Claim

by Janet Nissenson

  “Hmm.” He pulled her into his arms, bending down until their foreheads touched. “I don’t have any spreadsheets or letters that need to be done until tomorrow. But I do have other - ah, needs that require your attention, Ms. Lockwood.”

  Tessa cupped his cheek in her hand. “I’ve told you before,” she reminded him softly. “Taking care of those sort of needs isn’t a task - it’s a privilege.”

  Ian kissed her then, one of those long, slow kisses where it felt like he was claiming her all over again, the kind that made her bones feel like they were going to melt in a puddle at his feet.

  It was the sound of a throat being cleared that finally made Ian lift his mouth from hers, and Tessa looked up guiltily to find Glen smiling at them knowingly.

  “Ah, to be young and in love again,” he commented wistfully. “And especially with someone as beautiful as this young woman. I can certainly understand, Ian. After all, I fell under her mother’s spell the moment I saw her in my office almost thirty years ago. But I’m getting ahead of myself a bit, aren’t I? Come, everything is closed up for the day, and we can go sit in my office for awhile.”

  Glen ushered them into the back of the shop, where still more books were stacked against the walls and in boxes. He opened the door into a small, cramped office that was dominated by a large desk and still more books. He urged Ian and Tessa to have a seat on the small leather loveseat, while he brought a somewhat battered chair around from behind his desk so he could sit next to them.

  “Can I offer you some coffee? Tea, perhaps?” he inquired.

  Tessa stood. “Tea would be wonderful. But I’ll make it. Just show me where everything is.”

  Glen motioned to a small table in one corner of the room. “You should find everything you need there, my dear. Milk is in the mini-fridge just below. But it’s not necessary, Tessa. I’m more than happy to make some.”

  She shook her head. “It’s no bother at all. The least I can do in exchange for your time.”

  As she set to work filling the kettle from a gallon jug of water and then finding cups, spoons, and the tea, Glen smiled sadly.

  “Just like your mother,” he mused. “During the times she stayed at my place in Brooklyn, Gillian always insisted on doing her part to pay me back for my hospitality. And since her stays nearly always coincided with her manic episodes, she’d go on these cleaning binges, polishing and scrubbing and dusting every surface of the flat. Once I woke in the middle of the night to find her on her hands and knees replacing all the shelf paper in the kitchen. Or I’d get up in the morning to find she’d cooked enough breakfast to feed a dozen hungry men. It’s probably hard for you to imagine her that way, Tessa, because I’m just guessing she became more and more depressed as the years went on, and the manic episodes fewer and farther between.”

  Tessa nodded as she finished brewing three cups of tea. “That’s exactly what happened. How did you know?”

  Glen smiled his thanks as she handed him a mug of tea. “I did quite a bit of research on the disorder during the years I knew your mother. I wanted to know what she was going through, how best to help her.” He took a sip of tea, then added somberly, “Unfortunately, Gillian didn’t always want my help. Or anyone’s, for that matter. She was extremely headstrong on top of being ill, but also vulnerable and needy at the same time. It was - exhausting to be around her at times. But I felt responsible for her, you see, knew that she had no one else in the world who gave a damn about her. And she was just so - well, I doubt many men would have been able to resist a woman like Gillian. Even a silly old fool like myself who was more than twenty years older than she was.”

  Tessa’s heart ached a bit at the sadness in his voice. “You were in love with her?” she asked carefully.

  Glen shrugged. “I’m not quite sure what to call it, Tessa. Your mother was capable of stirring up all sorts of emotions in a person - attraction, sympathy, irritation, anger. But I’m getting ahead of myself a bit here, aren’t I? I should begin at the beginning. You have a little time on your hands, don’t you?”

  Ian nodded. “All the time in the world. We had a late lunch on the flight up here, and have no specific plans for dinner. But what about yourself, Mr. Rockwell? I hope we aren’t keeping you from anything. Or that your wife isn’t expecting you home soon.”

