The Death Catchers

by Jennifer Anne Kogler

  But that’s the thing about fate. It comes at you whether you’re ready for it or not. In fact, my next death-specter was only hours away.

  Transitions

  Transitions assist in the formation of the connections between sentences, paragraphs, and themes of your written work. Without them, readers may have a hard time following your argument.

  If you’re wondering who wrote that, Mrs. Tweedy … you did. It was part of a handout on transition sentences. I remember thinking at the time that it would be pretty handy to have the equivalent of transition sentences in life. Yes, sometimes life moves nicely from one thing to the next: a graduation lets you know you’re growing up and school’s getting harder; the changing color of the trees from green to red-orange signals that it’s about to get colder. A lot of the time, though, there’s nothing that glues one thing in your life to the next. You can go from being a normal freshman to a freak of nature in one second, without any signal or reason at all.

  Life isn’t smooth and flowing, like a well-written essay. It’s choppy.

  Trust me, I should know. My life started getting choppy the day I saw Vivienne le Mort in the cemetery. As I watched the ambulance whisk Bizzy away from Miss Mora’s Market, I was grateful I don’t get seasick, because I knew things were about to get a whole lot choppier.

  The paramedics wouldn’t let me ride with Bizzy to the hospital, but Miss Mora quickly agreed to take Jodi and me straight there. They loaded Bizzy in the back of the ambulance, strapped to a stretcher. She gave me a thumbs-up because she couldn’t talk through the oxygen mask. On the way to the hospital, the avalanche of questions in my brain wouldn’t stop.

  I wondered if the black car was the one that was supposed to have killed Jodi. Why was Bizzy expecting me to see a death-specter in the paper? What in the heck did I need to do if I didn’t want to see any more of them? What about that spooky-repulsive-screaming girl? Where did she go once I flashed the mirror at her? Was I imagining all of it again? I thought about Vivienne and the cemetery, wondering what she meant when she’d said that one of our threads would be cut. Did she mean Jodi?

  Because the cell phone reception in Crabapple was sketchy at best (most people blamed the incessant fog), Miss Mora called my parents from the market before we left for the hospital. All she told them was that Bizzy had fallen off Dixie and that she was driving me to the hospital. I was thankful they didn’t ask to speak to me. Though I was paying attention when Bizzy outlined our “cover,” I wasn’t quite performance ready.

  The hospital smelled like the inside of our washing machine—clean and musty at the same time. I sat on a hard vinyl chair next to Jodi in the waiting room while Miss Mora tried to find where they’d taken my grandma. The other waiting room visitors seemed both worried and sad. Jodi was unusually silent. I began to wonder if Bizzy really was going to be okay.

  There is a particular word doctors use when describing serious medical stuff. “Sustain.” Like, she sustained a near-fatal injury to the head, but after surgery is now in stable condition. Maybe they use it because it makes an injury sound both serious and fixable all at once.

  I wondered how many serious bodily injuries Bizzy had sustained.

  “Honey?”

  Miss Mora was in front of me. I wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing there. I blinked a lot of times in a row. Jodi looked up anxiously at her mother.

  “Where is she?” I said. Miss Mora looked at me with more sympathy than I deserved. After all, it was my fault Bizzy was here in the first place. If I had just stayed put like she’d told me to.

  Wudda, cudda, shudda.

  “They are prepping your grandmother for surgery. There’s some internal bleeding.”

  “Internal bleeding?” I repeated. I wasn’t positive what that meant, but I was sure that bleeding on the inside was way worse than bleeding on the outside.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Jodi asked. With one glance at her guilt-ridden face, I could tell Jodi felt she was to blame, too.

  Miss Mora sat down and took my hand and then Jodi’s. She must’ve sensed how awful we both felt.

  “Girls … she’s going to be okay. This was an accident. It’s nobody’s fault. Bizzy is a tough lady and you’ll get to see her when she’s out of surgery. I promise.”

  There was uncertainty in Miss Mora’s voice. She rose from her chair and declared she was going to get us bagels from the hospital cafeteria. Jodi leaned over the armrest of my chair and put her arm around me. We sat silently for minutes.

  “Lizzy?”

