"You know," Libby said to me, "we're a lot alike, the Italians and the Jews. We fight, we yell, we eat... we fight, we eat, we fight... we fight...but we still love each other, ya know."
That was how I intended to end the eulogy about my still-official mother-in-law. I just wasn't sure how the rest of it would go down in the synagogue, so I was nervous, squirming in my seat, sweating up a storm. Libby was both deliberately and inadvertently very, very funny. She could be razor sharp and deeply profane. While personal eulogies are no longer allowed in Catholic churches, I was hoping the Conservative branch of Judaism would have a sense of humor. Besides, I reasoned, once I was up there, no one could stop me. I would begin with the first time we met.
Her son Yash--not yet my husband--and I were coming from Manhattan to Long Island for a Seder. We were late; so late, we missed the entire ceremony and everyone was in another room watching a movie. Except Libby. She was seated on a red velvet-covered chair that resembled a throne. Yash introduced us, and left me alone to go and rummage for leftovers. Libby gave me the once over, and the first thing she asked was, "So, why do you date my son, what is about my son that you like, out of all of the men in the world why would you want to date my son?"
I paused. Out of all the things I imagined her asking, this was not one of them.
"I guess I date your son because he has a great body. Yeah, a great body. That's why
date your son," I replied.
She asked, "Oh, is that what young people go for nowadays?"
I answered, "I think that's what young people have always gone for, actually."
Her black-rimmed glasses slid down her nose, and her dark eyes peered at me, as she
said, "Ooooh."
Then she paused and shouted, "YASH! Get your girlfriend some food."
After that, we were thick as thieves.
So she was very unhappy, a few years after we married, to find out there was trouble between Yash and me. "Please don't divorce my son, whatever you do, don't divorce my son, please, please, please," she begged.
"Okay," I said into the phone, alarmed.
My reasons for saying okay were: guilt, panic, and to stop her from crying. I knew I was lying, but I wanted to take away the pain in her voice, the pain she was feeling.
The shakiness of my marriage between me and Yash was a disappointment to her, because she loved me and I was part of her family. But change happens. Two years later, we were separated and Libby was dead.
I didn't talk to her specifically about my troubles with Yash, as she had raised him; she already knew his shortcomings perfectly well, and a few times listed them in public, at family dinners, until, at the end of her rant, she would blame herself, saying that his failings were not his fault because she had never had any self-esteem and therefore could not instill it in her son. Then, she would sob. Startled the first time it happened and angry the next, I spoke with Yash privately, urging him to tell his mother to cease the public displays, and if she had anything to say to him in private, she should do so.
But to me, she was always encouraging, personable, even deferential. After she was widowed, she became increasingly housebound, and her phone was her weapon of choice. Though she did not drive, this was not the reason for the narrowing of her world. Her home was where she felt safe, and the place she wanted to die. She had Meals on Wheels delivered as well as newspapers and library books, and an occasional cleaner. Her neighbors looked in on her regularly. Her children and grandchildren visited often. There was no reason for her to leave. Because of her phone, she never lost contact with the rest of the world.
Sometimes when I got home from work, there would be nine or ten messages from her on the answer-phone. Calls could last an hour or more. She always asked, what was new? What had I done today? She read me articles, told me all sorts of Jewish jokes, and sang songs from the 40's and 50's. Fortunately, I could sing most of them along with her.
Mostly, we talked about family and food. She asked about my sisters, mother and my estranged father, whom she referred to as, "that jerk" or, "that deadbeat." She talked about how much she missed her husband. I spoke of my love of Cape Cod; she told me how much she loved lobster with butter. She'd confess to me when she'd eat Chinese food on paper plates, and feel guilty about it, but that didn't stop her from doing it from time to time.
Mother-in-laws get a bum rap, rather like wicked stepmothers. They are traditionally meddlers, harridans, and the staple of Borsht Belt comedians. That was not the case with Libby. After knowing Yash and his siblings as well as Libby, I believe that in many ways she treated me better than her children. Like grandparents who are better to their grandchildren than they were to their own, so was my mother-in-law. I don't believe she loved me more; love had nothing to do with it. Rather, it was the distance--not directly responsible for my wellbeing, for my being successful in the world-- that made it easy for her to be my ally.
When she died, I was the one to tell Yash. I was at his apartment that night, around eight o'clock, visiting the cats, and his brother called, very upset. I burst into tears, then composed myself, grabbed a coat, walked down to the restaurant where he worked, told his manager because it was the height of the dinner hour, and told Yash. He seemed stunned, unable to take it in. We went home and I stayed with him. It was assumed I would go to the funeral; in fact, it never occurred to me not to go, despite the fact Yash and I had been separated nearly a year. Once arrangements were being made, I asked Yash if anyone other than the rabbi would be speaking. His older brother, he said. "No one else?" I asked. "No one is going to talk about her sense of humor?" I asked to speak; I wanted to represent what I knew and how I felt about Libby. After all, I loved her. I respected her. And I wanted to support her son.
So I stood up, in my gray Calvin Klein sleeveless sheath (it is a peculiarly female trait to remember what I wore), and told stories about Libby. People laughed, cried, laughed some more, and afterwards, strangers grabbed me and said, "That is exactly how she was, you know."
I do know. Had she been there, Libby would have laughed the loudest.