Root-Bound

"I'm not getting good vibes about this operation," my widowed, 76 year old mother-in-law said. " She repeated those words often in the weeks preceding surgery to replace the calcified valve in her heart that had left her chronically short of breath and unable to venture far from her den sofa where she dozed or watched TV 24 hours a day.

Her instincts proved right. Shortly after surgery, she suffered two strokes and sank into a deep coma. Three weeks later, she died. After the funeral, the executor of her estate closed her Long Island house and lowered the thermostat to 60 degrees. I brought home a well-tended broad-leafed philodendron and an old hatbox labeled photographs and mementos.

I put the philodendron on a table near a window and spent the following days sifting through the contents of that hatbox. Slowly, it revealed a family history that neither my husband nor I had ever suspected.

Even though Bob had known Sarah-Lee for over sixteen years, he really knew very little about her. Married, with a family of his own, when his father called to say he'd just married a widow-friend, Bob's exposure to Sarah-Lee had always been limited to holidays and brief family visits. She had always been reserved and standoffish during those visits, but since his father was happy with the marriage, Bob had accepted it too. His father had mentioned that his new wife's only living relatives were an elderly aunt in Florida and a cousin who lived in Japan - neither of whom she talked to. It seems that her mother had come from a well-to-do, old-line New York family, but had been ostracized when she divorced Sarah-Lee's father. Thus, at an early age, Sarah-Lee had lost all contact with blood relatives.

When I asked Bob why he cared so much about this woman with whom he seemed to have such a distant relationship, his answer was, "I feel responsible for her. She took good care of my father before his death and now she's sickly, with no one to care for her. It's the least I can do."

So, in addition to three grown stepchildren, this marriage presented a step-mother-in-law, who, I was certain, would not like me. How could she? By Bob's account, we were truly as different as night and day: she was a reserved, white, Anglo-Saxon Protestant from a well-to-do, blue-blooded family. I was an ebullient, black woman who had grown up poor, in the Jim Crow south. The fact that she had married a first-generation Italian-American meant nothing to me. In my book, he was white, just like she was. Were we destined to dance the hobbled two-step of a forced relationship?

"She doesn't have to be nice to me," I told Bob, during our ride out to East Quogue where she lived. "But she'd better be respectful or you'll be driving out to Long Island alone."

Our first visit went surprisingly well. Sarah-Lee was taller than I, about 5'9", with a well-proportioned nose and mouth. Silver curls floated above her large, square face and the twinkle in her hazel eyes belied the stern line of her mouth. Her formal, matronly air reminded me of England's queen Mother. I extended my hand to greet her, but she had smiled warmly and embraced me. Sarah-Lee's southern-like display of good manners struck a common thread in me and as the visit proceeded, all formality fell away. Perhaps it was that we shared the same first name, or that I too was a strong, independent career woman coming late to the altar of marriage. Perhaps it was because she too had once been the second-wife. Who knows? I never questioned my good fortune, just counted my blessings.

During that visit, I recognized the loneliness behind Sarah-Lee's reserved demeanor. Widowed twice, childless and with no family ties, she had the right to be lonely. I too had erected barriers to shield me from the pain of being alone, and to keep others from feeling sorry for me. Bob had torn down those barriers by gently applying small doses of love; so, I decided to do the same with Sarah-Lee. I had to make the effort. Though we were different, we were alike; maybe one day, I too would be old and alone, dependent upon the good will of strangers.

That fall, Sarah Lee hired a driver to bring her from East Quogue to Valhalla where she was a part of our small wedding celebration. The next time we visited her, Sarah-Lee and I exchanged confidences during the drive to lunch. "I was so afraid you wouldn't like me," she had said. Shocked to hear her express my own fears, I told her of my early anxieties and we laughed at ourselves. That day, we became friends.

Sarah-Lee's house always reminded me of a well-kept museum where year-round, the temperature hovered near an artificially induced 70 degrees. Her never-opened windows were covered by sheer white pinch-pleated curtains and Venetian blinds which heavily filtered the outside light. Yet, the few green plants she kept had flourished under those artificial conditions.

