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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.

With seemingly boundless determination—granted by the Hindu god of divine love—Sean set out to save his partnership. On his way to work, he began making a mental checklist of all the romantic, passionate gestures he could show Xavier. Then he scratched that list for a more realistic approach of queries. How do I convince Xavier to get help for his depression? How will I get him to reengage with me? What can I do to support him during what must be such a hard time in his, well, our, life?

Shortly after arriving at his desk in the bullpen-style layout of Muzzik, Sean’s boss called him for a consult. “Today,” she explained, “you’ll be on a beta project. We’re calling it Muzzikick. We’re finding those rare, hidden gems the public doesn’t know about yet.”

“Who will I be teamed with,” Sean inquired, since all projects at his workplace were group based.

“That’s what makes this beta project so exciting. Instead of teaming with Muzzik colleagues, you’ll be with one of the potentials.”

“Potentials,” Sean asked quizzically.

“Yes, he has the potential to break into the music scene in a big, big way. We’ve found him, and we want you to evaluate whether he’s one of the gems we should promote.”

Sean wasn’t sure he was the right person for this gig, but, hey, it would be a change of pace from appeasing customers’ numerous complaints by tweaking algorithms. He readied himself by grabbing a pen and pad of paper as well as requesting one of the soundproof booths on the third floor of Muzzik’s five-story building. Then he waited.

As is often the case with creative types, the musician arrived late. His long hair tied back, with little braids falling forward toward his angular face covered in a semi-beard—a bohemian look or a feeble attempt at growing facial hair, Sean didn’t know—the musician introduced himself by his stage name, Sage.

“So, Sage, what is the special sound you’ve got going?”

“Well…I’m not much of a talker. I’ll let you listen.” Sage began to unpack his Neopolitan mandolin, its almond-shaped body with a deep bowl created from curved strips of glued-together wood. He then tuned the instrument using the geared metal tuners to slacken or tighten the metal strings. Finally, he began to strum.

Sean heard notes of such spiritual beauty he was moved to tears. When Sage finished with a soft, lilting strum of the mandolin’s strings, Sean asked him to share his composing secret for the song he’d just performed.

“Well…I was in my loft studio, which is filled with light, and I cranked the windows wide open for some fresh air.” Sage stopped his narrative.

“Yes, go on,” Sean prompted.

After a few too many uncomfortable silent beats, Sage continued. “I grabbed my mandolin and waited. I thought to myself: ‘I am a musician who should compose something. But what?’ At that moment, a soft wind from the open window tickled my ear. It seemed to whisper, ‘Hymn.’”

“OK—”

Sage hurriedly continued, “I felt as if I were fingerless, unable to strum the beautiful sound I craved. I thought, ‘I must reach down deep to feel the waves of emotion.’ A mockingbird disturbed my reverie with something that sounded like ‘Hymn.’”

“You don’t say,” Sean replied incredulously.

“I puzzled over my lacking, ‘Why, oh why can I not interpret my devotional feelings into song?’ Suddenly, through my window in popped a hummingbird, buzzing what sounded like a single word: ‘Hymn.’”

Sean began to doodle comical renderings of Sage on his notepad out of sight of the musician, who was enraptured with his tale.

“Then my heart became full. Inspiration at last! A goose flying south honked ‘Hymn.’ I made my mandolin smile. I thought, ‘I will share this with the world.’ And a car horn bleated ‘Hymn.’ I thanked Hindu seer Bharadvaja for helping me compose the song. Bharadvaja said, ‘True devotion is true love.’”

Sage concluded his story by placing his hands together at heart center, bowing his head, and reverently saying “Hymn.”

Once the musician departed, Sean shook his head in disbelief. He glanced at his pad, where he’d written: “7 Hymns” and “bah-ROD-va-JAUS-a.” I don’t remember writing those notes. Before submitting his report to his supervisor, Sean decided to do an online search for Sage’s Indian guy. According to a well-known yoga website,

Bharadvaja was one of seven seers who composed the hymns featured in the Vedas, which are texts from ancient India written in Vedic Sanskrit. The Vedas form the oldest layer of Sanskrit literature as well as the oldest Hindu scriptures.

Juliana hears a voice

SHOULD I HAVE NICK BELIEVE HE WAS SLIPPED SOMETHING IN HIS NONALCOHOLIC DRINK AT THE PARTY?

