Talk to Me (24 page)

We arrived early, hoping to get ahead in line and be seated close to the stage. We were both surprised at the small personal setting that the conference provided. By my count, there were about 200 people in attendance. The first four rows were sectioned off for ‘VIP ticket holders' by a red velvet rope; Thelma and I sat two rows behind that.

It didn't take long for Allison to jump right in and start her thing. She began with a witty introduction and described her ability and how she uses it. Inside, I was a little bummed, thinking that if this lady starts doing these awesome family readings, then only the VIP people were going to get the hook-up. I was wrong. As it turned out, I was the first audience member on stage.

I was shocked to be the first person selected to talk to Allison and ‘make a connection' with a loved one. As a sceptic, having never done this before, I was a little nervous. Not because of the crowd, or my eyes already welling up with emotion, but because I didn't know what to expect.

We introduced ourselves by first name and I took a seat next to Allison. She asked the relation of the person I wanted to contact. I responded, ‘Brother.' There was a small table between us covered with about 30 neatly arranged pencils, a yellow legal pad and a box of tissues. Allison picked up the paper and a pencil and wrote down my first name and the word ‘brother'. She then said, ‘Give me a few seconds,' as she sat focused on the pad of paper and a square box she was tracing over again and again. Allison gave a little chuckle with a smile and said, ‘I've got him.'

I am four and a half years older than my brother and we were our mum's only two children. We grew up together very, very closely, always sticking together, never being separated from each other for more than a couple of days, except during my four years in the US Navy. This continued all the way through adulthood—we shared apartments together, owned a business together, had a boat together . . . like I said, very, very close. We even had a regular ‘40 Night' once a week on my porch, where we would just sit outside, smoke cigarettes and drink 40-ounce beers, discussing the week, friends, girls, business, all of the fragments that construct a life.

After she chuckled, Allison said, over and over, ‘Bro the man, bro the man . . . He keeps saying, “Bro the man.”' Jereme's name for me on his mobile phone was ‘Brodaman'.
No one
knew that.

Next, she pointed out three tattoos that I got in memory of my brother which he thought were awesome. None were visible on me; they were covered by my clothes. On my left rib cage I have the same tattoo as my brother: the Privett family crest. Seth Rowan, a close family friend, did the artwork for the tattoo on Jereme on one of our trips to Oregon shortly before he died. I got that same tattoo, done by the same hands, months after my brother passed away. It's very special to me. The second tattoo is a large ‘OE' (old English) gangster-style tattoo across my stomach that reads ‘brother'. The third is an old cowboy-type ‘Wanted' scroll on my right rib cage that simply says ‘in loving memory' with my brother's full name and a big ‘83' for his birth year. There's no way she could've known about these tattoos . . . she nailed this on the head. Pretty cool.

The third thing Allison said was that she was being showed how he died. She pointed to the correct side of the back of her head, tapping it, and said, ‘He keeps repeating, “Cheap shot, cheap shot . . . 100 per cent accurate.”' Then, not even knowing the situation, she told me that Jereme said he could hear me talking to him when he was on the ground . . . This was incredible because she could not have known that I was there, nor that I was digging blood from his ears and telling him how much I loved him as he lay dying.

Allison said all this in just the first 30 to 45 seconds. She read me for over eight minutes. A lot of what she said was personal, so I choose to keep it to myself. I'm sure you can understand that.

Allison then stated that my brother could get my attention by messing with electronics. The next thing you know, the fire alarm went off . . .
loud!
I had a handheld microphone, she was wired up, and no one could hear us now with this alarm going off, not to mention the flashing lights. Allison looked at me, told me that this was memorable and asked, ‘You know that's Jereme, right?' To which I nodded ‘yes' with big tears in my eyes. The audible alarm shut off within a couple of minutes and we moved on through the reading with the bright warning lights from the fire system still blinking.

A number of other pertinent things were communicated to me by Allison, all the way down to the unique music I selected for my brother's wake—it was all punk music. After all, he was young. Now we've all heard ‘Amazing Grace' at these occasions . . . so I picked music from Transplants, Pennywise and Offspring. He was 25 years old—it fit.