A large, engraved silver tea kettle on a service stand and several hammered silver bowls glistened on the glass coffee table. Other silver -- bowls, covered jars and trays, pitchers and -- engraved with names and dates from the 1800s nestled on her polished mahogany dining table, sideboard and in curio cabinet. I often wondered about their early owners, but feared my questions might seem nosy. Once, I admired a beautiful china tea set atop a table in a corner of the dining room.

"It's an Imari pattern," she had said. "That set and the teakettle in the living room belonged to my great grandmother. By family tradition, my mother -- the eldest daughter -- inherited it. She left it to me. Since I have no children, I guess I'll leave it to my cousin, she already has everything else."

That soft addendum was the only time I ever heard a tinge of jealousy in Sarah-Lee's voice. What was she jealous of? Though we never talked about her financial situation, it was apparent that Sarah-Lee had few financial worries. She purchased a new Lincoln every few years and sprinkled comments about stock dividends. We even crossed paths with her Paine Weber financial advisor, as we arrived early for a visit. So was it family involvement she longed for?

I too craved family involvement and had reveled in Bob's family. In the early years of our marriage, we often invited Sarah-Lee to come visit us. She always declined, saying she couldn't climb the flight of stairs leading to our co-op apartment. So, Bob and I often drove out to East Quogue for day-visits. No matter what her health status, Sarah-Lee always insisted on preparing hors d'oeuvres and wine for our chats before we went out to one of her many favorite restaurant . "I'm not much of a cook," she confided, though she once made dinner at home for us.

Most of our conversations with Sarah-Lee centered around impersonal things: stock market dips and rises, the New York Times crossword puzzles, her work with the local civic association. . . the renovations of Grand Central Station which that her father had bought bonds to build.

During the O.J. Simpson murder trial, Sarah-Lee hung onto the televised proceedings like a periscope into the world. She could have been a juror on the case, so closely did she follow the evidence and cast of characters in the spectacle. She thought Judge Ito was unprofessional, that Marsha didn't get enough respect, that Mark Furman was dishonest . . . that O.J. was guilty. She animatedly expressed these opinions to me during our daily conversations. Since I too thought O.J. was guilty, I served as a silent audience for her to share the vicarious thrill she seemed to derive from the nation-stopping event.

We'd never had any discussions about race before the trial. The colors of our skin seemed irrelevant to the love and respect we developed for each other. As Sarah-Lee talked about O.J.'s courtroom behavior, I listened for nuances that would betray how she really felt about black people in general. She never generalized. Her every comment was about some specific behavior or statement. It was as if she were a college textbook and I was a rookie freshman: though I heard the words, I could draw no conclusions. So, I let the subject of race drift away.

Sometimes, Sarah-Lee would talk about her years working in Manhattan when she enjoyed the bustle of the city and its people. Never did she talk about her life before she married Ralph. Whenever she talked about Ralph, tears filled her eyes and emotion choked off her words. "He was the joy of my life," she said, "We just didn't have enough time." Then, she'd take a deep breath and steer the conversation back to us or Bob's children.

Sarah Lee loved to give gifts. During her annual winter visits to Florida, she always mailed us a souvenir of her trip: brass bowls, fanciful serving platters, a bracelet, a belt . . . Without fanfare, she once handed me a diamond encrusted watch. "I have several." With no fanfare, she called one day to tell me, "In my will, I'm leaving you a 2.75 carat diamond I inherited from my aunt and the diamond wedding band i wear all the time." I was stunned! None of my own relatives had ever bequeathed me any mementos.

