The next morning breakfast was taken in silence. Jerry listened to a symphony of breakfast sounds. Spoons tapped on ceramic bowls, coffee splashed into cups, feet scuffed across hardwood floors.

Jerry assembled some yogurt, granola and fruit and took a chair on the lawn that overlooked Napa Valley. Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony filled the air. Tendrils of morning fog laced through the vineyards below. In the distance a trinity of hot air balloons, brightly colored turquoise, yellow and orange, ascended into the sky. 

Jerry drifted into a daydream: He was standing in line waiting to view a coffin. When he arrived he peeked in. His mother lay ashen. The minister thrust a trowel into his hand; Jerry scooped up dirt and slung it onto his mother’s face.

He snapped out of the daydream. “What the hell?” he said out loud. 

Lacrosse shirted man gave Jerry the stink eye.

The more Jerry thought about it the more he was convinced something was terribly wrong with his mother, maybe even she was about to die.

He explained this to the instructor John before the morning session.

“Every man has to go through letting go of his mother,” he said with a grave look, then entered the classroom.

Well, yeah, ok, but it begged the point. His mother was dying now. He needed to talk with her directly or he might never have that chance again. He would never forgive himself if she died and he didn’t say goodbye.

Jerry had no idea what took place during that morning’s session, he was so distracted. At the end, he bolted out of the room and stormed over to the main lodge.

“I need to make a phone call to my Mom,” said Jerry to Sheila. Two formidable crystals and a giant feather lay on the desk between them.

“Well, you remember the agreement you signed,” Sheila smiled.

“Yes, but this is urgent. My mom’s dying.”

“How do you know that?” Her iceberg blue eyes accused him. Of what crime, Jerry didn’t know.

“I had a premonition. I’ve never had a premonition before. I believe it’s true.”

She pondered this.

“I tell you what,” she said. “Walk the circle trail and have a conversation with yourself. One voice is the child that needs your mother. The other voice is the independent adult. When you’ve completed this walk, if you still want to go into town, then I will grant your wish.”

“Sure.”

Off he bounded wanting to make this walk as quick as possible.

“OK, talk,” said the adult voice.

“I saw mom,” said the child voice. “She was dead. It scared me. Why did I throw dirt on her face, like I was mad? Maybe I am. Really mad. Maybe I want her dead. Maybe I caused her death. I gotta know she’s not dead. I don’t want to feel guilty all my life, that I caused her death.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, cowboy, slow down. You don’t have that much power. Remember  you have no evidence to back up this feeling. It’s just a feeling.” 

“Yes, but I believe in this feeling with all my heart.”

“Feelings are not to be trusted.”

“You’re just jealous because you don’t have any.”

Jerry, speed walking, turned the last curve.

“Look, we’ve got to wrap this up,” said the adult.

“You’ve got to back me up on this, which is something you don’t do much, by the way,” said the child.

“Didn’t know that. I do want to have your back.”

Back in the lodge, Jerry said, “I need to make that phone call.”

“Very well,” said Sheila with a touch of a smile. “Let’s take you into town.”

After a short wait, a younger woman pulled up in a beat up pick-up truck and off they motored. 

“I’m not crazy,” Jerry said, breaking the silence.

“No problem,” she said.

He leaped out when they parked at the curb. A pay phone stood nearby.

“Mom, are you OK?”

“Jerry, hello, let me get your father.”

“No, wait. I need to ask you. Are you OK?”

“Yes, of course. I’m fine. It’s a little warm today, so we’ve had to turn on the air conditioning.”

“I had a vision about you. You weren’t OK.”

“I’m fine. Let me get your father.”

He climbed back into the truck where the woman was waiting.

“Everything’s fine,” Jerry said.

“No problem.”

“And I’m not crazy.”

So what was that all about, he wondered. His child was convinced his mother was about to die, and then thought it was his fault. Did he really want her dead? Was he really mad at her? Suddenly, shooting up, came a memory:

“I wish you were dead!” Jerry shouted. He must have been five. He stood in the living room. She was in the kitchen.

“Don’t say that. You can’t mean that,” said his mom starting to cry.

“Yes, I do! I wish you were dead.” He felt this terrible power. He was hurting her; he wanted that.

She continued to cry.

Snapping back to the present, he wondered why he had said that. He couldn’t remember the circumstances. What had she done that made him so mad?