Christian Smith - The Scientist and the Psychic: A Sons Exploration of His Mothers Gift

Im disappointed we dont have any ghosts, I said to my mother. We were sitting in the living room of my new home having coffee when I decided to have some fun with her.

I wouldnt say that, she replied.

Really? Why?

I see a young lady with dark hair, carrying a baby, coming down the stairs. Over there. She pointed to the narrow staircase directly opposite to where she was sitting.

I turned to look. Nothing. The darkened staircase was certainly fit for a ghost story. The vaulted ceilings made it difficult to reach the occasional cobweb, and the dark-chestnut wooden stairs were prone to creaking, even when no one was there. Id assumed it was the typical sounds of an old house settling. My entire home was cold and drafty, and on windy days it sounded like someone was whistling on the upper floor. All were explainable, but later, when Id hear the stairs creak, I would think of the woman and her baby.

Ive seen her a couple of times since we came in, but I lose her about halfway down the stairs, Mum said.

Her statements didnt alarm me. Growing up with a famous psychic mother, I frequently heard comments others would probably consider bizarre.

My mother, Geraldine Stringer (formerly Smith), and my grandmother, Nanny Pauline, were visiting me for the first time since Id moved into a townhouse in downtown Toronto. Several months earlier, in October 2014, my mother had fallen and broken her leg. After surgery, prolonged hospitalization, and physiotherapy, she was finally able to climb the stairs to my front door. I gave a brief tour, and we relaxed on retro furnishings in the cathedral-sized living room. My mother was sixty-five but could easily be mistaken for seventy-five, an unfortunate side effect of overindulgence and excessive partying in her youth. The auburn tresses that used to reach her shoulders had thinned to short, uneven wisps, resembling a babys head of hair. Her once round, smooth face was now heavily wrinkled from years of living under the intense California sun. She was a shadow of her former self, but while her body had weakened, her eyes danced with warmth and vitality. Nanny Pauline sat next to her on the burnt-orange upholstered couch. She was a month away from ninety yet moved like a soldier marching to battle. Her curved spine caused her to hunch forward but failed to slow her. She chuckled as my mother described the ghost on the stairs, fully aware of my skepticism.

I told them what I knew about the sale history of the house. Our realtor sent us a history of the place dating back to the 1950s. The Catholic Church owned the property back then, I said.

Oh, before then, interrupted my mother. I would say eighty to ninety years ago.

If she was right, the woman and baby would have lived in the house between 1925 and 1935.

How do you know? I asked.

Just a guess, judging by the clothing. The baby is wearing an old-fashioned white-lace christening gown. Mum speculated it was a Sunday, mother and child dressed up for a christening ceremony.

My Victorian-era townhome was nestled on a quiet, tree-lined one-way street and proudly displayed a heritage sign declaring its construction in 1890. The outside of the home looked neglected, and when my partner, Dag, and I first came for a viewing, we were hesitant to enter. Paint chipped away from the stucco-plastered facade, slimy decaying leaves covered the narrow wooden stairs, and the handrail rocked unsteadily. But when we crossed the threshold, we saw the interior was renovated to perfection and instantly knew we were home.

I was curious if there was historical evidence to back up Mums claim. I wondered how I could check property ownership and if century-old records were available in the city archives. If I found a name, would there be a living relative to contact? If the relatives had pictures of the mystery woman, I imagined assembling them with an array of similar photos to see if my mother could identify hera photographic lineup of ghosts.

I didnt realize it then, but these small questions would raise even bigger ones about my mother, and spark my investigation of the pivotal paranormal events that have shaped her lifeand mine.

Growing up, I was often asked: Whats it like to have a psychic mom? When I was quite small, I didnt know anything different and assumed everyones family was like mine. My mother frequently spoke of spirits and hosted sances. Our family friends were mediums who communicated with the afterlife, astrologers who read the future from star charts, and clairvoyants who bent spoons with their minds.

It wasnt until fifth grade that I realized my mother was unlike other parents, yet I didnt quite understand what made her different. Mum and Dad had separated when I was five, and both agreed I should live with my mother when my father decided to move twenty-five hundred miles away to Vancouver to be near his sister and parents. We lived in a rural area west of Toronto, and unknown to me at the time, the local newspapers had chronicled my mothers rise to fame, making her a target of ridicule amongst the other parents and teachers at my school. Kids chased and taunted me during recess, yelling, Your mom is a witch. Strangers understood more about my mothers profession than I did.