of the end of the semester.”

“Great,” Drake said. “By the way, I wanted to let you know how much I liked
Fever Pitch
. It's really funny.”

“I'm so glad to hear that,” Mom said, positively beaming. “I'd bet you'd like Nick Hornby's other books, too.”

“I'll have to check them out,” he replied. I rolled my eyes at Drake. He only smiled in return. “Stay put,” he told me, “and I'll run and get the car. I don't want you putting any more strain on those ribs than you have to.”

Mom, still grinning, put her hand on my shoulder. “Have a good day at school,” she said, raising her eyebrows knowingly. I tried to analyze the look on Mom's face. What had gotten into everyone? Drake was talking to me again, Mom was smiling at me, completely ignoring the California Vehicle Code, and letting me ride with Drake to school … I honestly felt I had entered the happy Twilight Zone.

Drake helped me into his car. I imagined he let his arm linger around my waist a few seconds longer than he had to. We drove silently up Earle toward school. I stared at his tan, muscular arms. He was wearing a plain green pocket T-shirt and dark jeans, but he still looked like a model. Wanting to end the silence, I began with the first thing that popped into my head.

“You know, now that you told my mom you liked
Fever Pitch
, she's going to bring you a stack of every single book the author has written.”

“I've been looking for something new to read,” Drake said, beginning to laugh.

“Fine, but don't go complaining to me when you want the book avalanche to stop.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” Drake said. After he responded, the conversation stalled. I tried to think of something to keep it alive.

“Is your suspension over?” I asked.

“Yup. First day back,” Drake answered.

“Oh,” I said. “I'm sorry about Damon, by the way.” Damon and Randy had been moved to the county jail, where they had been officially charged with attempted burglary.

“Don't be,” he said. “I would have called the police myself if he hadn't knocked me out.”

“Drake,” I said, “I need to explain to you about the journal. You have to know that I wasn't trying to—”

Drake took one hand off the steering wheel and gently covered my mouth with it briefly. He laughed and turned off Ocean Avenue and onto a side street next to the steep cliffs guarding Crabapple against the crashing waters of the Pacific. The cypress trees along the bluffs jutted at strange angles along the edge of the road. He put the car in park.

We both stared off into the horizon. With the thick cloud cover, Crabapple and the ocean beyond almost looked like a black-and-white photograph. It was beautiful.

“One of the things I like the most about you, Lizzy, is that you'll talk about anything—you say what you think. But right now, I just want you to listen for a minute, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

“I'm sorry that I didn't react better when I found the journal,” Drake said, his eyes perfectly matching the blue of the ocean below us. “Honestly, it scared me. I'm glad Jodi told me the truth in her letter. But even if it
had
been your journal … I'm not sure I'd be able to stay away from you. There is something about you that I can't explain. When Garrett Edmonds said those things about you … the thought of you with him … it made me fly into a rage like never before. And that was
before
you saved my life. I guess what I'm saying, Lizzy … is that I
like
that you care about me enough to pay attention. You notice the things I want noticed. You get me in a way other people don't. I'm tired of trying to stop thinking about you. I recently realized that I don't even want to try to stop anymore.”

Drake reached into his backpack. “This is for you.” He handed me a rolled-up canvas. I unrolled it. It was about twice the size of a piece of notebook paper.

I let out a gasp when I looked at it. It was a brightly painted portrait of Bizzy, her tousled white hair piled carelessly on her head. Dozens of pearls surrounded her neck. Drake had splashed her face with colors. She looked like she was in the middle of a giant laugh.

A smile spread across my face.

I'm not quite sure how he did it, but Drake had captured the very essence of Beatrice Mildred Mortimer—her stubborn joy, her dizzy quick-wittedness, her harsh affection, her passion for life.

It was beautiful. Stunning even. I looked at Drake, not knowing what to say.

“She'll love it.”

“It's not for her … it's for you,” Drake said, his blue eyes with their brown slash glistening. “Something to always remind you of her.”

“Oh,” I said softly, staring down at it.

Drake put his arm on my headrest. He leaned in closer. I grew nervous, staring out at the endless Pacific in front of us—the jagged cliffs reminding me of how close I had come to losing Bizzy.

“I've had some time since I was suspended, and I didn't know how else to thank you for that morning in the cannery.”

