THE GAP WIDENS.

MY PARENTS SEPARATED WHEN I I WAS IN THE SIXTH GRADE WAS IN THE SIXTH GRADE, and my mother and I went to live with my grandmother in Glen Cove to save on rent. I'd come home for lunch every day and watch soap operas with my grandmother and eat leftover macaroni and meatb.a.l.l.s smothered in warmed-up gravy. (I don't mean to offend other Italians out there, but in my house, the red stuff simmering in the pot all day was called "gravy," not "sauce.") I was an independent kid who never wanted to accept an allowance from my mom because I saw how hard she worked and didn't want to contribute to her burden. So from age twelve on, I I worked-nabbing my first job at a local hair salon, Foxy Lady, as a "go-fer" boy. I would go for coffee, tea, bagels, dry cleaning-whatever they wanted, I went and got it. worked-nabbing my first job at a local hair salon, Foxy Lady, as a "go-fer" boy. I would go for coffee, tea, bagels, dry cleaning-whatever they wanted, I went and got it.

Because of this job, I also never had to go to my dad for money, which exasperated him. He told me once that he was always waiting for the day I'd come to him and need him for something. But I'd inherited his stubbornness. I never wanted to ask him for anything, especially cash, because I always knew that the price for asking would be too high.

Besides his problem with alcohol, another major issue I had with my father was that he attached "conditions" to everything-nothing happened in his life unless it was on his terms. If I asked for help (which I rarely did), it was a big production. Yet he was always there for his friends, whether it was some police buddy who needed a favor or a friend with a military training camp who needed Dad's expertise. My father helped other people but was absent for my mother and me.

When I was in elementary school, I took my Uncle Joey to Father-and-Son Day because Dad was busy at a military meeting. He didn't show up for any of my piano compet.i.tions or recitals either-I'm guessing because they weren't macho enough for him. Ditto with my high school graduation. Like that lady in San Francisco, the other kids I went to school with didn't think I had had a father-just a mother and a grandmother. a father-just a mother and a grandmother.

I remember the one time I gave in on the money issue, and only served to prove myself right. I was about fourteen, and VCRs had just became popular. My Aunt Theresa, my mother's older sister, was one of the first to buy one from the local video store. By this time I'd graduated from my job at the beauty salon to washing dishes at the nearby deli, a definite promotion. Even so, I knew I couldn't afford a VCR on my own.

Aware of what a TV and movie buff I was, Aunt Theresa convinced the manager of Video Quest to purchase one wholesale for me if I wanted it. The cost? Only $700 (it's hard to believe you can buy one today for something like 50 bucks). Well, it might as well have been seven thousand thousand. I was making $3.35 an hour scrubbing plates for twenty hours a week, so it would have taken me more than a year to save that much. My mother had a job as an executive secretary for Columbia Ribbon and Carbon, and while her paycheck put food on the table, it wasn't enough for such luxuries.

"Johnny, I'd love to buy it," my mother told me, "but we can't afford it." And then she said it: "Why don't you ask your father?"

There she goes again, was all I could think-trying to get me together with Dad any way she could. There was no way I was going to ask him to buy it for me. But after much thought, I decided I'd ask him for a loan. I figured if I was paying him back, he couldn't hold it over my head. It was one of the only times in my life I ever asked him for anything at all. I called him up, gave him my big pitch, and was shot down.

He told me he'd only lend me the money if, after he had a "meeting" with his three other siblings, they all agreed I was "worthy" of the loan. No joke. Well, all my fourteen-year-old brain could register at that moment was the word worthy worthy, and I felt empty inside. I was standing in my grandmother's kitchen, with the receiver to my ear, silent and numb. And when I could finally speak, I thanked my father for teaching me an important lesson that day: to never ask anyone for anything ever again for as long as I lived.

I can only think of one occasion when my father did something for me that was completely unconditional. In my junior year of high school, he showed up unannounced on my doorstep dangling a pair of car keys . . . for me. On the driveway was a cherry-red, secondhand 1979 Chevette-a gift I was not expecting and, of course, didn't ask for. He handed me the keys to this old, beat-up car-which to me was as precious as a Mercedes-Benz-and on the key chain were the words My Keys My Keys. He asked me if I understood what that meant, and I nodded yes. He didn't want anyone else driving this car-it was mine. And for once, his "condition" wasn't a control issue. He wanted this to be something special between the two of us, and also, he was concerned for my safety if someone else was at the wheel.

