Where the Summer Ends

•V•

There really wasn’t much to it; no production at all. Lisette felt nervous, a bit silly and perhaps a touch cheated.

“I want you to relax,” Dr Magnus told her. “All you have to do is just relax.”

That’s what her gynecologist always said, too, Lisette thought with a sudden tenseness. She lay on her back on Dr Magnus’s analyst’s couch: her head on a comfortable cushion, legs stretched primly out on the leather upholstery (she’d deliberately worn jeans again), fingers clenched damply over her tummy. A white gown instead of jeans, and I’ll be ready for my coffin, she mused uncomfortably.

“Fine. That’s it. You’re doing fine, Lisette. Very fine. Just relax. Yes, just relax, just like that. Fine, that’s it. Relax.”

Dr Magnus’s voice was a quiet monotone, monotonously repeating soothing encouragements. He spoke to her tirelessly, patiently, slowly dissolving her anxiety.

“You feel sleepy, Lisette. Relaxed and sleepy. Your breathing is slow and relaxed, slow and relaxed. Think about your breathing now, Lisette. Think how slow and sleepy and deep each breath comes. You’re breathing deeper, and you’re feeling sleepier. Relax and sleep, Lisette, breathe and sleep. Breathe and sleep...”

She was thinking about her breathing. She counted the breaths; the slow monotonous syllables of Dr Magnus’s voice seemed to blend into her breathing like a quiet, tuneless lullaby. She was sleepy, for that matter, and it was very pleasant to relax here, listening to that dim, droning murmur while he talked on and on. How much longer until the end of the lecture...

“You are asleep now, Lisette. You are asleep, yet you can still hear my voice. Now you are falling deeper, deeper, deeper into a pleasant, relaxed sleep, Lisette. Deeper and deeper asleep. Can you still hear my voice?”

“Yes.”

“You are asleep, Lisette. In a deep, deep sleep. You will remain in this deep sleep until I shall count to three. As I count to three, you will slowly arise from your sleep until you are fully awake once again. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“But when you hear me say the word amber, you will again fall into a deep, deep sleep, Lisette, just as you are asleep now. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Listen to me as I count, Lisette. One. Two. Three.”

Lisette opened her eyes. For a moment her expression was blank, then a sudden confusion. She looked at Dr Magnus seated beside her, then smiled ruefully. “I was asleep, I’m afraid. Or was I...?”

“You did splendidly, Miss Seyrig.” Dr Magnus beamed reassurance. “You passed into a simple hypnotic state, and as you can see now, there was no more cause for concern than in catching an afternoon nap.”

“But I’m sure I just dropped off.” Lisette glanced at her watch. Her appointment had been for three, and it was now almost four o’clock.

“Why not just settle back and rest some more, Miss Seyrig. That’s it, relax again. All you need is to rest a bit, just a pleasant rest.” Her wrist fell back onto the cushions, as her eyes fell shut. “Amber.”

Dr Magnus studied her calm features for a moment. “You are asleep now, Lisette. Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to relax, Lisette. I want you to fall deeper, deeper, deeper into sleep. Deep, deep sleep. Far, far, far into sleep.”

He listened to her breathing, then suggested: “You are thinking of your childhood now, Lisette. You are a little girl, not even in school yet. Something is making you very happy. You remember how happy you are. Why are you so happy?”

Lisette made a childish giggle. “It’s my birthday party, and Ollie the Clown came to play with us.”

“And how old are you today?”

“I’m five.” Her right hand twitched, extended fingers and thumb. “Go deeper now, Lisette. I want you to reach farther back. Far, far back into your memories. Go back to a time before you were a child in San Francisco. Far, farther back, Lisette. I want you to go back to the time of your dreams.”

He studied her face. She remained in a deep hypnotic trance, but her expression registered sudden anxiousness. It was as if she lay in normal sleep—reacting to some intense nightmare. She moaned.

“Deeper, Lisette. Don’t be afraid to remember. Let your mind flow back to another time.”

Her features still showed distress, but she seemed less agitated as his voice urged her deeper.

“Where are you?”

“I’m... I’m not certain.” Her voice came in a well-bred English accent. “It’s quite dark. Only a few candles are burning. I’m frightened.”