After the many cool things Allison brought up from Jereme, it was time to move on. She asked if I had any questions for her. ‘I've got a million!' I replied. ‘But I'll limit it to one, 'cos there are a lot of people here that want to meet you.'

So I asked about my brother's remains and what he wanted me to do with them. Allison smiled. After a second or two, she made it clear that my brother was saying this jokingly—he was showing her an image of me driving a car at high speed on the freeway and dumping his ashes all over the other cars! Totally what I would say if I was the stiff. That's my brother!

I stepped off stage and as soon as I hit the bottom step, the emergency lights shut off. So frickin' weird! Now I pop light bulbs everywhere I go. It kind of sucks, but I know it's because my brother's beside me and always will be . . . a small price to pay for his company.

JUSTIN'S UPDATE

As a footnote, Justin later let me know that the person responsible for his brother's death was indeed convicted of first-degree murder. It's a small measure of justice for his family that will hopefully save someone else's loved one by taking a criminal off the street.

THE PAIN OF A MISS ING CHILD

I get to meet a lot of people when I'm touring. It's one of the perks of my job. Some events are heavier than others, depending on the cause of death and the age of the victims, and the energy of my audience varies, depending on what city I'm in.

During my meet-and-greet at an event in San Diego, California, in June 2010 I met a family of four women who all wore T-shirts with a picture of a little girl on them and the word ‘Missing'. The mother, Melissa, explained that her ten-year-old daughter, Lindsey, had disappeared almost a year ago, and they had no answers. Their pain was palpable and their anguish was visible in their eyes. I have a little girl the same age as Lindsey, and putting myself in their shoes, I would do
anything
for answers, too.

I went on the stage, and this family was in the front row. I was absolutely going to do whatever I could to help them move forward one day at a time. I brought Lindsey's aunt up on stage and made sure they wanted to hear whatever I picked up on, because you never know what will come through. She nodded in affirmation, so I put my pen to my paper and began to scribble.

I began sensing the man who took Lindsey, and a young female energy was giving me the information that saddened me. As I suspected, it was their Lindsey. I felt like she was immediately removed from the scene in his truck, and I did not feel she was alive any longer.

Lindsey showed me some details involved in her crime that I passed onto the family for the police. The little girl said to assure her mum that the detectives and the officers took her abduction very seriously, so much so that sometimes they can't sleep at night because they're wondering where she is, so she was in good hands with them. Lindsey talked about how loved she felt by her family and shared other details. She said her mum wore something around her neck for her, and Melissa confirmed this. She then said she wanted to go to Disneyland. The family gasped because they were debating whether or not to go the next day. Melissa told me she hadn't wanted to go because her daughter never got the opportunity. I replied, ‘Well, she wants you to take her. She says she'll go with you tomorrow, that you can go together.'

I concluded the reading by saying, ‘I'm going to end my connection with her now and send her with you.' But then, as I began my next reading, I had to stop. ‘Um . . . Lindsey's singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” in my head, so that's the song that will let you know she's around you.' I then shifted my energy back to the new reading.

Lindsey's mum left the auditorium to collect herself. When she came back she said, ‘I don't mean to interrupt, but when I was in the lobby just now “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” came on over the speakers. I thought I was going crazy, but there it was.'

I responded, ‘Lindsey's letting you know she's really here beside you, and in a very good place.'

That was a truly touching moment for everyone there that night. There were not too many dry eyes in the house, including mine.

LINDSEY'S GREAT-AUNT'S STORY

My great-niece, Lindsey Baum, was a sweet and vivacious ten-year-old at the time of her disappearance on the evening of 26 June 2009, from McCleary, Washington, a small town of only 1400 people. She was walking home from a friend's house a short distance from her own home when she vanished without a trace. On 7 July 2010, we celebrated another of Lindsey's birthdays without her. This would have been her twelfth birthday.

