Resurrected (Resurrected Series Book 1)

by S. M. Schmitz

  I heard her approach the door and I held my breath. She had stopped on the other side. No sounds. She hadn’t walked away but no locks being unlocked, no cursing at me, telling me to fuck off. I slapped at another mosquito. I don’t know what made me think I actually could talk to her like she was just Lottie, but I heard myself blurting out, “If you don’t want to let me in, can I at least borrow some mosquito repellant?” It was close to dusk now. It was like being attacked by vampires. Honestly, I would have taken my chances with a vampire or two.

  A few more tense seconds passed with silence, except for the unbelievably obnoxious buzzing of mosquito wings as they flitted past my ears. Then I heard the unmistakable sounds of a deadbolt sliding out of its lock, and the door quickly swung open. She stood there, in a Banana Republic t-shirt and cotton shorts, her soft brown hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, and she quickly motioned me inside. “Hurry,” she said, “before they all get in.” I hurriedly stepped inside.

  The smell of Lottie’s Bolognese sauce filled the apartment. Such a familiar smell. How many times had she made that for us? It was one of my favorite foods. She made it for me every year on my birthday, no matter what else was going on, no matter what else was happening to her. One year, she had been sick with a bad cold and even though I had admonished her to stay in bed and rest while I went to work, she had gotten up to make it for me anyway. As soon as I got home, she had placed the plate of pasta and meat sauce triumphantly in front of me then gone promptly to bed, exhausted and aching, but she had done it. Because that was Lottie.

  I glanced at the table where two wine glasses stood waiting, a bottle of pinot noir placed in the middle.

  “Oh. Sorry, “ I stumbled. I don’t know if I was or not but it seemed like I should say it.

  Lottie followed my gaze and seemed to catch on. “Lydia,” she said. “She’s had kind of a bad day. Customers can be … oh, we work at this bookstore ….” She looked back over at me, and crossed her arms, maybe fully realizing just what I’d done for the first time. “Well, never mind. I guess you already know that.”

  I just nodded. What else could I do? She stood there like that, waiting for me to explain why I had shown up here after all. Lottie would have known I would have eventually come for her anyway. “What time is she going to be home?” I finally asked. I had a pretty good idea but I was starting to feel self-conscious just standing there awkwardly not saying anything. And my mosquito bites were starting to itch.

  “Around 9:00 probably.”

  About an hour. I couldn’t imagine that she wouldn’t kick me out before Lydia showed up. “Do you have something for this?” I asked, showing her the angry red welt on my forearm. It did itch. Badly, actually. But I was just buying myself time, trying to slow my racing heart and swirling stomach that couldn’t decide if it was nauseated or hungry by the smell of Lottie’s Bolognese. She nodded and disappeared down the hallway. A light flipped on, and I heard her rummaging through what I assumed was her bathroom medicine cabinet. I sat down on the couch and finally looked around me.

  Lottie’s apartment. Ok, Lottie’s and Lydia’s. But Lottie was everywhere here. The bookshelves against the wall, filled from end to end and then, when the bookshelf betrayed her by refusing to allow anymore books to fit on that shelf, she had resorted to stacking them on top of each other. My bookshelves at home still looked like that. There was a Nook on the coffee table in front of me, but I suspected it didn’t belong to her. The television in front of me was on one of those channels that streamed music. This one promised to play Today’s Hits. The current hit it was playing was by Maroon V. I know she couldn’t control what music was played, but even the band was one Lottie had loved.

  I heard her close the medicine cabinet and the light in the bathroom flickered off. I looked away from the television and caught a glimpse of the artwork hanging on the wall, a small serigraphic print in thick gold, white and black, with small red lips on this half-face of a woman. I knew this print, this artist. I even knew how much it was worth. I had the exact same print hanging in my bedroom.

