What Might Have Been
Glenda Sanders
The author wishes to express her appreciation to Amy and Joseph, who shared information about Florida adoption law and prenatal sonograms, respectively. A special thank-you goes to Cynthia Holt, who answered a multitude of questions, from the mundane to the sublime, about the work and ethics of guidance counselors.
Dear Reader,
Writing about high school romance in What Might Have Been gave me an excellent excuse to reflect on some of the young men who added the spice of romance to my own youth.
There was Dick, whom I met at the skating rink. Not long after we began dating, he moved to New Orleans, and we eagerly wrote each other angst-filled letters.
Tommy, slightly dangerous and dashing, became a Marine. We were pen pals while he was in Vietnam.
Terry—tall, handsome Terry—had a bloodhound puppy and dreamed of becoming president. We argued over whether the word rabbit is pronounced “rabbit” or “wabbit.”
Jim was cool, always invited to the best parties. We went cruising the hamburger stands in his mother’s convertible when he could get it.
I met David—hazel-eyed David with the beautiful dimples—on a blind date because I was one of the few girls my friend knew who was short enough for a guy five foot six. I took my first airplane flight—all of forty-five minutes—to go with him to his fraternity formal, and he took me to my senior prom.
And the college men…! John, a talented artist, made me one-of-a-kind greeting cards. Jerry took me on my first motorcycle ride. James wrangled press passes to the release of Gone With the Wind.
And then I met Rusty—tall, blond, blue-eyed Rusty who drove a mustang, taught me to shoot a rifle, introduced me to Mexican food and tried to teach me to surf. Rusty and I laughed a lot when we were together
A quarter of a century later, Rusty and I are still together and still laughing a lot. But I don’t consider all those pre-Rusty loves to be lost. They’re still with me, in that part of the heart reserved for tender memories. I’d like to think maybe a little of me lingers in their hearts, too.
Yours sincerely,
Glenda Sanders
Contents
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Prologue
THE KISS WAS one of invitation, frank and unmistakable. She pressed her body against his in the most provocative way possible and darted her tongue back and forth against the roof of his mouth with suggestive rhythm. Finally she tore her mouth from his and tilted her head back slightly—far enough to ask the crucial question with her eyes.
Richard had not planned on this. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted it. He searched his memory for her name, a name still new and unfamiliar on his tongue, and said it tentatively.
She pressed her pelvis harder into his. “You’re not going to try to tell me you’re not interested.”
A denial would only contradict what his sex-starved body was telling her. It had been more than a year since he’d been with a woman. Still, he was a bit befuddled by the swiftness of it all, and he said nothing.
It was supposed to have been a routine closing.
“If you’re worried about responsibility, I’m on the pill. And I brought the proper safety equipment.”
His incredulity must have shown because she said, “Does that surprise you? You’re a nice-looking man. I’m attracted to you and you’re not—” she wiggled against him and smiled smugly “—indifferent to me.”
Still, he didn’t speak.
“We’re mature, unattached adults. If we’re responsible, where’s the harm? Why not enjoy each other’s company?”
She was not beautiful, but she was attractive. And the roof of his mouth still tingled from her artful kiss.
More than a year—
He answered with action instead of words, dipping his head to hers and plundering her mouth as she’d plundered his. She was already tearing at his clothes, pulling his shirt from his trousers. He did the same with her blouse and soon they were touching, palms to bare backs.
Minutes later they were on the couch, Richard’s doubts and inhibitions cast aside with their clothing. He was only human, after all.
He was too preoccupied to hear the door opening or the footsteps in the entryway. It took the gasp of shock and the mortified “Daddy!” to make him aware enough to look up—just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of a retreating female figure.
1
THE STUDENT SEATED across from guidance counselor Barbara Wilson wore jeans, an oversize sweatshirt and sneakers. Her hair was long and wavy, her bangs moussed to resemble a cockscomb. She sat with her head slightly bowed and her shoulders slumped, clutching the handle of her large denim bag the way a small child might a security blanket. Though she was polite and responsive to Barbara’s questions, she never lifted her eyes.
Her name was Missy Benson. She was sixteen years old, a member of the junior class and an honor student. And she was pregnant.
“You’ve applied for the home study program for the rest of the semester,” Barbara said.
“Mmm-hmm.” Missy accompanied the response with an all-purpose teenage shrug.
The girl was exceedingly uncomfortable, Barbara was sure. She did not know Missy well, but the times she had spoken to her previously, the girl had been much more outgoing.
“Did your doctor tell you that you’d have to restrict your activities during your pregnancy?” Barbara asked.
Missy shook her head.
“You’re not due until mid-June,” Barbara continued. “Unless you have some unusual medical problem, you shouldn’t have any trouble attending school for the entire semester. We could schedule a study hall either before or after your lunch and you could rest in the nurse’s office if you needed to.”
Silence. Teenage silence. The bane of guidance counselors and parents throughout human history. Barbara waited until it was obvious Missy was not going to respond before asking, “Don’t you think you’d get lonely at home all that time?”