  “First, please call me Glen.” He gave a short laugh. “I feel old enough as it is seeing Tessa all grown up, given that the last time I saw her she was still a tiny thing. And second, no, you’re not keeping me from anything. I’m meeting my wife for dinner with a group of friends but not until seven o’clock. Cammie - my wife - still guest lectures at Boston College several times a year, even though she’s officially retired from teaching. That’s where she’s at right now, otherwise it’s likely she would have been the one working this afternoon and we might never have met.” He glanced around the small confines of his office and shrugged. “Owning a bookstore like this was always a dream of hers, something she’d wanted to do for decades. She’d known the previous owners for many years, and it happened to be a coincidence that they were selling up and moving to Florida right around the time Cammie retired. I’d moved to Boston a few years before that to be near my kids, met Cammie at a literary group that I joined. We’d both had bad first marriages, followed by equally bad relationships, and had a lot in common. She’s turned out to be the love of my life. Even more so than I thought Gillian was.”

  For the next hour, Tessa and Ian sat quietly and listened as Glen spun the complicated, often heartbreaking tale of how Gillian Pedersen had burst into his life so unexpectedly, and how nothing for him had ever been the same for years afterwards.

  “I was an editor at a small but prestigious publishing house in Manhattan,” he began. “We didn’t have a lot of clients, or the biggest names, but prided ourselves instead on the quality of our publications. More than a few of our authors had won literary awards, were highly praised by the critics, that sort of thing. Like most editors, I was completely overworked, had stacks and stacks of unread manuscripts piled on my desk, with more arriving in the mail every day. Our receptionist’s main job was to ward off any aspiring authors who showed up each day, all claiming they were going to be the next big thing, and that they just had to hand deliver their masterpiece to an editor.

  “One day, I looked up from a really poorly written piece of garbage that was just about to get tossed into the reject pile, and I saw what I swore at first glance was an angel. It was Gillian, and she was wearing this long, floaty white dress, with all that long blonde hair and the biggest blue eyes I’d ever seen. And she was smiling at me, holding out a manila envelope, and saying in this sweet voice, ‘Sorry, I think I made your receptionist really mad just now, but I had to see someone. And since yours was the first office I came to, well - here I am.’”

  Glen shook his head in remembrance. “Sure enough, the receptionist came rushing in just then, apologizing all over herself, and trying to physically drag Gillian out of my office. But there was something about her - not just her looks, though that alone would have been more than enough to get anyone’s attention. I knew somehow that whatever she had written was going to be special, that she was special. So I told her to stay, took the manuscript, and began to read.”

  He went on to describe his amazement that someone as young as Gillian - she’d only been twenty-one at the time - had been able to craft such a brilliant and poignant story. She had been reluctant to admit that the main character of Chelsea was actually herself, and that the heartbreaking story of neglect, abuse, and poverty was Gillian’s own life. He’d discovered that she was down to her last fifty dollars, didn’t know a single person in New York, and was all alone in the world.

  Glen described what happened next as temporary insanity, but he’d been so captivated with this odd, beautiful, and fascinating girl that he had found himself inviting her to crash at his flat in Brooklyn for a few days. He had told himself that it would just be for a little while, until h
e could get her an advance for the book that he just knew would get published, and help her find a more permanent place to live.

  But Gillian had remained in his flat for nearly three months. And during that initial stay, it hadn’t taken Glen very long to realize that the beautiful, brilliant girl he’d taken under his wing was also a deeply troubled one. She would be happy and full of vitality and a veritable dynamo for several days, dazzling him with her zest for life and her seemingly boundless energy. But then, without much warning, she’d crash and burn - sleeping for three days straight, not eating or bothering to shower or dress, withdrawing into herself. He’d done a bit of research, asked a friend who was a psychologist, and figured out that Gillian was most likely bipolar.