I got in the driver's seat with my dad in the pa.s.senger seat beside me, and I turned on the ignition. Before I stepped on the gas pedal, he put his hand on my shoulder.

"Son . . . be careful be careful," he told me, ". . . and never let the gas gauge get too low." And with that advice, we took a spin in my new wheels. We drove around for hours-to the beach, to the McDonald's drive-thru for lunch, across town and back with the windows open and the wind whipping against us. It was so great. To this day, I still have my keys on that key chain because it symbolizes the only time I ever felt us really connect . . . and I cherish it.

When my mother was near the end of her battle with cancer, she left the hospital to spend her last days at home. About eight of her ten siblings came over to see how my mom-and their mom (my grandma)-were holding up. In the midst of this family congregation, in walked my dad. He saw what looked like this big family meeting, pulled me aside, and demanded I speak with him upstairs in my room in private in private. It was the first time in my entire life that I thought he was going to hit me; he was furious because he felt left out once again.

By this stage in the game, I wasn't really sleeping or eating much and didn't have an ounce more of energy or patience in me. After what was probably the biggest, loudest argument we ever had, he stormed out of the house. The next few days were tough, and every morning and night my cousin Roseann (Little Ro) came over to help me take care of my mom-feeding her, bathing her . . . everything.

One night the phone rang and it was my dad's sister, Gwen. I'd like to say she was calling to find out how my mom was doing, or even me for that matter, but that wasn't the case.

"I just want you to know that if your father goes back to drinking over this, it's your fault it's your fault. . . ."

"What are you talking about?"

"I just spoke to him, and he told me what happened at your grandmother's house, and-"

In total shock, I cut her off mid-sentence. "The only person I have a responsibility to is the woman who's in the next room dying, and to her mother, my grandmother, who's watching this take place. My father is an adult and will have to act accordingly. This conversation is over over." I slammed down the phone.

CYCLE INTERRUPTED.

MY MOTHER LEFT THIS WORLD on October 5, 1989, and up until the end, she was hoping that I'd mend my relationship with my dad and his family. So I continued to try, but I kept getting blindsided. In one of our last conversations, my father telephoned and began with, "Congratulations! I'm a new uncle . . . what does that make you?" on October 5, 1989, and up until the end, she was hoping that I'd mend my relationship with my dad and his family. So I continued to try, but I kept getting blindsided. In one of our last conversations, my father telephoned and began with, "Congratulations! I'm a new uncle . . . what does that make you?"

"Uh . . . how about confused? confused?" I answered. "Did someone adopt a baby?"

"No . . . no one was adopted," he said. "My sister had a baby boy! Isn't that great?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"Why would I joke about that?"

"You're calling me up to tell me that she gave birth? What happened to the phone call . . . oh . . . I don't know, maybe six months ago, announcing the fact that she was expecting?"

"Well, it's her business," he said.

"Ookaaaaaay, then, if I wasn't good enough to know about it then, why am I good enough to know about it now? now?" I don't think he kept the pregnancy news from me to hurt me or ignore me on purpose. But what I was feeling was a big buildup of so many frustrations, and it was all linked to the way his family dealt with every-thing-under wraps, shrouded in secret, don't discuss it.

And I was also feeling like that teenager again, being told I wasn't "worthy" enough.

My father immediately became defensive and went on the attack. He claimed that my mother was too possessive of me as a child and because of her, I never truly understood the way "his" family thought and acted. He told me I was too Italian.

"Too Italian?!" I repeated. Who knew there could be such a thing? His attack on my mom's parenting skills and half my heritage sent me into orbit. We went a few rounds on the phone until The Boys b.u.t.ted in and started feeding me information. (Recently, my guides had started to show me insights about my dad and our relationship.) I repeated. Who knew there could be such a thing? His attack on my mom's parenting skills and half my heritage sent me into orbit. We went a few rounds on the phone until The Boys b.u.t.ted in and started feeding me information. (Recently, my guides had started to show me insights about my dad and our relationship.) "Wait! Stop! I have to say something," I told my father. "My guides are shedding some light on what's happening here, and I want to tell you-"

"Your what? what?" he interrupted, in an Archie Bunker-ish tone. He wasn't amused.