Nick slammed the back door and stomped down the creaky steps. After striding an acre through the ancient oak trees to the clearing at the edge of the property, he paused to take in the moonless night sky. If he kept going past the property line, he would tumble down the crag to the road into town. So Nick stayed put and listened to his breathing slow down and looked into the inkiness as a star twinkled just like in the nursery song.

He considered and reconsidered the debate he’d had with Bella. OK, not a debate so much as a fight. Nothing physical. Before Bella came into his life, he’d hit anyone that got between him and his Jim Beam. But that was then. Now, Nick tried his best for Bella. He hadn’t had a drop of whiskey, or anything else, in three months. He never knew life could be this way, spending his days as a teetotaler. Boring, oh so boring, except when he spent time with his Bella. Envisioning her long, wild golden curls and catlike green eyes, Nick cracked a half-smile of admiration. During their on-again, off-again relationship, she put up with lots of his antics.

One time, he and his brother tried to sneak onto Camp Pendleton from their beach camping site—just to see if they could. The result? Lots of guns pointed at them. Ended with the two of them escorted to the front entrance and unceremoniously kicked to the curb. They had to walk miles back to camp. At least Bella didn’t have to bail him out of jail that time.

When Nick took what he thought was his friend’s car for a joy ride, well, the ride didn’t end too well. Turns out, he had hopped in the wrong car. Should have checked out the interior a bit closer to notice a lack of fast-food trash littering the back and the missing Mardi Gras beads hanging from the rearview mirror. Bella had quite the displeased expression on her face when she footed the bill for his bail.

And then Nick had the bright—Bella always claimed dim—idea to grow weed in the brush behind her rental. Almost ended with her singing the jailhouse blues.

Bella finally got Nick to see that his actions hurt others, including her.

“I’ve been a bad person,” Nick muttered into the nighttime. “I was foolish in my ways. But now. . .”

“Now you want mercy?” came a disembodied voice.

What the. . . no one slipped me a mickey at the dinner party earlier, thought Nick. I didn’t take a hit off the joint passed around the patio during dessert. . . I no longer drunk-dial people. . . I don’t think I’m hallucinating. . .

“Mercy is what you desire,” rephrased the booming voice seemingly coming from the inky blackness above.

“Yes,” Nick hesitantly replied.

“Now you will follow the path of goodness?”

“I will stay on the straight and narrow, yes,” Nick said as he wondered who he was talking to.

“I am Hindu Lord Vishnu, and I am the embodiment of goodness. I dole out mercy to those who, like you, are true of heart. Stay on the path of good, and I will travel by your side.”

“OK, um, cool,” said Nick.

An owl hooted into the quiet night. Nick stared into the universe, silently naming constellations, waiting.

After several minutes of standing in the cool air, Nick questioned what he was waiting for. It is clearly past time for him to hit the hay. The gentle breeze rustled the oak leaves, the sound Nick’s traveling companion on his walk back to the thousand-square-foot house.

Nick crept into the bedroom, careful not to wake his sleeping Bella. Slipping under the cozy covers, he moved his body close to hers for some spooning.

“Hi,” she mumbled.

“Hello, beautiful. Are we OK?”

“Yeah, babe, we’re OK,” Bella sighed.

Nick ran his fingers through her soft, silky hair then rested his hand on her hip, drifting off to the wonderment of the night promising him mercy.

With eyes still closed, Nick reached his arm across the bed, running his calloused hand along the shapeless, empty sheets, feeling for his Bella. Where had she gone, he questioned in his muzzy, half-asleep mind. Before Nick awoke, Bella had left the house to run her cleaning service. If she could, she would scour Nick’s insobriety with baking soda till it shined true like the kitchen sink, sweep his indiscretions under their threadbare Oriental rug in the living room, and tuck his criminal record under the bed as she made a military corner.

Before Nick awoke, Bella had left the house to run her cleaning service. If she could, she would scour Nick’s insobriety with baking soda till it shined true like the kitchen sink, sweep his indiscretions under their threadbare Oriental rug in the living room, and tuck his criminal record under the bed as she made a military corner.

Ah, yes, his morning lark had flown away early this morning to begin her workday. Nick, though, was a night owl, staying up so late it was hard to rouse himself for another day as the helpful handyman.

He pulled on his weathered jeans, superhero T-shirt, plaid flannel overshirt, and tan work boots. Coffee steamed from his favorite ceramic mug, which was crafted without a handle to fit his oversized hand.