  He’d alternately bullied and pleaded with her to see a doctor, offering to pay the fees, but she’d demurred, insisting that there was nothing wrong with her, that she just pushed herself too hard at times and got run down as a result. And it was right after he’d ignored her half-baked explanations and made a doctor’s appointment for her that she left town for the first time, just packing up her things and taking off while he was at work without a word.

  It was a pattern that was to repeat itself time and time again over the next few years. After her first unannounced disappearance, Gillian stayed away for almost six months, during which time Glen had no idea where she’d taken herself off to, hadn’t received so much as a phone call or a letter. When she finally re-surfaced, it was with a brand new, completed manuscript in hand, but no explanation for where she’d been all this time. She remained in New York for a few months, and this time she’d consented to finally seeing a doctor. Glen had kept after her on a daily basis to take her medications, and Gillian had complied - for a time. And then, without any apparent reason, she stopped taking her meds one day and the vicious cycle of ups and downs, mania and depression, began all over again.

  “Apparently it’s a rather common occurrence for those who are bipolar to stop taking their medications,” explained Glen. “The drugs are largely mood altering, and oftentimes the patients miss their manic episodes, miss the way they feel during those times. There are plenty of other side effects, too, and Gillian couldn’t cope with all of them. Once the mood cycles started again, I set my foot down, told her she needed to get back on the meds or go find another place to stay. She was gone before sunrise.”

  Glen readily admitted that he should have cut ties with the unstable, unreliable Gillian right then and there. He had no business, after all, being involved with a woman more than twenty years his junior, who was only a few years older than his own teenaged children. But he’d been lonely, long divorced from his first wife who’d remarried and moved to Connecticut with their kids, and he didn’t seen his son or daughter all that often. Plus, he had felt a responsibility towards Gillian, not just as her editor but with a mingled-up mess of emotions that were part fatherly, part brotherly, and more than a little romantic.

  “I was - pure and simple - infatuated with her,” he acknowledged ruefully. “When she was manic, she had this fire, this passion, that was impossible not to get swept up in. And her talent as a writer was astounding, especially for someone who’d never been to college. Gillian’s writing came from the heart, from the hard life she’d lived. I used to try and convince myself that was the only reason I helped her, the only reason I kept taking her back in. But it was much more than that, of course.”

  His tale continued, recounting how soon after completing the third novel Gillian left again, this time for an entire year. He knew she always went south during the winter months, that she hated the snow and cold weather with a passion. During her other absences, she’d wound up in Miami, Charleston, New Orleans, and he assumed she had fled to one of those locations during this particularly long time away.

  But when Gillian eventually showed up again, he’d learned she had spent most of her time away in Savannah, Georgia, and that the reason for her long absence had been the two-month old infant she’d been carrying in her arms. And once again, Gillian had been broke, homeless, and desperate.

  “And once again I took her in,” sighed Glen. “I mean, how could I have refused? Especially with a baby in tow. So you and your mother stayed with me for almost six months, Tessa. And it was during that time she wrote the fourth book, the one you’ve been clutching in your hands like it was a gold bar.”

  Tessa couldn’t help but notice the sad, hurt expression in Glen’s eyes when he’d recounted his shock at discovering Gillian had been pregnant. “That must have been one of the more difficult times for you,” she told him somberly. “You loved her, took care of her, was the only person who looked out for her. And how did she repay all that kindness? By running away when things didn’t go her way, hooking up with some random man, and having a baby. Only to run back to you for support once again.”

  Glen’s smile was equally sad. “It was far more than just one random man, Tessa. I don’t mean to shock you but, well, your mother tended to be quite promiscuous during her manic phases. She never once brought a man to my place in Brooklyn, knew that I wouldn’t tolerate it. But there were many times when she’d arrive back in the middle of the night - or even the middle of the day - and I knew right away she’d been with a man she had picked up somewhere. She’d reek of booze or weed or, well, sex. The episodes she detailed in her third book were unfortunately also based on real events.”