"My guides guides," I repeated, with pride. "The unseen energies that work with me when I do my psychic work, remember? Your son is a psychic medium Your son is a psychic medium. He talks to dead people." I said it as if I were speaking to a deaf person, very loud and very deliberately, and also very sarcastically.

Ever since I'd begun this work, my father hadn't been supportive of it-he wanted me to follow in his footsteps and become a police officer. In my early twenties, when I was doing psychic readings as a sideline while working as a phlebotomist, he wondered why I was wasting my time. So when I decided to pursue my abilities as a medium full-time, all he said was: "Just don't use my name." Which is why I never used my original last name, McGee-Dad didn't want me to "tarnish" his good name, so my middle name, Edward, became my last name professionally-and now personally.

"And what what," my father continued to ridicule me, "do these unseen scholars unseen scholars have to say?" I took a deep breath and told him what I was shown. have to say?" I took a deep breath and told him what I was shown.

"They show me . . . you . . . on the phone arguing with your your dad," I told him, "and then he died. Then they showed me the arguments you and your mother had at night on the phone. I used to ask Mom all the time why you and Grandma fought like that, and why you spoke with her like that, and Mom tried to minimize the fighting. . . ." dad," I told him, "and then he died. Then they showed me the arguments you and your mother had at night on the phone. I used to ask Mom all the time why you and Grandma fought like that, and why you spoke with her like that, and Mom tried to minimize the fighting. . . ."

There was silence on the other end of the phone line. I knew he hated how personal I was getting, but I wasn't about to stop.

"And after Grandma died, the arguments were turned to home. You and Mom argued all the time-day, night, weekend . . . it was constant."

"I loved loved your mother," Dad insisted. your mother," Dad insisted.

"I don't doubt you both loved each other," I replied. "I think that was clear. But after Grandma died, Mom was next in line for you to argue with. And now that she's gone, it's me."

My guides showed me that, because of how my father was raised, he needed to create conflict with someone to feel that he was relating to them. Unfortunately, the person he'd be "relating" to would end up wanting to choke the c.r.a.p out of him. I told him all this, and made it very clear that this pattern of conflict was stopping right here, and if he wanted to have a relationship with me, I had my own communication rules and they were simple: "Respect me and treat me like the adult I am. Let's try to have a friendship."

Silence.

"You're just as sick as your mother," was my dad's response, "and I should have taken you away from her and her family a long time ago." Click Click.

If my guides, or even my mother, were trying to transmit messages from above on how to mend this painful relationship, our lines were sure getting crossed.

In light of the above, the big question on everyone's lips when I was planning my wedding a few years later was would I invite my dad? Yes, I invited him and his family-I wanted them there, if only to honor my mother's wishes and have the family together. Unfortunately, none of them responded to the wedding invitations. I remember talking about this with my cousin Phyllis. I told her that not only did I think they wouldn't come, but I knew they wouldn't even respond, and they proved me right. Phyllis was so baffled by their actions that I had to laugh.

"Now you finally understand what I've been talking about," I told her, "but my father will just say I didn't give him or his family proper respect for one thing or another, and that's why they're not coming." Phyllis, not the shy type, telephoned my father shortly after the wedding to get to the bottom of it. When he answered the phone, she asked him point blank why he hadn't come to the wedding. His response was verbatim what I'd guessed he'd say a la Rodney Dangerfield: No respect, can't get no respect No respect, can't get no respect.

I didn't talk to my father for years after that. I'd finally decided, as I mentioned earlier, that the relationship was too toxic to continue. No matter what my mother's hopes were for us, our relationship seemed too messed up to fix-at least, not in this this lifetime or on lifetime or on this this plane. We couldn't seem to get it right. Trying to work it out was more painful than beneficial, so I let it go. plane. We couldn't seem to get it right. Trying to work it out was more painful than beneficial, so I let it go.

Or so I thought. Three years ago Sandra got into a heavy discussion with two of her female friends-students at her dance studio-who are psychologists. The topic for that afternoon's Girl Talk session? John and his profound "dad issues." Both of these women had seen Crossing Over Crossing Over and noticed I rarely mentioned my dad or his family in my endless homespun anecdotes. In fact, they pointed out, Sandra and I barely mentioned my dad or his family even in conversation among friends. "John has a lot of father issues to resolve," they told her, in that serious-toned, therapist-speak. and noticed I rarely mentioned my dad or his family in my endless homespun anecdotes. In fact, they pointed out, Sandra and I barely mentioned my dad or his family even in conversation among friends. "John has a lot of father issues to resolve," they told her, in that serious-toned, therapist-speak.