Missy shrugged her shoulders as if to say she didn’t care. Barbara suspected that she cared very much. “Are you afraid of being embarrassed?” she asked gently.
“Sort of.”
Barbara let her stew for a moment, then said, “Most of your friends already know about your pregnancy, don’t they?”
Barbara knew they did; she’d heard about Missy’s pregnancy through the student grapevine a week before the application for home study came across her desk.
“I guess so,” Missy mumbled.
A mumble was better than a grunt. Encouraged, Barbara said, “It was probably bad at first, but once everyone got over the shock, it’s probably not so bad anymore.”
Missy remained silent, but she was listening.
“Wouldn’t you rather be here at school with your friends than hiding out at home?”
Another shrug.
Barbara waited a moment, then asked, “It wasn’t your idea to stay at home, was it?”
Missy’s words burst forth in a rush. “My dad says the kids will all make fun of me. He says I’d be uncomfortable.”
“What do you think?”
“I guess he’s right. I mean, I’m going to be fat, and I might walk funny.”
Barbara smiled. Reassuringly, she hoped. “Maybe a little funny, toward the end. But if your friends teased you—I’m talking about your real friends, Missy—if they teased you, it would be the friendly type of teasing, sort of like they’d tease you if you got a bad haircut or spilled spaghetti in your lap.”<
br />
Missy shifted uncomfortably, a sure sign to Barbara that she was listening. And thinking. Tentatively, Barbara said, “Teenagers need to be around other teenagers, Missy. Your friends can help you feel like you’re still a part of things.”
She gave Missy an opportunity to speak, but the girl only stared at her hands as she worried the handle of the denim bag.
“The longer you’re out of school, the harder it’s going to be to get back into the routine when you come back,” Barbara said. “Don’t you want to try staying in school?”
Missy chewed on her lower lip.
“If you stay, you can always change your mind later on, if you get too tired or feel too uncomfortable.”
“But my dad—”
“Did you tell your father how you felt?”
Missy shrugged miserably.
Barbara sighed. “That’s what I thought. Missy, I’m sure your father only wants to protect you, but sometimes it’s not easy for parents to know the best way to protect their children. Especially in a difficult situation. Maybe if he knew how you felt and what the experts say—”
For the first time Missy’s gaze met Barbara’s. “Would you tell him, Ms. Wilson? He’d listen to you.”
Barbara smiled. “I’d be happy to talk to your father, Missy.”
The girl’s “Thank you” was heartrending.
Barbara stood and walked to the side of her desk. “We’ve done about all we can do until I’ve had a chance to talk to him. I’ll make the appointment as soon as possible.”
Missy rose, ready to bolt.
So young, Barbara thought. And so vulnerable. And at that moment, so totally alone.
“You know, Missy, sometimes what we need more than anything else in the whole world is a big hug. Have you ever felt that way?”
“Oh, Ms. Wilson,” Missy said, releasing a sob as she rushed into Barbara’s arms. “My dad thinks I’m awful.”
Barbara hugged her, rocked her as she would a small child, stroked her back. “I’m sure he’s upset, Missy, but that doesn’t mean he thinks you’re awful. He’s probably just scared.”
“Scared?” Raising her head, Missy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Didn’t you know that parents get scared?” Barbara asked as she offered Missy a tissue from the box on her desk. “Parents want to protect their children. They don’t want anything bad to happen to them. And when something does, they feel bad, because they couldn’t stop it. And that scares them. Your whole world has been turned upside down and inside out. And so has his.”
Missy took a tissue and blotted her nose. “He’s ashamed of me.”
“Did he say that?”
“He didn’t have to,” Missy sniffed. “He doesn’t want anyone to see me.”
Barbara gave Missy another quick hug. “I’m sure your father wants to do what’s best for you. He doesn’t realize how understanding your friends would be. I’ll explain it to him.”
Missy sniffed. “Thanks.”
“I hope...” Barbara said, then paused to organize her thoughts. “It’s not always easy for parents and kids to talk when they’re in an emotional situation. Sometimes you start arguing, instead of talking, or it’s easier just not to say anything, but I hope you’ll try to talk to your father and tell him anything you might be feeling.”
Missy squared her shoulders and drew in a ragged breath, then nodded.
Barbara felt the girl’s pain, her confusion, her desperation. And she knew that Missy didn’t believe that talking to her father would do any good at all. She put her hands on Missy’s shoulders. “Missy, I want you to know that any time you need to talk to someone, or just feel like a hug, you can come see me. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Sometimes I might be in a conference. You might have to wait a few minutes, but you just tell Mrs. Dinker you’re on my ‘anytime’ list, and I’ll see you as soon as I can.”
“Thanks, Ms. Wilson.”
”That’s what I’m here for,” Barbara said under her breath as Missy made a rabbit-into-the-hole teenage exit.
Sagging against the back of her chair, Barbara released a ragged sigh. Counseling pregnant students left her drained. They were so young, so confused. Children having children.
