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My mother, the one who nursed me from her own breast until enrolling me in nursery school at two years of age, hunts ghosts. It is currently her favorite hobby, the most recent in a long line of preoccupations ranging from archery (she believes she may have been a huntress in some past life) to scuba diving to hatching and hand-raising baby birds. Anything to distract her from the monotony of married life, the nagging knowledge that she is perpetually dissatisfied with such an existence, and the suspicion that she settled down before her prime.

Tonight I accompanied her as she headed over to her best friend’s haunted home. Eva, with her choppy brown hair and perfect profile, has been sensitive since birth. She hears doors slamming when she is alone, furniture being scraped across the floor above her head, voices mumbling their grievances. She feels a hand place pressure on her thighs and sides when no one is around. She, too, craves the distraction my mother is seeking.

Eva is a young mother, can’t be above 35 and looks more like 29. She hugs tight and gives close-to-the-mouth kisses on cheeks. Affectionate and touchy, I know nothing about this woman except her husband is a mechanic and she no longer shares a bed with him at night. Why, then, with my limited knowledge, does she become touchable to me in a instant, a presence I cannot seem to ignore? Over pizza she casually mentions her friend, Cynthia, and Cynthia’s partner, Betty. I consider this, thinking Okay, she is open minded.

But that one thought is all it takes to pop the cork and watch the contemplation pour forth. I wonder if she has ever been with a woman? Maybe in her college days, maybe while drinking, maybe just once? She looks like she could have, at some point. Do they still have sex if they sleep in separate rooms? Does she resent him for not taking better care of the baby? Am I just imagining the disconnection between them? Does she have any idea how loving another woman could be… We spend a few hours tape recording, interviewing, video taping. Review, rewind, record. We turn off the lights and stand still in the dark. She grabs my hand in fear and I wish I was brave enough to want her to press all my buttons. As quickly as urges come, they vanish; while in the face of my mother I am still just a child, no longer a woman.

But then Eva and I are alone in the kitchen for a moment and I’m realizing I have never fantasized about an older woman before. I am suddenly back in high school, clumsy and shy, I am tripping over my own words, I am all hands and she is offering me candy hearts and there is nothing I can do, no prayer I can plead to remember how to speak.

At the end, reviewing the evidence from our night’s expedition, we place our heads together, straining to hear any unusual voices streaming from the digital recorder. Because she is pineapple, pizza and strawberries, I inhale. I want to inhale again and again, taking all the time in the world, never pausing to breathe out. Her knee is digging into my thigh. She is searching my eyes for confirmation. What I wouldn’t give, in this moment, to be those unseen hands that each day find their way to her flesh.

But it will never go further than this.

And sometimes, that is enough.

by Jaclyn