When Sandra got home that night, she relayed their professional opinion to me over dinner, and I have to say, their comments really bothered me. I'd worked hard on these so-called issues, and as far as I was concerned, I'd reached a pretty good place about the whole thing, thank you very much. My dad and I kept our distance, and it worked fine for both of us that way.

I knew that my father followed what was happening in my life through the show and my media appearances and had come to respect my work somewhat. We e-mailed sporadically, and when Miss Cleo, the infamous 1-900 psychic hotline lady, was embroiled in all that scandalous fraud and court trouble, my father sent me an e-mail saying he hoped people wouldn't lump me into the same category as her her, since I was providing a service that helped people, and not ripping them off. I had to pick myself off the floor after reading that! that!

Then there was the time I was paged off the set of Crossing Over Crossing Over with an urgent message. In total "Jack" style, my father had elicited the help of the police station around the corner from our studio to get the private studio phone number. The reason? A writer from with an urgent message. In total "Jack" style, my father had elicited the help of the police station around the corner from our studio to get the private studio phone number. The reason? A writer from Details Details magazine who'd interviewed me had located my dad in Florida and wanted to interview magazine who'd interviewed me had located my dad in Florida and wanted to interview him him for the story to get the goods on this "mystery" father and our relationship-or lack thereof. for the story to get the goods on this "mystery" father and our relationship-or lack thereof.

My father was frantic and didn't know what to do, but at the same time, I could hear in his voice how excited he was that this journalist wanted to talk to him. I told him to do the interview if he wanted, but that the intrepid reporter would probably ask him about things he might not want to discuss-namely, the difficulties in our relationship. And I told him that the reporter would most likely also ask about the development of my psychic abilities-one of many questions my father wouldn't be able to answer since he wasn't around for that . . . or for a lot of things.

My dad decided not to do the interview, later telling my Aunt Theresa that he didn't want to do anything that would hurt me or my work. Each e-mail he sent to me, he signed "Daddy," and that felt a bit strange. There was still a thin, thin thread between us that hadn't been severed yet-which held the promise of one day getting stronger. But at this point, I felt that I'd dealt with our past and was beyond it all.

FATHER TIME.

TWO NIGHTS AFTER S SANDRA TOLD ME about her therapist friends' diagnosis of my lingering father issues, we went to see the movie about her therapist friends' diagnosis of my lingering father issues, we went to see the movie Frequency Frequency, starring Dennis Quaid. The plot centers around the relationship between a firefighter father and his son, and how different the son's life might have been if his father hadn't died an untimely death and been absent during the kid's formative years. In a kind of supernatural Field of Dreams Field of Dreams twist, the father is sort of brought back to life, and the two are given a second chance to work on their relationship. twist, the father is sort of brought back to life, and the two are given a second chance to work on their relationship.

The film really got to me, and I was mush by the time the credits rolled. Afterwards, as Sandra and I silently walked through the parking lot to the car, I looked at her and started laughing through my tears. What, she asked, was so funny?

"Not funny," I corrected her, "ironic!" "ironic!"

Watching that movie opened up a big emotional well in me and made me realize that I'd done a good job ignoring this relationship without dealing with those primal, core childhood feelings of not having a dad in my life. Even though I had my Uncle Joey and my cousin Glenn as great father figures, I didn't have a dad. And that realization hit me strong. Sandra's friends were right . . . I still had my dad issues. It was a startling realization for a grown man of thirty. How was I supposed to fix this? The idea of instigating a heart-to-heart with dear ol' Dad like families do on all those Afterschool Specials Afterschool Specials felt totally foreign to me, and I knew that neither of us was up for any major surgery like that. We just weren't ready to deal with each other yet. We didn't have the tools to do it. felt totally foreign to me, and I knew that neither of us was up for any major surgery like that. We just weren't ready to deal with each other yet. We didn't have the tools to do it.