“Go back to a happy moment,” Dr Magnus urged her, as her tone grew sharp with fear. “You are happy now. Something very pleasant and wonderful is happening to you.”

Anxiety drained from her features. Her cheeks flushed; she smiled pleasurably.

“Where are you now?”

“I’m dancing. It’s a grand ball to celebrate Her Majesty’s Diamond Jubilee, and I’ve never seen such a throng. I’m certain Charles means to propose to me tonight, but he’s ever so shy, and now he’s simply fuming that Captain Stapledon has the next two dances. He’s so dashing in his uniform. Everyone is watching us together.”

“What is your name?”

“Elisabeth Beresford.”

“Where do you live, Miss Beresford?”

“We have a house in Chelsea...”

Her expression abruptly changed. “It’s dark again. I’m all alone. I can’t see myself, although surely the candles shed sufficient light. There’s something there in the candlelight. I’m moving closer.”

“One.”

“It’s an open coffin.” Fear edged her voice.

“Two.”

“God in Heaven!”

“Three.”

“We,” Danielle announced grandly, “are invited to a party.”

She produced an engraved card from her bag, presented it to Lisette, then went to hang up her damp raincoat.

“Bloody English summer weather!” Lisette heard her from the kitchen. “Is there any more coffee made? Oh, fantastic!”

She reappeared with a cup of coffee and an opened box of cookies—Lisette couldn’t get used to calling them biscuits. “Want some?”

“No, thanks. Bad for my figure.”

“And coffee on an empty tummy is bad for the nerves,” Danielle said pointedly.

“ Who is Beth Garrington?” Lisette studied the invitation.

“Um.” Danielle tried to wash down a mouthful of crumbs with too-hot coffee. “Some friend of Midge’s. Midge dropped by the gallery this afternoon and gave me the invitation. A costume revel. Rock stars to royalty among the guests. Midge promises that it will be super fun; said the last party Beth threw was unbridled debauchery—there was cocaine being passed around in an antique snuffbox for the guests. Can you imagine that much coke!”

“And how did Midge manage the invitation?”

“I gather the discerning Ms Garrington had admired several of my drawings that Maitland has on display—yea, even unto so far as to purchase one. Midge told her that she knew me and that we two were ornaments for any debauchery.”

“The invitation is in both our names.”

“Midge likes you.”

“Midge despises me. She’s jealous as a cat.”

“Then she must have told our depraved hostess what a lovely couple we make. Besides, Midge is jealous of everyone— even dear Maitland, whose interest in me very obviously is not of the flesh. But don’t fret about Midge—English women are naturally bitchy toward ‘foreign’ women. They’re oh-so-proper and fashionable, but they never shave their legs. That’s why I love mah fellow Americans.”

Danielle kissed her chastely on top of her head, powdering Lisette’s hair with biscuit crumbs. “And I’m cold and wet and dying for a shower. How about you?”

“A masquerade?” Lisette wondered. “What sort of costume? Not something that we’ll have to trot off to one of those rental places for, surely?”

“From what Midge suggests, anything goes so long as it’s wild. Just create something divinely decadent, and we’re sure to knock them dead.” Danielle had seen Cabaret half a dozen times. “It’s to be in some back alley stately old home in Maida Vale, so there’s no danger that the tenants downstairs will call the cops.”

When Lisette remained silent, Danielle gave her a playful nudge. “Darling, it’s a party we’re invited to, not a funeral. What is it—didn’t your session with Dr Magnus go well?”

“I suppose it did.” Lisette smiled without conviction. “I really can’t say; all I did was doze off. Dr Magnus seemed quite excited about it, though. I found it all... well, just a little bit scary.”

“I thought you said you just dropped off. What was scary?”

“It’s hard to put into words. It’s like when you’re starting to have a bad trip on acid: there’s nothing wrong that you can explain, but somehow your mind is telling you to be afraid.”

Danielle sat down beside her and squeezed her arm about her shoulders. “That sounds to me like Dr Magnus is getting somewhere. I felt just the same sort of free anxiety the first time I underwent analysis. It’s a good sign, darling. It means you’re beginning to understand all those troubled secrets the ego keeps locked away.”

“Perhaps the ego keeps them locked away for some perfectly good reason.”