  It took me a few seconds to register the face of the tall figure before us. Though I’d seen him at school and, from a distance, outside his house, I could hardly believe Drake Westfall was there, in the hospital.

  Drake’s icy turquoise eyes were his most striking feature. If you looked closely enough, you could see the dark brown stripe dividing the blue-green of his left eye into two distinct halves. Drake was wearing slacks and a white-collared shirt, which didn’t seem to match his bronzed skin and hair or his athletic build. A VOLUNTEER badge dangled from his pocket.

  “Lizzy?” he repeated. I couldn’t believe he remembered my name.

  Maybe you’re not aware of what a big deal it was when Drake Westfall returned to Crabapple, Mrs. Tweedy. You know the bad movie cliché where the nice, quiet kid becomes a superstar out of nowhere and suddenly people are asking, “Where has he been all this time?” Well, that’s the Drake Westfall Story in a nutshell.

  See, he disappeared from Crabapple (apparently, his father sent him to an East Coast boarding school to toughen up). In sixth grade he went away scrawny and four years later he came back strapping. When he returned, Drake promptly made the Knights varsity water polo team, was named team captain, and, though he’s only a sophomore, started hanging out with the seniors. I’m pretty sure half the girls in Crabapple are in love with him.

  Anyway, he was the last person I was expecting to see at the hospital.

  I continued to stare at him. He raised his eyebrows expectantly. I couldn’t will myself to speak. Finally, Jodi saved me.

  “Hey there,” she said to Drake. “What’s up?”

  “Mrs. Mortimer gave me a note. She’s headed to the OR but wanted to make sure Lizzy got this beforehand.” Drake held a crumpled piece of paper.

  Jodi grabbed me and extended my arm out toward him. Drake reached out and pressed the crumpled paper into my hand.

  “Sorry about your grandmother. I hope she makes a quick recovery,” he said, leaning in. His eyes sought mine like there was something he wanted to communicate.

  “Yes,” I said, surprised by how soft my own voice sounded. “I appreciate that. Thank you so much.”

  Drake turned around and began walking down the linoleum hallway.

  I held the paper in my hand. Jodi turned to me, shaking her head and laughing quietly.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You’re better than that, Lizster.”

  “Better than what?”

  “First you turn all dopey when Drake appears and then I have to sit here as your cheeks turn all red and hear, ‘I sooo appreciate that, thank you sooooo much,’ ” she said, mocking the bashful tone I’d used with Drake, “all while you flutter your eyes at him. Barf.”

  “Oh, stop it,” I said, growing more embarrassed. “That’s not true.”

  “There’s no denying that he’s nice to look at. It’s just so … so unoriginal. Though the fact that he volunteers at the hospital kinda makes him more interesting.”

  “I DON’T have a crush on Drake Westfall,” I said, focusing on Jodi’s implication.

  “Yes, you do. You and half the world.”

  “You’re ridiculous,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “Ridiculously right,” Jodi replied.

  I’d almost forgotten Bizzy’s note amid Jodi’s teasing. I turned away from her, flattening out the paper on my stomach. Bizzy’s scrawled handwriting
was messier than usual. Jodi took the hint that I wanted to be left alone to read. She picked up a magazine. I began, happy to take my mind off my alleged crush on Drake.

  Lizzy-Loo,

  Looks like they’re gonna have to go in and repair some of my parts. I’ll be good as new. Better than new. I know you’re probably very confused. Don’t be. The gift of second sight was entrusted to us long ago by a powerful sorceress. I’ll explain all of it to you as soon as I’m up and out of here, but if you have another death-specter, pay close attention. Write it all down. Dates, pictures. Everything. We’ll deal with it together. I wish they’d let you in here with me. I’ve tried everything but all the nurses and doctors get their knickers in a knot about visitors. But there’s this great framed poem in my room: Surgeons must be very careful / When they take the knife! / Underneath their fine incisions / Stirs the Culprit - Life!

  It’s a poem by Emily Dickinson. She knew all about us. Soon, I’ll be with you every step of the way.

  Love you to pieces and back again,

  Bizzy

  I was sure if there were any way for me to see her, Bizzy would’ve found it. When she wanted something, she always played up her age and her accent. Most times, it worked.