I kept my revelations at bay until two years later, when we found out Sandra was pregnant. The prospect of becoming a dad brought all those feelings up in me again: feelings of being abandoned by him, of being "unworthy," concerns that as a dad myself, the cycle would continue. Well, at least I could work on that last part by myself. I figured if I could devote myself to being a good father and explore the father-son dynamic from a dad's point of view, that would help me heal whatever issues I had, and they might transfer over to my relationship with my own father. So I vowed that I'd show my love to my son, would verbalize it, and would love him unconditionally.

During the pregnancy, I waffled back and forth with the thought of calling up my father to tell him about it, but each time I brushed it aside. I didn't want to deal with any negative stuff just yet when I was feeling so happy. Maybe later. But every month, as her belly grew, Sandra asked me the same question: "When are you going to call your father and tell him he's going to be a grandfather?" "When are you going to call your father and tell him he's going to be a grandfather?"

At one point I told her she she should call him. "I would," she said, "but I think you're the one who needs to do it." I must admit, I might have been delaying telling him the news because part of me wanted the satisfaction of calling him up and saying, "Congratulations! I'm a father! should call him. "I would," she said, "but I think you're the one who needs to do it." I must admit, I might have been delaying telling him the news because part of me wanted the satisfaction of calling him up and saying, "Congratulations! I'm a father! You know what that makes you . . . ? You know what that makes you . . . ?" like he'd said to me in one of our last conversations.

By the time Justin was born in September 2002, I still hadn't called my father. I still wasn't "ready." But I was beginning to understand him a bit more. I found myself staring at Justin's little face as he slept (just like Dad had) with so much awe and love, and I empathized with my own father because I now knew he must have loved me. And it must have tortured him that he couldn't show it. This realization was a start.

MYSTIC PIZZA.

WITH THE NEW ADDITION TO THE FAMILY, Sandra and I settled into being Mommy and Daddy. Weekends at our house became like an Italian-Portugese convention, with tons of family and friends pa.s.sing through; and lots of food, games, and loud conversation.

One Sat.u.r.day night last November, we were having a pizza party with my Aunt Theresa; cousin "Little Ro" and her husband Glenn; my aunt Roseann ("Big Ro"); and the new cozy family three-some of Sandra, myself, and six-week-old Justin, when Aunt Theresa decided to get all psychic on me.

"John, look . . . all I've been dreaming about lately is dead people," she told me. "They come to talk to me about this or that. Why are they coming to me and not you?"

I laughed and told her I'd been working so much lately they were probably getting a busy signal trying to reach me and the psychic operator redirected them to her . . . ha, ha, ha ha, ha, ha, I laughed.

But Aunt Theresa wasn't laughing with me. All joking aside, she could be extremely psychic and often picked up on family stuff. Yes, I do believe psychic ability can run in families. In fact, I'd venture to say that both both sides of my family have a kind of pre-genetic disposition for it-which is really ironic since my father always shunned the whole psychic world. I never knew he had other connections to it until one day, after I'd been doing this work for a few years and had decided he would never fully accept it. sides of my family have a kind of pre-genetic disposition for it-which is really ironic since my father always shunned the whole psychic world. I never knew he had other connections to it until one day, after I'd been doing this work for a few years and had decided he would never fully accept it.

My father and I were having a brief conversation about my work on the phone, and he casually dropped a bomb. "You know," he said, just before hanging up, "I was sort of hoping that 'it' was going to skip your generation. . . ."

"What?" I said into the phone. Did I hear him right? "What?! What are you talking about?" What are you talking about?"

In his roundabout way, Dad all but admitted that his own mother-who had a knack for reading tea leaves among her circle of friends-had her own psychic abilities, which were frowned upon in the family and never, ever discussed. Except for seeing her on my birthday or at Christmas, I rarely saw my grandmother on Dad's side. I surely don't remember ever having any "psychic" connection with her.

"Now you tell me this?" I demanded. "Now this comes out?!" "Now this comes out?!"

It would have been nice to know earlier, that's for sure. It might have explained a lot about my own abilities and also about my father's distaste for the whole subject.

Either way, psychic ability is a family trait. So when one of my relatives tells me they're having dreams or visions or whatever, I listen. I asked Aunt Theresa to tell me more about these dreams she was having.

"Well, that's just it," she continued, puzzled. "I'm dreaming about all these dead people . . . and then I had a dream about your father last night. In the dream he was in a real rush-like he was going someplace and couldn't stay. But he specifically told me I was to call him in case there was anything wrong with Justin. Is Justin okay? And why would I be dreaming about your father?"

