Oh My Ghost!

Do you believe in ghosts? I've been asking myself that question for the past two months. It just seemed like such mundane coincidental occurrences that I didn't give it much thought. But it appeared to be happening with the most unnerving frequency at the exact same time of the day.

What am I talking about?

Eli. That's what.

No, no, no... my infant son hasn't turned into a ghost (although it looks like this is where this narrative is heading. Goodness gracious me). However, I think Eli's been seeing a ghost. Or ghosts. Or spirits. Or whatever it is he laughs and chortles at, looking at the exact same spot at 5:30 in the morning. For the last two months.

I kid you not.

The reason I never gave it any thought at the time was, at four weeks old, developmentally speaking, Eli couldn't see clearly yet. The parenting website I've been reading proclaimed most confidently that babies that age can see vague shapes, bright lights, shadows. And perhaps mommy's face if she's holding it two inches from baby's own.

To get to the point. At exactly 5:30 every morning, give or take a few seconds, Eli would pause from his frenzied early morning nurse, take his mouth off my nipple, look at a beam on the opposite wall, and smile. Huge, wide-mouthed, gum-glaring grins. Most times, he'd give a hiccupping giggle. This would go on for about a minute or so. Then, like nothing happened, my voracious son would go back to mashing my breast with his fist and vacuuming milk into his mouth.

At first, puzzled, I would glance at where he was looking. I just saw a beam, painted the same institutional pine green as the rest of the apartment, nestled in between Atch's cabinet and Eli's own. It was a blank beam, no painting, no wall hanging, nothing.

The first month, I put the blame on Eli's unfocused vision. He's smiling at me, of course, I'd think smugly, as well he should, after these long sleepless nights of jumping up at every one of HRH's hungry cries. And I'd crest the wave of maternal pride at having a baby who understood the meaning of “appreciating Mommy's sacrifices” really early.

This second month, I began to get skeptical. I knew for a fact that Eli could see clearly by this time. He'd often zero in on me from across the room five feet away and gum me a smile while waving his limbs energetically. So why was he still communing with that beam? At 5:30 am each day?

Curious, I began to gather random facts in my head. This apartment complex was over thirty years old. There were six doors, and Door Number Five, the door we were in, was in the oldest portion of the compound, having once been connected to the main house. The previous occupant was an aged widowed lady with a serious mahjong habit. She lived alone and sometimes had her equally ancient lady friends over for mahjong sessions which lasted well into the wee hours. Then she died.

Then she died.

Well, of course, she didn't die in the apartment. She died in the hospital, from complications of old age. She was nearly ninety, I remember. She liked kids, too. She used to hold lengthy conversations with a toddling Woog. And then she died. And now we have her apartment. Her very room.

By nature and as per cultural upbringing, I am a superstitious person. But I've never seen a ghost, or a spirit, not even a mythological aswang. This might very well be my one chance to do so. So, apprehensive, I braced myself for the proverbial windless chill and flurry of goosebumps that accompanies the presence of the paranormal. At 5:30 in the morning. In the first light of dawn.

On the dot of the clock, Eli began his ritual. Chlurp, chlurp, chlurp. Long pause. Lengthy look at the beam. Huge grin. Still grinning. “Eh-heh-heh”. Long pause. Back to breast. Chlurp, chlurp, chlurp.

All this while, I threw my senses wide open. Eyes, ears, nose, skin. Pysche. Never in the history of an early morning was a nursing mother more wide awake and in full possession of her faculties. And then...

Nothing. Not a single thing. No shimmer in the air. No chill. Not even a goosebump. I looked down at my son and his eyes were at half-mast, clearly enjoying his meal. Do you know something I don't, little guy?

In the car on the way to work, I told Atch. I even brought it up over lunch at work. Atch scoffed at me. The officemates laughed. But I have this theory. That little babies have a radar of consciousness the magnitude of which we will never be able to fathom. That until this cognizance is polluted by the noisy world around them, they can see and hear and feel things we cannot. That this special time of utter clarity draws to an end, all too soon.

Have I come remotely close, Eli? Is Mommy on the dot on this one?

What do you think?

September 2006