Carlita never dreamed she’d be a widow at twenty-eight. How could it be—John was here one day and with the shriek of metal on metal gone forevermore?
More and more, Carlita wondered whether grief had taken over her analytical mind. First she heard a Hindu goddess lament lost loves. Now she allowed a clairvoyant called Willow talk her into meeting at John’s grave at midnight to try to contact him.
She pondered the two possible outcomes if the clairvoyant reached her dead husband. Carlita might hear her own callous words repeated back to her. She shuttered at the remembrance of their final exchange—she too busy preparing for a job interview to even bother to wish him a good day, much less pour out her heart. And what if John did not communicate anything? Carlita’s visceral reaction to that possibility quickly led her to pass out momentarily from hyperventilating.
As the clock ticked toward the witching hour, Carlita imagined a moonless night. Because the adjoining church held too much of her sorrow, Carlita would make her way along the back path through tangled overhung tree branches to John’s headstone. Her mind leapt to a petite blond in a flowing, shimmery white dress, beckoning to her with open arms. Carlita wondered whether the clairvoyant would illuminate the séance with only blood-red, dripping candles.
Before Carlita left their—no, her—apartment, she remembered Willow’s instructions to bring three possessions: an object from John’s childhood, one embodying his contentment, and something to signify his love. Carlita pocketed his onionskin shooter, jasper mala beads, and platinum wedding band, and headed out the door.
She had buried John less than one month earlier in this graveyard. The marker made of unpolished granite had his full name, birth and death dates, and “Beloved Son, Brother, Uncle, Husband” etched into its solemn face.
Carlita approached the ethereal Willow from behind and croaked out a greeting around the lump of sadness in her throat. The young widow, who stood head and shoulders taller than the clairvoyant, stretched out her hand. Instead of taking it, Willow gently drew Carlita in for a warm embrace. The hug, which seemed to last forever in that moment, lightened Carlita’s tearful burden.
Willow’s sapphire eyes glowed in the light of a nearly full moon, and she asked, “Did you bring the focus objects?”
“Yes,” Carlita replied as she slipped the keepsakes out of the pocket of her brown, hand-knit sweater.
Willow examined the three items in turn. First she held up the large, striped marble to one of the dozen glowing white pillar candles. Then she daintily brought the chunky, squared-off ring to the tip of her tongue. Finally, she closed her eyes and fingered the strand of 108 reddish-brown beads, whispering something to herself. Willow centered the ring on John’s headstone, then balanced the marble atop the ring, and encircled them with the beads.
“Now, let us sit beside the headstone,” Willow instructed, reaching for Carlita’s hands. “Close your eyes and say to him, ‘I am here.’”
“I am here,” mumbled Carlita.
“Again. Louder.”
Though she felt silly, Carlita repeated the phrase.
“Keep going, more, more,” urged Willow.
Carlita repeated the phrase over and over until the words no longer made sense. They were simply sounds erupting from her mouth.
Suddenly, a bone-chilling wind blew through them, shivering the leaves of the oak trees, and Willow shook violently, releasing her firm handhold. Carlita heard someone gasping in terrible pain.
Her eyes flashed open. With the candles no longer glowing and the moon shrouded in clouds, Carlita sought out Willow’s form, patting the ground nearer and nearer the gasps.
To her horror, she discovered the clairvoyant convulsing over sacred ground six feet above John’s casket. Carlita screamed.
In a moment of clarity, she searched her pockets with fumbling fingers, trying to locate her cell phone to call for help. No luck. Then Carlita remembered she’d tucked her phone in the glove compartment. Running blindly toward her car, she stumbled over tree roots, branches scratching her tear-streaked face.
After calling in the emergency, Carlita grabbed her flashlight to return to John’s grave. She discovered Willow cross-legged next to the headstone, as if nothing had happened.
“Are you OK,” Carlita asked.
“Yes, of course,” Willow replied.
“But you were gasping and convulsing and—”
“Sorry if I scared you,” Willow interrupted. “I’m epileptic, and I sometimes have seizures when working.”
“Are you sure you’re alright? Because I called 9-1-1, saying it was an emergency. I imagine the—”
“I’m fine, but we should go.” Willow quickly stood, brushing debris from the folds of her silk dress. She stepped toward Carlita and gave her another hug.
Glancing past Willow, Carlita realized the three keepsakes were no longer on John’s headstone.
“Wait,” Carlita said, pulling away from the hug yet keeping her hands on Willow’s shoulders. “What happened to the keepsakes?”
The clairvoyant gazed deeply into Carlita’s eyes. She then closed her eyes reverently, bowed her head, and uttered in another’s voice, “They are with John now.”
In amazement, Carlita recognized the dulcet tones of Dhumavati, the Hindu goddess of lost loves.
***
The following morning, Carlita called John’s childhood friend, Xavier, to find out whether he could replace the gifted mala beads. Xavier sighed heavily at the enormous effort it would take to get out of bed, much less travel across the Bay Bridge to the little shop that sold the beads seven years ago.
“How did they go missing,” Xavier asked.
Carlita told her tale of meeting the clairvoyant in the graveyard. She included every detail from the previous evening except hearing the voice of the Hindu goddess. She treasured that moment too much to have Xavier sully it with one of his sarcastic remarks.
“You were duped,” Xavier admonished and hung up on Carlita.
She was left wondering whether Willow the clairvoyant was a fake.