Big Ro, who was stacking up the empty pizza boxes, interrupted with her own psychic a.n.a.lysis: "John, you did did call your father to tell him he was a grandfather, didn't you?" call your father to tell him he was a grandfather, didn't you?"

I chose to answer Aunt Theresa's question first. I could explain the Other Side much easier than I could explain my relationship with my father.

"I think the energies know you're receptive to their messages," I told her, "and it's their way of letting you know they're around. But I have no idea why you're dreaming about my father . . . maybe you're going to hear from him soon. And Justin is fine." And then came the more difficult answer about my dad.

"I know I should call him . . . but I just haven't been able to do it yet," I admitted.

At that, the topic became a hot debate, with Sandra and Big Ro voting that I should call my father, and Little Ro and me vetoing the idea. "If I were you, I wouldn't call him," my cousin said. "After all, he was never around for anything else . . . why give him the honor?" Before an all-out battle erupted with me in the middle of the tug-of-war, I changed the subject and broke out the Pictionary.

At about six o'clock the next morning, I got up to change Justin's diapers and give him his first bottle, and the two of us settled into the rocking chair, swaying back and forth. It was such a peaceful moment, all alone with my son-complete tranquility as the sun rose through the curtains. Justin, on the other hand, was having an entirely different experience. He was cooing and gurgling and looking straight ahead, past me, and laughing as if someone was playing with him. I turned around and looked in the direction of his gaze, and all I saw was a wall.

"Who are you playing with, you little monster?" I asked him in baby-talk. "Justin, do you see Grandpa? Are you playing with Grandpa? Where's Grandpa? Where's Grandpa?" I was thinking of Sandra's dad, Fernando, who lived about twenty miles away in Queens, whom Justin simply adored. And once I said it, I thought it was odd that I was asking Justin where Grandpa was. My grandmother used to say that when babies played and cooed at nothing in front of them, they were playing with the angels.

I do believe that babies are directly connected with the spirit world because they have no prejudices about the existence of the Other Side and its inhabitants. In a nervous tone, I said out loud, "Justin, Grandpa better be in Queens . . . or your mommy is going to be one upset cookie. Justin, who are you playing with? who are you playing with?" But my son just nodded back into dreamland, and I thought whoever Justin's angelic playmate was, he or she would have to join him in his dreams now.

I carefully put him in his crib with his little ShooSha ShooSha (Portuguese for "pacifier") to keep him company on (Portuguese for "pacifier") to keep him company on this this Side, and the phone rang. I jumped to answer it before it woke Justin. Side, and the phone rang. I jumped to answer it before it woke Justin.

"I know it's early," Aunt Theresa whispered apologetically, on the other end of the line, "but I thought I should call you right away. You're not going to believe this . . . but I think your father has died. . . ."

MAKING AMENDS.

YOU COULD SAY THAT THE NEWS of my father's death reached me via a trail of coincidences, if you believe in them. You already know that I don't. My cousin James, Big Ro's son, had been chatting on-line with a girl he'd met the night before who lived in Florida, where my dad had moved about three years before. During the e-mail conversation, he mentioned to the girl that he was related to me, and oh, what a small world it is . . . this girl's aunt happened to work in the hospital where my dad had been a patient and had just died of complications from diabetes and throat cancer. She told my cousin that my dad's funeral was the next day. of my father's death reached me via a trail of coincidences, if you believe in them. You already know that I don't. My cousin James, Big Ro's son, had been chatting on-line with a girl he'd met the night before who lived in Florida, where my dad had moved about three years before. During the e-mail conversation, he mentioned to the girl that he was related to me, and oh, what a small world it is . . . this girl's aunt happened to work in the hospital where my dad had been a patient and had just died of complications from diabetes and throat cancer. She told my cousin that my dad's funeral was the next day.

I was a bit stunned. I hadn't "officially" known that my father was even sick, but the last time I spoke with him years before I'd felt a weird health vibe. I told him he'd better check it out, and he blew me off, telling me not to worry about it or about him. He hated when I got all "psychic" with him.

I tried the old phone number I had for my dad, but it was out of order. I called my Aunt Theresa back, and she said she had a more recent number. I called and got my dad's brother, Thomas, on the phone. Uncle Thomas said he'd called me the day before and left a message that my father had pa.s.sed, yet I'd never gotten it-my voice mail just didn't record it.