The next year, two weeks before my fiftieth birthday, Federal Express delivered a small, gift-wrapped package. Inside was a ring with a center pearl flanked by two, one-carat diamonds. The diamonds were so big I called my husband to ask whether they were real. He had laughed. "Of course they are!" he said. "She'd never give you anything artificial. I think she loves you better than she loves me." And I agreed with him. While Sarah-Lee had great respect for Bob, she was reserved with him, as if she had to keep up appearances with him. With me, she was chatty and comfortable, and occasionally let her guard down to reveal some small lapse in behavior in her younger days. Sometimes, she let escape a little brag about her business savvy when she was a working woman and twisted the balls of some piggish employer until he paid her fairly. We often laughed and gossiped like school girls. Near the end, she often called me in tears over some small frustration she was enduring with medical personnel.

I remembered all these things as I examined the contents of Sarah-Lee's box of memoirs. As the days passed, I noticed that the leaves on the philodendron began to wilt. I moved it away from the window thinking that perhaps the direct rays of the sun were too much for it to endure. After all, Sarah-Lee had given it only artificial light.

Also in the box were a tarnished, sterling infant's dish and porridge bowl with Sarah-Lee's name engraved on it; studio portraits of Sarah-Lee from infancy through young adult-hood; yellowed New York Times obituary notices and decades of records related to her family's 24-grave plot at Woodlawn Cemetery.

The philodendrum continued to wane. I placed it under a grow-lamp which did not seem to help.

At the bottom of the box, is an inscribed prayer book, a pristine bible and a bevy of photographs and formal portraits. Each one is dated and identified in Sarah-Lee's flourishing script. Some of the photographs capture Sarah-Lee and Ralph enjoying life. A large, rolled, panoramic photo is labeled "Silver Carn, 1897." Sarah Lee had mentioned that when she was very young, she had spent her summers at Little Silver, a community, near Red Bank, New Jersey. She never said that her family had an estate there. In the picture taken in front of a fancy Victorian estate, a large, multi-generational family poses. Each person, young and old, sits astride a two-wheeled bicycle. I recognize some of the faces from the portraits in the box. They must be the relatives who disowned her mother.

While preparing a party celebrating her 75th birthday, I had asked Sarah-Lee where she had been born. "Canada," she said. "My father was working there at the time. My nanny had a heck of a time bringing me back across the border into the US because I had no official birth certificate."

"You had a nanny?" I asked, incredulous.

"Yes, for about four years," she had said before changing the subject.

So my mother-in-law had a nanny. That helped to explain her standoffish nature. It also explained the way she always referred to her own mother as "Brooksie," not mother; as if her mother was just another adult in her life.

As I used the contents of that hat box to piece together Sarah-Lee's family tree, I caught a glimpse of the gnarled roots that entwined her heart. Cut off from both her divorced father and his family - as well as her mother's family - and widowed twice, she was no stranger to loss. She had pulled herself up by her own emotional bootstraps and focused on survival. She could not talk about the past, for fear its pain would reach out and engulf her.

As I explored Sarah-Lee's roots, the philodendron continued to languish. Food, water, more sunlight, less sunlight, full days under a growing lamp ... nothing helped. Finally, I decided that the only answer was to repot it. I found a thick maze of roots wrapped around the bottom of the plastic pot. As I unwound them, and pruned the long coils of leaves that had been trained around the upper rim, I felt as if I were untangling the threads of my mother-in-law's existence. All the things I had learned about her since sorting through that old hat box seemed to be explained by this plant. She was a woman bound by the roots of her past; unable to escape the pain of that past, she became a sideline spectator. No direct sun for her - only the vitality of those still warm from its rays.

I shook away the old soil and carefully placed the roots in new soil, in a clay pot. I also trimmed the long tendrils and plopped them in water to root anew. I placed them near a window, but not in direct sunlight. I chastened myself for not asking Sarah-Lee all the questions that had through my head. Since no one keeps vigil at the door to a worthless mine, she probably assumed that no one was interested in her past except her. She was wrong. My love for her made her past important to me, whatever it was.

As a final tribute to Sarah Lee, I had formal death notices printed: With deep regret, the family of Sarah- Lee Gironda announces her death on October 31st 1998. As I addressed the cards to the far-flung names in her thick, red address book, I realized that I'd done the one thing she probably thought no one would ever do: I'd remembered her - and her roots.