  Lottie stood beside me, a tube of hydrocortisone cream in her hand extended out toward me but I couldn’t take my eyes off of “Golden Sorrow,” the woman’s features for the first time finally seeming truly sorrowful to me. I had honestly never gotten the appeal of Martiros Manoukian. I didn’t really get art at all. Lottie had discovered him during an art class she took as an elective during college and was hooked; I thought I could draw better spaceships than he could paint women. But that didn’t stop me from buying a print of “Golden Sorrow” for Lottie for her 22nd birthday. She was about to graduate from college, and we were moving to Houston soon. I figured it was time for us to have more grown-up, sophisticated art on our walls than a poster of Death Valley on game night.

  Lottie looked at the print, then back at me. She swallowed and dropped the tube next to me on the sofa. “I just liked it,” she said firmly. Defensively. I looked up at her. She was angry. At me?

  I nodded. “I know.”

  Lottie shook her head. “No,” she said, “I liked it. I just wanted it, ok?” She almost sounded panicked.

  “Ok,” I said. I wasn’t really sure what I was agreeing to though. I picked up the tube and thanked her, anxious to change the subject, but Lottie was agitated, clearly troubled by my recognition of the serigraph.

  She sat down uneasily in a chair perpendicular to the sofa and looked back at the print on the wall. “It was hers, wasn’t it?” She was fidgeting with the hem of her t-shirt. That small little crease had appeared between her eyebrows, that look of consternation and confusion and frustration, and although she probably already knew the answer, I told her anyway.

  “Yes.”

  She sighed and closed her eyes, falling back into the chair. I wanted to hug her again, kiss her, promise her that it was alright, even though I didn’t know if it was, but she looked so incredibly depressed, I would have done anything to make it true. “I saw some of his art in a book at the store, and I was drawn to it. I thought it was just … me. This one … just spoke to me.”

  It may have been that moment that I finally started to believe her. And she looked just like my Lottie, and often, even acted like her, so seeing her so despondent made me want to fix everything for her, to make everything right and put everything back in place where it belonged.

  “Maybe it is you. I mean, a lot of people like his art.”

  “Yeah, Dietrich, I’m sure out of all the artists in all the books I flipped through while stocking the shelves, I just coincidentally picked this one out and no other.”

  Of course it wasn’t a coincidence. She wasn’t stupid. I couldn’t seem to stop myself from talking though. I almost wished I would forget how to speak English for a while. “Doesn’t mean you can’t like the same things, though. Maybe his art caught your attention because of Lottie’s memories, but you bought this one because you like it?” Even I knew how incredibly ridiculous I sounded.

  Lottie’s big hazel eyes bore into me, frighteningly furious and determined. “What else?” she demanded.

  “Um.” What other lame excuses could I make? Probably quite a few.

  “What else is hers?”

  Oh. Shit. I licked my lips, but my mouth suddenly felt sandpapery, my throat rough and raw. Stall, I thought. Or distract. Or both. “You like to read?” I asked lamely. Goddamn it, I was as good at lying to her as I was to Eric.

  Lottie nodded and gestured toward the wall of bookshelves. “Go ahead,” she offered. She wanted me to see if I recognized any of the titles. Don’t do it, Dietrich. That seemed about as smart an idea as walking into a hornet’s nest.

  But I got off the sofa anyway and knelt down by the bookshelf closest to me, dragging my fingers along the spines of the books, plucking one out about halfway through the top shelf. I heard her groan behind me. It was an autographed copy of Richelle Mead’s Vampire Academy, the same author we had waited in line in Dallas to meet; the same book Lottie
had had autographed when she finally met one of her idols.

  I turned around to look at her, and her eyes were pooling with those tears again. “Is there anything in there that wasn’t hers?” she asked.

  I looked back at the bookshelf. I didn’t recognize quite a few of the titles actually, but some of them were quite new. It wouldn’t help to point that out, so I just said yes. Lottie wasn’t satisfied. “Which ones?”

  “Lottie, there’s a lot of books here …” I started, but she cut me off, begging me, “I know, Dietrich, please. Just tell me.”

  I put Vampire Academy back on the shelf and grabbed one I didn’t recognize. I held it up to her victoriously. She sighed and rolled her eyes. “That’s Lydia’s.”

  “Oh.” I put it back. Remembering the tablet on the coffee table, I asked her, “What about the Nook? Is that yours?” What was I even doing? I had come here hoping to find more evidence that some part of my dead fiancée was still alive and now that I had found it, I was trying to help bury it?