Children having unwanted children. The irony always cut deeply. To these pregnant children, pregnancy was a crisis; to Barbara, a childless, single woman pushing her thirty-fifth birthday, pregnancy was a precious gift that had been denied her.
There had been a time when she’d tried to become pregnant. She’d wanted a child very badly. Dennis had wanted a child, too. After all, it was the accepted thing to do, the societal norm, and Dennis always did the accepted thing.
But there had been no pregnancy and no child, and most of Barbara’s hope of having one had died with the demise of her marriage. What was left of that hope had been eroding steadily in the five years since.
Barbara’s life was full. There was no shortage, she had discovered, of young people who needed a kind word, a nonjudgmental sounding board, or an occasional hug. She had an entire school filled with students, most of whom, sooner or later, would need her in one way or another. But the ache, the yearning to have a child of her own, remained coiled inside her, ready to emerge and sadden her when she saw a baby—or a teenager carrying an unwanted child.
Barbara forced her attention to Missy Benson’s personal file. Missy Benson. Grade eleven. Honor student. Student council representative for three years. School choir. Mother: Deceased. Father: Richard Benson, Realtor.
Richard Benson. The blood drained from Barbara’s face, and she scolded herself for reacting like one of her angst-driven teenage students. There must be hundreds of Richard Bensons in the country. She’d probably find half a dozen or so in the local phone directory. The odds against Missy’s father being the Richard Benson she’d known years ago, hundreds of miles away in a small town in Georgia, were substantial. And yet—his daughter would be a teenager now. Some quick calculations told her the child would be...almost seventeen. Missy’s age. What if he turned out to be the same man?
Trembling, she lowered her face into her hands and exhaled wearily, then drew in a calming breath and told herself to look at the situation objectively. The world wouldn’t stop rotating if she came face-to-face with an old boyfriend, not even one—
One she’d loved with all her heart. One she’d once felt closer to than any other person on earth. One who’d made the earth tremble with his kisses. The one who’d broken her heart.
Richard Benson had been more than a boyfriend. But he hadn’t been her lover. After all the years, that fact still hurt, and it still haunted.
If she had let Richard make love to her. How many times had she contemplated the might-have-beens? How many times had she wondered how different her life might have been if she’d had the courage to give herself to him?
It might have lasted. They might have married, had children, traded shifts comforting teething children in the middle of the night, fought over the family finances, spent winter nights cuddled together under the covers of a king-size bed.
There would have been no broken hearts, no anger, no regrets, no wondering what it would have been like. There would have been no Dennis Wilson, no years of trying to conform and do what was expected, no frustrating visits to doctors as she tried to conceive children, no arguments over her work, no divorce.
If she had let Richard make love to her. She sloughed off the speculation and sat up straighter in her chair, running her finger over the personal information form until she found Richard Benson’s office number.
Her voice sounded almost normal as she told the receptionist at Benson Realty her name and asked to speak to Missy’s father.
* * *
IN THE CORNER office at Benson Realty, Richard had to stop reading the contract he was reviewing to answer the buzzing intercom. “Yeah, Margaret. What is it?”
“I know you wanted me to screen your calls, but there’s a M
rs. Wilson on line two who says she’s calling from Missy’s school,” his receptionist said.
Richard’s stomach knotted. Missy’s school? Oh, God, what if it were a medical emergency? “I’ll take it,” he said. He barely finished the words before punching the button that would connect him to the caller. “Richard Benson,” he barked into the receiver.
“Mr. Benson, this is—” Barbara had to swallow before she could go on. She honestly couldn’t tell whether the voice was the one she’d been dreading. Anticipating. Hoping for, damn it! “Barbara Wilson, the eleventh-grade counselor at Missy’s school.”
“Is Missy all right?”
“She’s fine,” Barbara said. Aside from being pregnant and terrified and feeling like a pariah, she’s perfectly fine. “She just left my office. There’s no emergency.”
She sensed his relief.
“I’ve been reviewing Missy’s application for home study, and I’d like to discuss it with you. Could you possibly come to the school for about half an hour tomorrow?”
Would you let me see your face to see if it’s the one I’ve been remembering for seventeen years?
Richard relaxed. A little. He hadn’t relaxed completely since Missy had come to him with the news that she suspected she was pregnant. He sometimes wondered if he’d ever fully relax again. “Morning would be best for me,” he said.
“Eight-thirty?”
“Perfect.”
Barbara froze. Froze, and slid back in time. Froze, and was sitting again in Richard’s aging Mustang. Now it would be a classic. Then it was just old. Richard had unbuttoned her blouse, mastered the front closure on her bra.
He was the first boy she’d allowed to see her breasts.
His breath had caught in his throat. “Perfect,” he’d whispered.
Eight-thirty tomorrow morning was perfect.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then,” she said hoarsely. Her hand was trembling when she hung up the phone.
“Well, now you know,” she said aloud, with a sigh. Somehow she got through the rest of the day with a semblance of normalcy.
What Might Have Been Page 1