“Meaning hidden sexual conflicts, I suppose.” Danielle’s fingers gently massaged Lisette’s shoulders and neck. “Oh, Lisette. You mustn’t be shy about getting to know yourself. I think it’s exciting.” Lisette curled up against her, resting her cheek against Danielle’s breast while the other girl’s fingers soothed the tension from her muscles. She supposed she was overreacting. After all, the nightmares were what distressed her so; Dr Magnus seemed completely confident that he could free her from them.

“Which of your drawings did our prospective hostess buy?” Lisette asked, changing the subject.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Danielle lifted up her chin. “It was that charcoal study I did of you.”



Lisette closed the shower curtains as she stepped into the tub. It was one of those long, narrow, deep tubs beloved of English bathrooms that always made her think of a coffin for two. A Rube Goldberg plumbing arrangement connected the hot and cold faucets, and from the common spout was affixed a rubber hose with a shower head which one might either hang from a hook on the wall or hold in hand. Danielle had replaced the ordinary shower head with a shower massage when she moved in, but she left the previous tenant’s shaving mirror—a bevelled glass oval in a heavily enameled antique frame—hanging on the wall above the hook.

Lisette glanced at her face in the steamed-over mirror. “I shouldn’t have let you display that at the gallery.”

“But why not?” Danielle was shampooing, and lather blinded her as she turned about. “Maitland thinks it’s one of my best.”

Lisette reached around her for the shower attachment. “It seems a bit personal somehow. All those people looking at me. It’s an invasion of privacy.”

“But it’s thoroughly modest, darling. Not like some topless billboard in Soho.”

The drawing was a charcoal and pencil study of Lisette, done in what Danielle described as her David Hamilton phase. In sitting for it, Lisette had piled her hair in a high chignon and dressed in an antique cotton camisole and drawers with lace insertions that she’d found at a shop in Westbourne Grove. Danielle called it Dark Rose. Lisette had thought it made her look fat.

Danielle grasped blindly for the shower massage, and Lisette placed it in her hand. “It just seems a bit too personal to have some total stranger owning my picture.” Shampoo coursed like seafoam over Danielle’s breasts. Lisette kissed the foam.

“All, but soon she won’t be a total stranger,” Danielle reminded her, her voice muffled by the pulsing shower spray.

Lisette felt Danielle’s nipples harden beneath her lips. The brunette still pressed her eyes tightly shut against the force of the shower, but the other hand cupped Lisette’s head encouragingly. Lisette gently moved her kisses downward along the other girl’s slippery belly, kneeling as she did so. Danielle murmured, and when Lisette’s tongue probed her drenched curls, she shifted her legs to let her knees rest beneath the blonde girl’s shoulders. The shower massage dropped from her fingers.

Lisette made love to her with a passion that surprised her—spontaneous, suddenly fierce, unlike their usual tenderness together. Her lips and tongue pressed into Danielle almost ravenously, her own ecstasy even more intense than that which she was drawing from Danielle. Danielle gasped and clung to the shower rail with one hand, her other fist clenched upon the curtain, sobbing as a long orgasm shuddered through her.

“Please, darling!” Danielle finally managed to beg. “My legs are too wobbly to hold me up any longer!”

She drew away. Lisette raised her face.

“Oh!”

Lisette rose to her feet with drugged movements. Her wide eyes at last registered Danielle’s startled expression. She touched her lips and turned to look in the bathroom mirror.

“I’m sorry,” Danielle put her arm about her shoulder. “I must have started my period. I didn’t realize...”

Lisette stared at the blood-smeared face in the fogged shaving mirror.

Danielle caught her as she started to slump.



•VII•

She was conscious of the cold rain that pelted her face, washing from her nostrils the too-sweet smell of decaying flowers. Slowly she opened her eyes onto darkness and mist. Rain fell steadily, spiritlessly, gluing her white gown to her drenched flesh. She had been walking in her sleep again.

Wakefulness seemed forever in coming to her, so that only by slow degrees did she become aware of herself, of her surroundings. For a moment she felt as if she were a chess-piece arrayed upon a board in a darkened room. All about her, stone monuments crowded together, their weathered surfaces streaming with moisture. She felt neither fear nor surprise that she stood in a cemetery.