  Lottie shook her head. “Also Lydia’s. I can’t read on it. It gives me a headache.”

  Reading on my iPad always gave Lottie a headache, too, I thought.

  “What else is hers?” she asked glumly, her eyes closed, her head reclined back, like she was getting a headache now. Honestly, I tended to have that effect on people.

  “Well, she shopped at Banana Republic. A lot.”

  Lottie nodded. She opened her eyes and looked at me, waiting for me to continue. It seemed like for the past month, all I had done was walk directly into conversations I wanted to avoid. “That smells like her Bolognese.” I tried to say it casually, but that memory, that association, was too strong and too painful and it stuck in my throat.

  I looked away from her and turned my attention back to the bookshelf to try to buy myself a few pregnant seconds before she started interrogating me again. I wasn’t the one who was supposed to be getting grilled anyway. How had this gotten so turned around?

  A song faded on the television, replaced by a familiar one, and my eyes quickly flicked to the TV before I just as quickly looked away, hoping Lottie hadn’t noticed. I knew she was still watching me. But she had seen me, and she groaned again. “God, even Fallout Boy? Do I get to have anything of my own?” She threw her hands up in exasperation and let them fall limply down at her sides.

  “Lottie, how do you know it isn’t always like this? Maybe the memories are different for you, but Lydia may be a lot more like Jamie than you could possibly know unless …” I wondered if she would let me meet her. She waited for me to finish but when I didn’t, she slowly shook her head and started fidgeting with the hemline of her t-shirt again.

  “Lydia is just like she’s always been. She hasn’t changed at all. I mean, she looks different, but she’s not different. I’m … not the same. She knows I’m not too. I told her I’m just homesick and she thinks I’m depressed and I’ll eventually get over it, but …” she trailed off now, still picking at some invisible flaw at the edge of her shirt. That sandpapery feeling in my mouth was back. I couldn’t swallow.

  “It’s more than just … memories?” I asked. I think my voice cracked. Jesus, I hoped I had just imagined that.

  “I told you not to come here, Dietrich. Why did you?” She wasn’t mad or accusatory. She wore that same defeated and weary expression from the intersection when I had finally caught up to her and knew trying to escape me would be pointless.

  “You know why, Lottie. I love you.”

  “You love her.”

  “Is there much of a difference?” Goddamn it, Dietrich. I hated myself sometimes.

  I thought she would certainly kick me out now, but she just cocked her head to one side and offered me that sexy half-smile, half-smirk that usually meant I was either about to hear something I didn’t like or I was about to get laid. I didn’t think it was the latter.

  “No,” she finally said, “apparently not. Maybe. I don’t know. I just know I don’t really know who I am anymore and it scares me, and Lydia only came here because of me in the first place. No matter what I do, I always seem to be hurting someone now. This isn’t how I thought any of this would work out. And I want to be me. I don’t want to be someone else. No offense.”

  I smiled. “If it makes you feel any better, you aren’t exactly like her. Some of the words you choose, it’s not the way Lottie would have spoken. And she cursed a lot more.”

  Lottie laughed, a genuine laugh that made me smile again. I would tell her anything to keep hearing that laugh. “I cuss a lot more in my head. Lydia doesn’t like it so I try to watch my language out loud.”

  “Well, that settles that then. Jamie was definitely not bothered by cursing. That woman could make me blush.”

  “What else is different?” she asked, turning thoughtful, looking away from me now at some spot on the wall, like a memory – one of her memories – was playing out there and she was able to see it all again through these different eyes.

  “I haven’t spent that much time around you. I don’t know. What was your name? Before?”

  That smirk returned. I couldn’t help it. It had been over two years and I couldn’t stop myself from wishing it would turn into one of Lottie’s you’re-about-to-get-laid hybrid smiles. I wondered what Eric would have to say about that. I wondered what a psychiatrist would have to say about that.

  “We don’t exactly speak, English, Dietrich.”

  “That’s ok. I didn’t either until I was, like, eleven.”

  Her smile widened. “I’m not even sure how to … translate it.”