My cousin Phyllis, who also lived in Florida, e-mailed me my father's obituary from the newspaper. I must say it was weird to read it. First of all, I wasn't mentioned as a surviving family member, and that final disconnection just made me shake my head. Of all the mixed emotions I felt-sadness, relief, shock-the one I felt the most was defeat defeat. Reading his obituary, I had to finally acknowledge that in this lifetime I wouldn't be able to make our relationship better.

ALL OF THIS LEADS ME to one of the most important points I want to make in this book. I realized with my father's death that I was not able-and could now never-mend our differences while we were both still alive. But I also suspected that, in a strange way, with his death we might actually begin to have a relationship for the very first time. to one of the most important points I want to make in this book. I realized with my father's death that I was not able-and could now never-mend our differences while we were both still alive. But I also suspected that, in a strange way, with his death we might actually begin to have a relationship for the very first time.

How do I see this happening? Well, I know from my guides and from all the energies that have come through to me in the last two decades that when a person crosses over, their first task on the Other Side is to reflect on the life they've led here and understand why they made the choices they did, see how their actions affected others, and realize what they still need to work on while on the Other Side.

Our learning doesn't stop once our body does-in fact, it's probably hastened because we're no longer being dragged down by Earthly obstacles. I've said before that I see this life and the afterlife kind of like school: On Earth, it's like we're in kindergarten, running around in circles and getting distracted with the toys and not knowing how to do things. When we get to the Other Side, we graduate straight to college because we immediately have more understanding, more skills, and more smarts. It's still us, but it's like a wiser, better better us. us.

Now if you understand that the exchange of energies between two people doesn't stop just because the body stops, and we can continue to "exchange energy" or communicate with our loved ones even after they've crossed over, it stands to reason that if you had a troubled relationship with someone and they crossed over, and then, in reviewing their life, they learned of their misguided ways and cleared their energy of negative patterns, then you both can continue to work on and improve your relationship even though they're not standing in front of you. You may not be able to communicate in the way you used to-talking on the phone, writing letters, or meeting for a cup of coffee-but you can adapt the old ways into new ones. I often suggest to people that they sit down and write letters to their loved ones who have pa.s.sed because I know they're looking over our shoulders, reading our words as we write them (the Other Side is even faster than e-mail).

And why should you stop talking to your loved ones just because you can't see them? I do believe that they can hear our words and feel our feelings, and then respond by sending us their own feelings in return. Often, we might not be aware of it. For many people, this exchange happens during dreams, or with a "feeling" that we brush off and think is a figment of our imagination. But believe me, it's happening.

One woman I know, Sandy Goodman, author of Love Never Dies: A Mother's Journey from Loss to Love Love Never Dies: A Mother's Journey from Loss to Love, talks to her son every day. Jason, 18, died in an electrical accident in 1996.

"From almost day one, I began talking to him," said Sandy. "Sometimes out loud and sometimes just in my head. I needed to know he was still around and hadn't just ceased to exist. And so a ritual began. On a daily basis, sometimes three or four times a day, I would say to Jason, 'I need to hear from you. If you can't get through to me, go to someone else and tell them to CALL YOUR MOM!'"

I "met" Sandy soon after on the Internet, when she was organizing a group seminar in Philadelphia with several mediums and she invited me to partic.i.p.ate. Although I ended up not being able to attend, we exchanged a couple of short but friendly e-mails in which we discovered, of all things, a mutual appreciation for those gooey, orange slices of candy. Little did I know that from that day onward, Sandy began telling Jason to come to me me.

A month later, I was lying on a beach one lazy Sat.u.r.day afternoon getting some much-needed rest when a young male came through to me. He gave me the names "Jason" and "Sandy." I was trying to figure out whom I knew by those names when the clincher came through: "Orange slices." And then, an urgent message: "Call my mom!" "Call my mom!" After searching high and low for her phone number, I called Sandy for the first time ever and told her I thought I had a Jason coming through for her. After I gave her the rest of the messages that came through to me by the pool, Sandy was ecstatic. To her, this was proof that her son indeed had heard her and continues to do so. After searching high and low for her phone number, I called Sandy for the first time ever and told her I thought I had a Jason coming through for her. After I gave her the rest of the messages that came through to me by the pool, Sandy was ecstatic. To her, this was proof that her son indeed had heard her and continues to do so.