The Death Catchers

by Jennifer Anne Kogler

  “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.

&nb
sp; 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.

  The Epilogue

  Dear Mrs. Tweedy,

  I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy as I was the day you handed me back my defense paper and told me that I was going to get an A for my semester grade. Honestly, at first, I thought you were joking. It really is a small miracle. That’s my best grade this year. Heck, it’s my best grade this life.

  Mom’s going to flip.

  I also want you to know that I followed your instructions. I took my paper and I locked it away. I haven’t shown it to anybody, just like you told me.

  You said that all you wanted in return for showing me leniency with my final project was an update in two months’ time on my “story.”

  How exactly did you phrase it again?

  I think you said, “No story is complete without closure, and yours is missing an epilogue.”

  So here it is. I guess, after thinking about it, I agree with what you said about my lack of resolution. You said that I was the protagonist of the story, even if I didn’t want to be, and that you wanted to know how things were left with Mom. I think you used the term “short shrift” when referring to how I left things. Yes. That’s what you said. I remember now. You said readers don’t like to get the “short shrift” when it comes to major relationships in a story.

  Actually, I have Mom to thank for straightening things out with Drake. See, she was pretty frantic after I broke my ribs. When she asked Bizzy what had gotten into me lately, my grandma felt like she had to tell Mom something.

  I can’t really blame Bizzy—Mom was starting to get permanent worry lines on her forehead every time she looked at me. So, Bizzy told her about the DWOR and my crush on Drake, leaving out all the stuff about the Death Catchers and Morgan le Faye and The Last Descendant. Mom was the one who came up with the whole plan of Jodi writing the letter to Drake. She and Bizzy figured out the details together.

  We were sitting at the kitchen counter a few days after I returned to school when it popped out.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been acting like such a crazy person lately, Mom,” I said. “Bizzy told me it was your idea to have Jodi write the letter. Thank you.”

  Mom smiled over her cup of tea. “You’re quite welcome. Judging by the amount of time you’ve been spending with Drake lately, I’m assuming everything worked out?”

  “Things are going good,” I said.

  “Well,” Mom corrected. “Things are going well.” I rolled my eyes. Mom continued. “Have you started reading Pride and Prejudice yet?”

  I shook my head.

  “I only ask because if you had read it, you would’ve realized yourself that there are very few misunderstandings a well-written letter can’t fix.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. The idea came straight out of Pride and Prejudice, though I suppose there was a dash of Emma thrown in. You see, Mr. Darcy writes Elizabeth this incredible letter that clears up her misconceptions about that rascal, Mr. Wickham.” Though I was quite used to Mom talking about characters in books like they were real people living down the street, it still made me laugh.

  “You laugh, Lizzy dearest, but one day you will see it my way. The solution to every one of life’s problems,” she said, pausing dramatically.
I knew the end of the sentence by heart and jumped in.

  “Can be found within the pages of a good book,” we said in unison. Though I often made fun of Mom’s favorite phrase (Bizzy called it Mom’s only pearl), I was beginning to think she was right. Mom hadn’t even read The Last Descendant. If she only knew. At the end of the day, I’ve realized, when you have a problem or a question, a book is certainly a safe place to explore your options (as long as you don’t encounter a death-specter, of course).

  “Well, I’m so pleased you seem happy again,” Mom said.

  “I’m sorry I told Bizzy about the Drake stuff before I told you,” I added quickly.

  “I understand your grandmother is very easy to share things with. But you should try me out sometime. If you let a secret fly to me, I won’t shoot it down.”

  “I know that. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’d never shoot anything, ever. Except maybe someone who burned books.”

  Mom laughed loudly. “I suppose it would depend on which books the person was burning.”

  That night, on a whim, I started reading Pride and Prejudice. Not only did I read it, but I didn’t even skip any parts. I finished it in three days.

  It might be my Right Book! I’m as shocked as you probably are. But my namesake, Elizabeth Bennet, is a fictional character I can really get behind, you know? Mom was thrilled, of course, and she keeps giving me romances to read, but I don’t like any of them as well as I liked Pride and Prejudice. It may be some time before Mom finds me another Right Book. Part of me, though, thinks that she enjoys the chase more than anything else.

  I kept my promise to Jodi. See, though I’m seeing a lot of Drake these days, she and I are still best friends. Occasionally, she even manages to talk me into visiting the cemetery. When we do, I can’t help but stare at Old Arthur’s tomb. Sometimes I wonder if he always knew when he set sail for Crabapple so many years ago that his lineage would once again fatefully intersect with Avalon’s.