I looked up at Drake. He moved closer. He shut his eyes.

His lips met mine with a gentle forcefulness. I felt like I might melt into a pool of happiness.

I let myself lean in to him.

“Ack!” I yelled, straightening up, pulling away from Drake. Pain shot through my torso.

“What's wrong?” Drake said, his eyes wide open. “I'm sorry … I guess I got carried aw—”

“No, no. It wasn't that. It's my broken ribs … the bending hurt more than I expected,” I explained, mortified that I'd cried out in pain in the middle of the most pivotal romantic moment of my life so far.

Drake's concern turned into a smile, which turned into laughter within seconds. “One day soon, I promise, we'll get it right … without being interrupted by extreme pain or someone planning a robbery.”

His eyes looked into mine. I wondered if my face looked as hot as it felt. At that moment, the paradox of me, Lizzy Mortimer, sitting in the car with Drake Westfall, the supposed Last Descendant, admired by all, struck me as ridiculous.

Soon, Drake and I were back on the road to school. When we neared the parking lot, he took his right hand off the wheel and reached for me. I got goose bumps as his warm hand squeezed mine—the very hand that had had his name emblazoned on it a few days ago.

“Hello, stranger!” Jodi said, already sitting on our planter. “Am I glad to see you. I had to eat lunch with Opal Greenstone's crew the last two days. Talk about boring.”

“I missed you, too,” I said. “You wrote Drake a letter?”

Jodi cocked her head to the side. “Um, yeah. And I also already know it worked. It's all over school. Lizzy Mortimer and Drake Westfall are official.”

“How do you know that?”

“I mean, if you wanted it to be a secret, maybe you shouldn't have been HHIP-ing within a mile of the school.”

“What?”

“Holding hands in public.”

“What was in the letter?” I asked, hardly able to contain my curiosity.

“You mean Bizzy didn't tell you?”

“What's Bizzy got to do with this?” I asked, growing more confused. I took a moment to scan the picnic tables for Drake. Our eyes met and he waved at me as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It was surreal.

“
Bizzy
is the one who asked me to write the letter. She came into the market the afternoon of the earthquake. I told her I'd find a way to pay her back for saving my life that day, and I meant it. Plus, I thought it was a pretty good plan. Your grandma is kind of a genius. I assumed you knew all about it.”

“The first I heard of it was when Drake mentioned it on the way to school this morning. I had to pretend I knew what he was talking about. What in the world did you say in it?”

“Well, I wrote that the journal was mine, basically. That I got it into my head that you two were perfect for each other, like star-crossed lovers and stuff, so I started feeding you information about Drake, which I was collecting without you knowing it. Bizzy said there was some book, I don't know, where there's a girl obsessed with setting her friend up, and that she thought it would work for our situation. Anyway, I explained that I'd put the journal in your backpack to hide it at lunch. Before I could get it back, it fell out in his pool house that night.”

“I don't know what to say,” I said, amazed that Jodi had been willing to take the rap for the DWOR. “Thank you.”

Jodi smiled and put her checkered Vans on the planter, leaning back. “Don't mention it. It was really all part of my plan. But remember, now that you and Drake are in
loooove
, you can't go forgetting about your best friend, Jodi.”

“Like you'd ever let me,” I said. “And we're not in
loooove
, by the way.”

Soon, the bell rang and Jodi and I headed to our respective classes.

Mrs. Tweedy, I honestly didn't even remember that your final project was due until the second I walked into your classroom that day.

When I saw everyone's projects sitting on their desks, I almost fainted. Remember, you asked me where mine was? I know you were shocked when I said that I hadn't finished. I didn't even have time to come up with some lame excuse.

Please don't think that I wrote this down to have you feel sorry for me or to make excuses, but I wanted to explain why I didn't turn in my project. I better stop writing now and go down to dinner. Lately, Mom's been watching me like a hawk. Spending all this time in my room writing probably hasn't helped my cause.

In conclusion, for the aforementioned reasons, I believe I should pass English even though I did not turn in my final project.

Very sincerely yours,

Lizzy Mortimer

P.S. Maybe that last sentence is a bit over the top. It's certainly not Emily Dickinson quality, but I read a Supreme Court opinion once that ended that way. I found it very persuasive. Even if I don't pass your class, I hope you have a happy New Year.