Ten long and agonising months after her disappearance, there were still no solid clues leading us to her. Something needed to happen, and so in our quest for answers about her disappearance and to find ‘Our angel, Lindsey' we sought out the help of renowned medium Allison DuBois.

We first checked Allison's website for information about contacting her and found out that she would be in San Diego, California, on 2 June, as part of her 2010 Family Connections Tour. We promptly purchased VIP tickets for the seminar which allowed us to attend a pre-event meet-and-greet with Allison. Four of us, including Lindsey's mother, Melissa Baum, flew from Seattle, Washington, to San Diego, for the chance to see and possibly capture the attention and ear of Allison.

We really did not know what to expect, but only hoped that our encounter with Allison would provide us with some sort of answers to Lindsey's disappearance. If we could come back with one tidbit of information, the trip would be worth it.

When the session began, we were immediately taken with the young, vibrant woman who entered the room. Allison exuded an energy and passion for her gift, and upon our first encounter, she seemed to already be in touch with our purpose for being there—finding answers to our Lindsey's disappearance. It seemed to us that Allison already had an awareness, as if she knew that she was going to speak to us about Lindsey and it had been in her mind in advance. That is how keen we perceived Allison's abilities to be.

Allison's specialty is helping connect people to missing children with the intention of helping to locate them, and so she announced in her introduction that she would begin with Lindsey. To our amazement and obvious pleasure, we had succeeded in reaching Allison! We were ecstatic beyond belief.

Life since Lindsey has been missing has been a surreal experience in itself, but on this night with Allison, our emotions and anxieties were higher than ever, and we felt a different kind of surreal feeling connected to this unique experience. Allison was calm and centred in her approach and gave generously of her time. She spoke with precise and distinct knowledge of things that only someone with her unique gift could ever know about. We were awestruck by how she spoke so knowingly of Lindsey and who she was, the little girl she had never met.

LITTLE GIRL KIDNAPPED

I was travelling to Canada on tour when I struck up a conversation with a very likeable gentleman sitting one row back across from me on my f light. We took turns bragging about our kids. His children happened to be on the f light, and I could see why he was so proud of them. It was a lengthy f light, so there was plenty to talk about, including what we do career-wise. I hesitated, because I don't like to talk about
only
my life and, trust me, that is exactly what happens when people find out what I do. I, on the other hand, enjoy hearing about other people's experiences, since I'm quite familiar with my own.

He ended up being very cool about what I do and, as it turned out, he was a constable in Canada. At some point, he began telling me the sad story of a little girl named Victoria ‘Tori' Stafford who had been missing for a few weeks. I always try to help when I can, but I'm also aware that I am simply one person, and I have time limitations, just like everyone else. He gave me his card and told me that he hoped I would feel better. (I had a touch of bronchitis, and had seen better days.)

I was in Canada on tour for book signings, as well as the seminars that I'm known for. I had three or four events in five days, so it was a bit gruelling and, as I mentioned, I wasn't 100 per cent physically.

My manager and cousin, Mark, and I stopped to get some fast food that was underwhelming as usual. I reached for the door handle, and as I looked up I was met with a paper stare coming from Victoria Stafford's ‘Missing' poster. I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that morphed into a constant pang of guilt.

I said to myself, ‘Boundaries, Allison! You can't help on every missing person's case you come across. There'd be no time to breathe!'

Still, there was something haunting about Tori's eyes, and the image of her wouldn't leave me.

We left the fast food joint, and Mark and I mapped out our week down to the minutes we would have to eat along the way. I dropped a vitamin tablet like it was my oxygen to live, trying to jumpstart my immune system and make it through my first event, and I did! Whew, what a relief.

All the while, though, I was thinking of Tori and all of the people who were hoping for her safe return, since there was speculation that she may have been sold into sex slavery. What a horrendous thought! Still, it was better than some of the alternatives. What a crippling, sobering reality is that? I'm a spiritual being, but I do believe there are some people who should pay a higher price for their crimes than society sees fit.