My Someone Else

Posted by Janet Lombardi in Marlene's Feel Good Blog | 7 comments

© Janet Lombardi

People have asked if I married my husband just so I’d have Sheila as my mother-in-law. No; getting Sheila was an unexpected bonus.

“Mother-in-law” conjures up Alan King jokes of shrewish matriarchs who cling to their sons like King Kong to the Empire State Building. But my mother-in-law defied the stereotype. Sheila fox-trotted with me in the sofa section of Crate & Barrel, to the Muzak version of I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm. She, in the paisley kerchief (having lost most of her hair by then) and I, the willing dance partner following her lead.
And dance we did.

We began our waltz in her son’s Manhattan apartment in 1980 when Sheila came for Sunday brunch. Joel and I had been dating for a few months and I was nervous about meeting her, hoping to make a good impression.

Sheila’s intense, clear blue eyes were framed by cropped, salt-and-pepper hair. She was round and bosomy, and when dressed casually, wore light-blue denim work shirts with rolled up sleeves, in a no-nonsense manner. I jokingly asked if she’d be willing to take responsibility for “raising this man,” her son; a character himself. Unequivocally, she was proud to take full responsibility for such a fine human being. When it came to her children, Sheila was a lioness! Little could I know, in years to come, I would receive that same loyalty, protection, and unconditional love.

Sheila was an artist; a stone cutter, who’d begun sculpting forty years earlier on the kitchen table. Molding clay figures and later tap, tap, tapping wood and marble, she arrived at a style which resembled Henry Moore’s, but was distinctly hers. In later years, she turned to assembling objects, designing masks, and hand-painting furniture.

As an artist she took her work seriously, but never herself; as evidenced by her signature on a note Joel received in college. “Love, your Mother, the Oddest,” she wrote, toying with the words artist-oddest.

When Sheila loved you, it was with her entire being. She hugged like she meant it; like she might never see you again, so she might as well drink you up. No “teepee tent” top-of-the-body leaning forward hugs, or conciliatory “there, there” pats on the back. She meant it. And, if she were wearing her fur coat when she hugged, it was as though you’d fallen into the arms of a loving grizzly bear.

Once the grandchildren came along, they were lucky heirs to her affection. She raised kvelling to high art: soaking up “those children,” as she described them, like a heavy-duty sponge. If she hadn’t seen them for a time, she’d assert her need for a “dose,” and would rearrange her schedule just to get one.

When visiting, Sheila never arrived empty-handed. Her thoughtful gifts

displayed style and whimsy: a signed porcelain necklace; a designer jacket; the Boukara rug that was such a bargain she couldn’t pass it up. Gifts to the children were never action figures or advertised toys. Anyone could buy those. Sheila gave “Make Your Own Museum” kits from the Metropolitan Museum, or wooden train sets that could be passed down to the next generation, or finger puppet theaters.

Our pas de deux did not replace her daughter, with whom she was close, nor did it supplant my own mother’s place. Sheila was my something else: my supporter; my mentor; my coach on matters ranging from “this kid won’t eat anything, Sheila;” to “how many colors do I use to sponge-paint the bathroom?” At times my confidante, she was the person upon whom I scribed my overload, and sometimes my intimacies. When the emotional river was cresting, she’d call, and hearing an uneasiness in my voice, ask with urgency, “What’s the matter?”

Sheila hated referring to me as her daughter-in-law, a term which implies distance; its hyphens serving as arms-lengths. But we bridged the hyphens in our choreography, our unique, flowing two-step; perhaps halting at first, but eventually graceful and circular. Our dance began each day with her chipper, Long Island-accented, “Hello, my dawling,” 8:00 am phone call.

“Is everything all right?” she’d ask, and I must admit that at 8 o’clock I didn’t always welcome those check-ins. Sheila could also be persistent, and even relentless about urging me to do something she felt was best. But I didn’t resent her suggestions and opinions because I knew they came from a loving place. And, after all, I was free to say no. In fact, I regarded her advice as a source of wisdom and strength.

When diagnosed with leukemia, Sheila refused to give her illness the time of day. Continuing to work, she created magnificent carvings, collages, and jewelry. A year before her death, she assembled The Sentry, a lean, four-foot high figure sculpted from tree bark. Clearly a woman, with a bonnet of roofing nails for hair, the figure’s face is a smooth wheel of wood. Her tongue, stuck out in defiance, is made of curled leather, and the eyes are flattened bottle tops, festively painted. An engraved sign proclaims her as The Sentry, now standing guard from the front porch of my home.

I did not choose Sheila. We were brought together by marriage. But she willingly served as my dear friend, beside me as I paddled through my grown-up life. Until the end, she was my someone else. Our last conversation, at her hospital bedside, began in the usual way: “I love what you’re wearing,” she said.

Sheila helped me to become the woman I am today; to be the placeholder for values, strength, and kindness. I’ve often repeated to my boys, now young men, words I heard from her, “If there’s one thing you do in life, be kind. It’s all that matters.” She is no longer here, but I still carry that part of her within me.