  “Lizzy! Jodi!”

  Dad trotted up to me, wearing his gray trench coat and his newsboy hat. Mom was close behind him. I stuffed Bizzy’s letter into my pocket.

  Miss Mora entered the waiting room with a bag full of bagels.

  “Phillip!” she said, surprised to see Dad. She spotted Mom. “Rita! I’m so glad you’re both here.”

  “Mora,” Dad said seriously. “Thanks for bringing the girls. How is everything? What’s the latest news?” He was perfectly calm, as always. He probably already had a treatment plan and a backup treatment plan in mind for Bizzy. That was his way.

  “Your mother is in surgery, Phillip.” Miss Mora put her hand on Dad’s trench-coated shoulder.

  Mom was at his other side. “What for?” she asked.

  “She has some internal bleeding from the fall.”

  Mom turned to me. “What were you doing out with Bizzy in the first place?”

  “We went to get some Pepto for my stomach,” I said. That very instant, I felt like I needed Pepto as I remembered the crunch of Bizzy’s body hitting the sidewalk.

  Mom reached over and felt my forehead. “You feel warm,” she said. I’d almost forgotten that I was supposed to be sick.

  “How long did they say Bizzy would be in surgery?” Dad asked.

  “The nurse said we’d be updated when the surgery was over,” Miss Mora answered.

  The crease between Dad’s eyes deepened. He rubbed one eye with his thumb and the other with his index finger. Without looking, he slumped into one of the hospital chairs.

  “She’s going to be okay, Phillip,” Mom said, sitting next to him. “She’s just a little banged up.”

  Dad didn’t respond.

  “Excuse me, folks.” A man in uniform stood before us. He was wearing a cowboy hat, olive green pants, and jacket with a gold sheriff’s star on his lapel. His belt had more attached weapons and gizmos than I could name.

  “I’m here to follow up on the accident on the corner of Dolores and Ocean,” the star-wearing man said.

  “Yes,” Dad said, standing up, regaining his composure. Miss Mora stood up as well.

  “I was there, Sheriff Schmidt,” she said. “As was my daughter.”

  As soon as I heard his name, I immediately recognized the sheriff. Before his promotion, he used to be just Officer Schmidt. He and Bizzy hadn’t gotten along ever since the town meeting held to elect the new sheriff. Bizzy stood up and said that Officer Schmidt was a “boat with only one oar in the water.” Most people agreed with Bizzy that Officer Schmidt was useless, but they weren’t foolish (or honest) enough to say so out loud. Of course, no one ran against Officer Schmidt, so he won despite Bizzy’s objection.

  “I’ve heard Beatrice was involved,” the sheriff said. When he said my grandma’s name, there was hostility in his voice.

  “Yes,” Miss Mora said, looking down. Silently, I tried to convince myself I hadn’t done anything wrong.

  “Bizzy jumped in front of Jodi,” Miss Mora continued. Sheriff Schmidt pulled out his small notepad and began writing.

  “Was she running?” Sheriff Schmidt questioned.

  “Well, no, not exactly. Dixie was doing most of the work.”

  “Dixie who?”

  “Dixie is the name of Bizzy’s walker,” I interjected. “Sometimes Bizzy coasts down the hills on the wheels of her walker.” I wasn’t positive because the brim of the sheriff’s hat shaded most of his face, but I think his eyes bulged when he heard this.

  “She rolled out into the intersection and pushed me toward the curb,” Jodi explained. “If she hadn’t been there, the car would have hit me. She’s a hero.”

  “Why was Beatrice there?”

  “She was there with her granddaughter,” Miss Mora said, frowning at the sheriff.

  “We were getting some Pepto for my stomach,” I offered again, like a broken record. “I ran out in front of Bizzy.”

  “And you are?” The sheriff stared at me, narrowing his eyes.

  “Elizabeth Mildred Mortimer,” I replied.

  “Mmm hmm,” the sheriff said, scribbling more notes on his little pad.

  Dad put his hand on my shoulder. “I don’t understand the purpose of all these questions … is my mother in trouble for something?”