Nick slid into the Adirondack rocker on the front porch. He sipped and rocked, sipped and rocked, thinking about the previous evening. Shrill brakes of a garbage truck on the road below startled Jack out of his reverie. “Crap,” he exclaimed, reacting to the hot coffee he spilled all over himself.

INSERT CARLITA’S EARLY INDOCTRINATION INTO BELIEVING IN GHOSTS AND SUCH FROM PLAYING WITH HER MOM’S OUIJA BOARD

After binging on another season of an idiotic television series not worth mentioning, Carlita began to nod off in her purple corduroy upholstered loveseat. The chin-length, wavy brown hair she had tucked behind her ear slowly crept forward, falling in front of her eyes, casting a veil. As she hovered between wakefulness and sleep, Carlita thought she heard dulcet tones whisper in her ear: “How shall I go on?”

“What’s wrong,” wondered Carlita. As a believer in ghosts and the afterlife, she wanted to help what sounded like a desperately lost soul.

“What will I do,” the wispy voice asked, “without my loved one whom I treasured so?”

Carlita was stopped cold by the ghost’s query. Not three weeks before, her beloved husband, John, had died in a terrible car crash. A nasty drunk driver had T-boned him in the intersection two blocks from their apartment. John had left work early, wanting to surprise Carlita hours before her big interview. As she made her way to the scene, she spied multicolored rose petals littering the blacktop, giving off her favorite scent. Now the pungent aroma made her gag on sorrow.

“Oh, the unfairness of it all,” lamented the sorrowful voice.

“Were you at the crash?” Carlita straightened up in her chair. “Are you a soul lost in transition? John, is that you? Do you know how much I—”

“To never kiss again,” interrupted the soft yet persistent whisperer, “to never feel the closeness of synchronized heartbeats.”

The notion of hearts beating together as one, such a lyrical concept. . . Carlita—now wide-awake—puzzled over who could be conveying such intimate details to her. Absentmindedly, she slipped her hand in the pocket of her brown, hand-knit sweater and rubbed John’s wedding band between her fingers—the ring yet another reminder of her crushing loss.

The poetic voice continued: “Without the love of my life, I will never eat, never drink, never breathe in life again. I cannot, no, it would be cheating.”

“Who are you,” Carlita asked.

“I am the Hindu goddess Dhumavati, known as the eternal widow, and I mourn all those lost loves.”

“Dhumavati? I’ve never heard of you. Are you there with my John? Can you get a message to him?”

Silence. Carlita’s heart skipped a beat as she waited for a reply. More silence. As the seconds dragged on to minutes, the silence chilled Carlita deep into her bones. After staying motionless, seemingly in a trance, waiting, waiting, waiting, she snapped to. Carlita ran to find the laptop among her scattered papers on her desk to look up this “Dhumavati.” She read the first paragraph of an entry on an encyclopedia site:

From the Sanskrit, meaning “the smoky one,” Dhumavati is one of the ten Tantric goddesses. She represents the fearsome aspect of the Hindu Divine Mother. Often portrayed as an old, ugly widow, she is associated with things considered inauspicious. Worship of Dhumavati is thought ideal for widows and bachelors. Though there are few temples dedicated to Dhumavati, her worship by Tantric ritual continues in secluded locations such as forests and cremation grounds.

So, Carlita thought, I’m supposed to worship this ugly old goddess at a crematory? How bizarre. She could not put aside her disappointment. If only this Hindu widow had really come to her from the spirit world, Carlita might have had one more chance at communicating her love to John.

She felt her guilt well up as tears streamed down her face. Recalling the final conversation she’d had with John, Carlita cringed at her blasé attitude toward him. She was so preoccupied with preparing for her law firm interview that she did not even wish him a good day before leaving, much less tell him of the depth of her love. Oh, the unfairness of it all, indeed.

After abandoning the computer screen, Carlita dragged herself to the bathroom, going through the nighttime rituals of teeth brushing and such by route without noticing his commonplace items, now momento mori, littering the bathroom, including his green-handled toothbrush. As she reclined on her side of the king-size bed, she wondered to what lengths she might go to let her John know just how much she loves him. Loved him—for he was gone, gone, gone.

Before drifting off, Carlita made a mental note to visit the town’s local wellness center to peruse its listings of mediums to try to reconnect with her unearthly visitor. And in her heart, Carlita held tight the wish that this Dhumavati goddess, ghost, or whatever she was, just might reunite her with her dead husband.