  “I know.” Tessa glanced down at her lap, resisting the urge to squirm at this unpleasant topic. “There were always men over the years. We’d live with one of them for a time, until Mom decided he was getting too possessive or bossy or he made her uncomfortable. We did a lot of sneaking out of apartments in the middle of the night over the years. And then of course there were simply the men she brought into whatever room or apartment we happened to be living in at the time. Fortunately, she didn’t do that very often.”

  Ian frowned, sliding his hand over her tightly clenched ones. “You never shared that part of the story with me, Tessa. Were you - please don’t tell me that these men ever harassed you, or made you feel uncomfortable.”

  “No. Nothing like that.” She was quick to reassure him, knowing all too well how fierce he could be when he went into protector mode. “By the time I started, well, maturing, Mom was really starting to slip more and more into the depressive episodes. I was also old enough - in theory, at least - for her to leave me alone at night while she went out places. But, enough of that. Glen, please continue with your story.”

  “Not much more to tell, really, just more of the same. Gillian would continue to flit in and out of town without warning. She’d disappear with you for three or four months, then ring my doorbell one night out of the blue. I’d give her a little money, make sure both of you had new clothes, insist that she at least take you to the doctor for routine check-ups. And each time she’d pop up, you would be a little older, a little bigger, while your mother was a little less stable. A couple of times she’d agree to go back on her meds, and I’d keep my fingers crossed that maybe this time it would last. But it never did, of course.

  “She continued to write - or what passed for writing by then. If the fourth book was difficult to edit, then everything she wrote after that was unsalvageable. Most of it utter nonsense, like it was written by someone in the middle of a bad LSD trip or something. I managed to edit a couple of short stories into some semblance of coherency, enough to get them published in a literary journal. But it was like the fire inside of her was gradually starting to go out, and when she was manic she wasn’t lucid at all. I - I asked her to marry me then, to let me adopt Tessa. I knew she didn’t love me, or even think of me that way. For all the times she’d lived in my house, we had never come close to being intimate. But I was afraid by then for Tessa’s wellbeing, couldn’t even think about Gillian trying to raise a small child on her own in the condition she was in.”

  Tears were welling in Tessa’s eyes now, and she reached over to squeeze the hand of this kindl
y man whom she’d never even heard about until today, but who had evidently gone out of his way to look out for her when she’d been a little girl. “I can just imagine her reaction to that,” she sympathized. “The very image of my mother settling down anywhere, being someone’s wife - it’s unfathomable.”

  Glen smiled ruefully. “That’s more or less what she said when I asked her. But when I kept pushing, even threatening once or twice to hire a lawyer and try to get custody of you myself - well, that’s when she bolted for good. It was months before I heard from her again, a letter this time from Santa Fe. She said she’d finally found her spiritual home, that this was the place she’d been searching for all her life, and that she’d never return to New York. She insisted that you were fine and happy, enclosed a couple of photos of the two of you. But when I wrote her back, the letters were returned as undeliverable. After that, I’d get a postcard once in awhile until even those stopped, and I lost track of the two of you completely.

  “Oh, I suppose I could have hired a private detective to track you down, but I didn’t see much point in it. Gillian couldn’t be trusted, refused to stay on her meds or get therapy, and seemed intent on destroying herself one way or another. I regretted it over the years, of course, not looking harder for the two of you, but mostly because of you, Tessa. I should have hardened my heart, and followed through with my threats to take you away from her. You would have had a much better life, a happier one, and certainly a more stable one. But in the end, I doubt I’d have been able to do it. Because despite all of her faults and problems, the one thing Gillian truly cared about was you. And it would have broken her heart, would have probably killed her, if someone had taken you away. You were the one thing that gave her hope, Tessa, that kept her going. Otherwise, I think she would have tried to kill herself a long time before she actually died, would have given up completely.”

  The tears were spilling freely from her eyes now, and Ian slid an arm around her shoulders in silent comfort. “I never knew any of this,” she whispered brokenly. “Mom never even mentioned that we’d lived in New York off and on for several years. How could I not remember any of this – not remember you?”