She pressed her bare arms together across her breasts. Water ran over her pale skin as smoothly as upon the marble tombstones, and though her flesh felt as cold as the drenched marble, she did not feel chilled. She stood barefoot, her hair clinging to her shoulders above the low-necked cotton gown that was all she wore.

Automatically, her steps carried her through the darkness, as if following a familiar path through the maze of glistening stone. She knew where she was: this was Highgate Cemetery. She could not recall how she knew that, since she had no memory of ever having been to this place before. No more could she think how she knew her steps were taking her deeper into the cemetery instead of toward the gate.

A splash of color trickled onto her breast, staining its paleness as the rain dissolved it into a red rose above her heart.

She opened her mouth to scream, and a great bubble of unswallowed blood spewed from her lips.



“Elisabeth! Elisabeth!”

“Lisette! Lisette!”

Whose voice called her?

“Lisette! You can wake up now, Lisette.”

Dr Magnus’s face peered into her own. Was there sudden concern behind that urbane mask?

“You’re awake now, Miss Seyrig. Everything is all right.”

Lisette stared back at him for a moment, uncertain of her reality, as if suddenly awakened from some profound nightmare.

“I... I thought I was dead.” Her eyes still held her fear.

Dr Magnus smiled to reassure her. “Somnambulism, my dear. You remembered an episode of sleepwalking from a former life. Tell me, have you yourself ever walked in your sleep?”

Lisette pressed her hands to her face, abruptly examined her fingers. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t think so.”

She sat up, searched in her bag for her compact. She paused for a moment before opening the mirror.

“Dr Magnus, I don’t think I care to continue these sessions.” She stared at her reflection in fascination, not touching her makeup, and when she snapped the case shut, the frightened strain began to relax from her face. She wished she had a cigarette.

Dr Magnus sighed and pressed his fingertips together, leaning back in his chair; watched her fidget with her clothing as she sat nervously on the edge of the couch.

“Do you really wish to terminate our exploration? We have, after all, made excellent progress during these last few sessions.”

“Have we?”

“We have, indeed. You have consistently remembered incidents from the life of one Elisabeth Beresford, a young English lady living in London at the close of the last century. To the best of your knowledge of your family history, she is not an ancestress.”

Dr Magnus leaned forward, seeking to impart his enthusiasm. “Don’t you see how important this is? If Elisabeth Beresford was not your ancestress, then there can be no question of genetic memory being involved. The only explanation must therefore be reincarnation—proof of the immortality of the soul. To establish this I must first confirm the existence of Elisabeth Beresford, and from that demonstrate that no familial bond exists between the two of you. We simply must explore this further.”

“Must we? I meant, what progress have we made toward helping me, Dr Magnus? It’s all very good for you to be able to confirm your theories of reincarnation, but that doesn’t do anything for me. If anything, the nightmares have grown more disturbing since we began these sessions.”

“Then perhaps we dare not stop.”

“What do you mean? ” Lisette wondered what he might do if she suddenly bolted from the room.

“I mean that the nightmares will grow worse regardless of whether you decide to terminate our sessions. Your unconscious self is struggling to tell you some significant message from a previous existence. It will continue to do so no matter how stubbornly you will yourself not to listen. My task is to help you listen to this voice, to understand the message it must impart to you—and with this understanding and self-awareness, you will experience inner peace. Without my help... Well, to be perfectly frank, Miss Seyrig, you are in some danger of a complete emotional breakdown.”

Lisette slumped back against the couch. She felt on the edge of panic and wished Danielle were here to support her.

“Why are my memories always nightmares?” Her voice shook, and she spoke slowly to control it.

“But they aren’t always frightening memories, my dear. It’s just that the memory of some extremely traumatic experience often seeks to come to the fore. You would expect some tremendously emotional laden memory to be a potent one.”

“Is Elisabeth Beresford... dead?”

“Assuming she was approximately twenty years of age at the time of Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee, she would have been past one hundred today. Besides, Miss Seyrig, her soul has been born again as your own. It must therefore follow...”

“Dr Magnus. I don’t want to know how Elisabeth Beresford died.”

“Of course,” Dr Magnus told her gently. “Isn’t that quite obvious?”