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spotlight and thanked the chubby man, who graciously disappeared into the shadows. Dressed in a buckskin jacket he gripped the podium with both hands, squinting into the darkness for almost a minute, while the audience held its breath—rapt, bedazzled by his solemnity. His gaze seemed to settle on someone behind Adriana and Jazz at the back of the room. Adriana was glad that they’d decided to sit closer to the front, where they were safe from his penetrating stare.
    Banks cleared his throat, a sound that managed to express dignity and sobriety, and which, along with the eyebrows (shaggy beyond belief) made Adriana think of Abraham Lincoln. Banks nodded to Jazz, who sat stock still, clutching Adriana’s arm.
    â€œI see a man behind you,” he said, clearing his throat. It was a perfectly ordinary voice, neither deep nor sonorous, not what Adriana was expecting. “What is your name, young lady?”
    Jazz was speechless.
    â€œYes, you,” Banks said, nodding in her direction.
    â€œJasmine O’Connell” said Jazz. Adriana had never heard her call herself by her full name before.
    Banks gazed at her for a moment. “This man says that he is related to you.” Banks frowned slightly. “He died many years ago. Do you know him?” Jazz nodded and sobbed. Banks softened. “He says he is sorry for leaving you alone.” At this point Jazz’s tears were uncontrollable.
    â€œHe says that he has been watching over you, even though you have grown up without him.” Jazz nodded silently. Adriana gaped. “He wants to give you his blessing, before he goes into the Light,” he continued. Jazz bowed her head and Banks waved his hand over her. “And he needs your blessing before he can depart.” Jazz looked up, eyes wide. “Yes,” Banks said, “He requires you to release him.” Jazz’s lips parted.
    â€œI release you,” she whispered.
    Bartholomew Banks waved his arms with a flourish. “Go to the Light,” he commanded. And soundlessly a door closed, a light withered and a wound in the air healed itself.
    Adriana held onto Jazz, who was shaking. “Are you okay?” she whispered. Jazz nodded. Her face was radiant, peaceful, joyful even. Adriana wasn’t sure why she felt anxious. Bartholomew Banks was smiling now.
    â€œAnd you,” he said pointing to Adriana. She sat motionless, as Jazz dabbed her eyes with a tissue. Bank’s eyebrows drew together. “You have a wraith following you.” Adriana looked blank. “It’s a woman.” Bartholomew Banks said, his brow furrowed. “She’s saying… she’s upset… it’s hard to make out the words.” He listened to the air once more. Adriana felt her heart beating in her ears. “She says that… you have everything… that there’s nothing you need.”
    Adriana felt like she’d been struck. Could this really be her mother? She tried to picture Viera saying those words. The mother she imagined looked exasperated, throwing her hands in the air and turning on her heel to storm out of Adriana’s bedroom. Adriana watched her go, in the gathering darkness. In her imagination, the bottle of sleeping pills fell over as her mother slammed the door.
    The audience was stirring a little, restlessly awaiting their turn. Bartholomew Banks raised his arms in the air and brought his hands down slowly, like a conductor quieting an orchestra. He smiled for the first time, his blue eyes sparkling under the hood of his eyebrows. “The Dead only talk when you invite them to. Otherwise they are rather quiet.” Banks said, smiling apologetically.
    â€œJazz,” Adriana whispered. Jazz, still beaming, looked at Adriana “Do you feel better?” Jazz nodded blissfully. Adriana looked down at her hands. She wished she could say the same.
    For the remainder of the evening, Bartholomew Banks was able to connect each