  “I’ve learned Arabic, Mandarin and Russian. How hard can one name be?” I didn’t even know if her language was spoken. “Look, just make something up if you want. So I can differentiate between you. For my own sanity.”

  Lottie sighed but nodded. “Ok. I guess … it would be something kinda like … Kyrieana.”

  I arched an eyebrow at her. “Really? That’s beautiful.”

  “What did you expect? An ugly name?” She was teasing but she had a point. I guess I had been expecting something more Klingonish. “But I’m not really her anymore either,” Lottie added.

  “Then what was Kyrieana like?”

  Lottie opened her mouth to answer me, but we had both heard the sound of footsteps outside. “Shit,” she muttered. She stood up quickly, too quickly, and had to grab on to the arm of the chair from the sudden head rush. Lydia’s key was already in the door by the time she turned to me, worry written all over her face. I stood up, more slowly than she had, and was going to offer to leave before Lydia could ask many questions … but I wanted to stay. I desperately wanted to meet her, actually.

  Jamie walked in – or Lydia – God, this was all such a mind-fuck and Lottie quickly introduced me. Sort of. “Hey, how was the rest of your shift?” She rushed on and didn’t even let her roommate answer. “This is my friend, he was just visiting, and I lost track of time. Sorry. I don’t have any pasta made yet. You must be starving.”

  “Oh, that’s ok,” Lydia gave Lottie a hug with her free arm and set her purse on the sofa with the other, then reached out to shake my hand. Her smile was warm, genuinely affectionate and spread to her eyes – the kind of smile that let you know you were talking to someone who was inherently good. A flash of confusion crossed across her features but she blinked and simply offered, “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” I shook her hand, and realized for the first time what Lottie had been trying to tell me. Lydia was nothing like Jamie. She looked just like her, the same tall, beautiful blonde who had worked runways in Houston fashion shows, but she had none of Jamie’s overconfidence, none of her self-righteous superiority. I doubted Lydia realized she had been a model in her former life and could still be one. I sincerely doubted she would want to. I had the impression she was more at home in an aisle of the bookstore than the runway of even a J C Penney’s.

  “Have we met before?” she asked, that befuddled semi-recognition
still lurking behind her eyes. She looked tired, but was still smiling, still trying to be hospitable and friendly, not because she had to, but because it was just how she was. No wonder Lottie often felt like she was on the verge of hurting or offending her.

  As desperately as I loved Lottie, there was a reason we had always felt pulled to one another; she was a hell of a lot more thoughtful than I was, but she had the same sense of sarcasm that permeated almost everything we touched in life. It was one of the reasons she and Jamie had become friends in the first place; Lottie and Jamie had bonded over a shared sense of humor, even if Jamie’s often veered toward the mean-spirited side.

  Lottie shook her head as soon as Lydia asked me, but it was too late. Full recognition suddenly hit her, and her smile disappeared, that friendliness in her expression shifting to utter horror. “Oh, God, Lottie, what have you done?” She backed away from me as if I had suddenly become dangerous. I don’t know why, but I felt the need to defend Lottie.

  “It wasn’t her fault,” I started, but it kind of was. She started it, anyway.

  Lydia’s eyes were still wide and terrified and she looked from me to Lottie, waiting for her to explain that this was … what? Even with the remnants of the Lottie-as-E.T. denial quickly crumbling around me, I didn’t have a fucking clue what was going on. And I didn’t even know how Lydia had recognized me, let alone why she was scared of me.

  “Ok, but … please, don’t freak out. Just … here.” Lottie reached over to the table and handed Lydia the entire bottle of unopened wine. Lydia just stared at it dumbly.

  “Um. Do you want me to open that for you?” I asked. I didn’t want to miss any of this conversation but if Lottie thought Lydia needed to be drunk for it, who was I to argue? Lydia looked up at me, that same dumbstruck expression still on her face. Whatever Lottie had done, I was guessing it must be pretty bad.

  “The corkscrew’s on the table,” Lottie murmured to me. As I reached for the bottle of wine, Lydia flinched away from me, and I watched her expectantly, waiting for some accusation or insult, something to explain her sudden fear of me.