  “Nothing like that, sir. I’m just writing up an accident report.”

  “An accident report? Aren’t there other things the town sheriff should be doing?” Dad asked.

  “We’ve had a few close calls in the past months with reckless driving. It’s a real problem. Beatrice is not under suspicion for anything, but she does seem to find a way to involve herself in a lot of these so-called accidents.” The sheriff raised an eyebrow at Dad. Dad inched closer to him.

  Mom plastered a wide smile on her face. I could tell she was faking it. “Bizzy’s had a run of bad luck in terms of being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” she said, grabbing Dad’s shoulder and pulling him away from the sheriff.

  “This time, her being in the wrong place saved Jodi from serious harm!” Miss Mora added supportively. The sheriff ignored them both and turned to me.

  “Elizabeth, can you tell me anything else about the make or model of the car? Did you get a good look at it?”

  “Uh, no,” I said. I wasn’t going to tell this man, who seemed to have some sort of grudge against Bizzy, a darn thing.

  “There was a large amount of sand at the accident scene. Any idea how it got there?”

  “It’s from Dix … out of Bizzy’s walker,” I said. “Bizzy weighs it down with sand and when she crashed it spilled all over the place.”

  “All right, then. Thanks for your time, folks. When Beatrice is feeling better, if you could have her give me a call, I have a few follow-up questions.” Sheriff Schmidt pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to Dad. The sheriff walked away, his leather boots squeaking with every step he took on the white linoleum.

  Mom turned to Dad. “Phil, it’s probably not a good idea to provoke the sheriff.”

  “I didn’t like the way he was asking his questions,” Dad answered gruffly.

  We all took seats next to one another. Mom lifted her huge purse from the floor and set it on her lap. She grabbed the reading glasses that always hung around her neck and placed them on the end of her nose. She pulled out a stack of books from her bag, announcing to nobody in particular that “the solution to every one of life’s problems can be found within the pages of a good book.”

  It was something she said at least once a week.

  Officially, Mom is the librarian for the middle schoolers at Crabapple Intermediate. Unofficially, she is the librarian for anyone who will listen. Mom figures that if you don’t like to read, you simply haven’t been directed to the Right Book�
�the one that makes you realize you love to read just as much as she does. That’s why she always carries a dozen books with her, in case she runs into someone in need. There’s no doubt about it, she has a knack for finding people’s Right Book. Of course, I am her most frustrating case. She has suggested dozens of books. None of them has been my Right Book.

  She placed David Copperfield on my lap. “People say it’s Charles Dickens’s most autobiographical work … and it’s impossible not to adore the hopeful buoyancy of Mr. Micawber, Lizzy,” Mom said, with a hopeful uptick of her eyebrows. “Something will turn up!” she added in a bad British accent.

  Into my father’s lap, she put one of those Master and Commander books by Patrick O’Brian. My father loved adventure stories set on the high seas and had read almost the entire series.

  “Miss Mora, would you like something to read?” Mom asked.

  “Sure,” Miss Mora said. Mom put a slim volume on Miss Mora’s lap, The 13 Clocks by James Thurber.

  “Underrated, whimsical, touching, and you can finish it in one sitting,” Mom said, smiling. “I think you’ll simply fall in love with it.”

  “Now, what are you in the mood for, Jodi dear?” Mom questioned, with one eye scanning the books she had left in her large bag.

  “Got anything scary?” Jodi asked.

  Mom grew excited. She plucked a purple paperback from her bag. In a very deep and dramatic voice she said, “Last night, I dreamt I went to Manderley again.” I assumed it was a line from the novel she held out. “Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier. If Mrs. Danvers, the housekeeper, doesn’t scare the living daylights out of you, Jodi, nothing will.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. M.,” Jodi said, thumbing through Rebecca.

  I looked down at David Copperfield. The cover didn’t even have a picture on it. I didn’t have the heart to tell Mom I’d already dismissed Charles Dickens after reading A Tale of Two Cities in school this year. No offense, Mrs. Tweedy, but after the first dozen pages, it wasn’t hard to tell that the guy was being paid by the word. I wondered how demoralized Mom would be when I didn’t make it past the second chapter.