What Might Have Been

by Glenda Sanders

  She took the meat and vegetables from the refrigerator, then put the meat on a cutting board and sliced away the narrow edge of fat. Sensing Missy’s attention on her as she worked, Barbara said, “I always like pot roast when the weather gets like this.”

  Missy didn’t comment. Barbara took several containers from the spice cabinet and lined them up on the counter. Then she picked up the pepper grinder, ground a generous portion over the roast and rubbed it in with her fingertips. Missy was still watching her interestedly, and Barbara decided it was time for a gamble.

  “Can you give me a hand here?” she asked, and then, seeing the look of helplessness on Missy’s face, quickly continued, “I always rub before I finish sprinkling, then I end up having to wash my hands two or three times. If you’d just sprinkle while I rub—”

  “Okay,” Missy said, dubious but willing.

  “Paprika first,” Barbara said.

  Missy hesitated, so Barbara added encouragingly, “Just take the lid off the bottle. It’s a shaker top. You just sprinkle it on.”

  Missy did as she said, and gave the bottle a tenuous shake.

  Barbara rubbed in the spice and turned the meat over. “This side. And don’t worry. Paprika is pretty mild. You can’t have too much.”

  Missy was more confident this time.

  “Now the ground cloves,” Barbara said. As Missy sprinkled, she added, “Smells good, doesn’t it?”

  Missy nodded, and Barbara grinned conspiratorially. “It’s my secret pot roast ingredient.”

  “You must like to cook,” Missy said.

  “Since I live alone, it would be easy to fast food it all the time, but I try to cook real meals at least a couple of times a week. Let’s see...now, the garlic powder, and then we’re ready for the flour.”

  Missy opened the garlic powder and sprinkled. “I thought flour was for bread and cake and stuff.”

  “You don’t use much. Just enough to coat the meat. It’s called dredging. It makes the meat brown prettier and thickens the stock while the meat’s cooking.”

  “You’re a good cook, huh?”

  Barbara laughed softly. “My grandmother was a good cook. She taught me.”

  “My grandma’s a neatness freak. She never lets me in the kitchen because she’s afraid I’ll make a mess.”

  Deliberately downplaying the information, Barbara shrugged. “Well, now you have my secret pot roast ingredient—in case you want to try making pot roast sometime.”

  “You think I could?”

  Barbara shrugged. “Why not? By the time we finish in a few minutes, you’ll be an old pro. The flour’s in that plastic canister. There’s a sifter inside. Just sift a little bit over each side while I rub it in. That’s good. See? It doesn’t take much.”

  “It looks funny.”

  Barbara scrutinized the spiced and floured hunk of beef. “It does look a bit...disreputable. But trust me, it’ll be delicious.” She stepped to the sink to wash her hands. “Want to help with the vegetables?”

  “Okay.”

  “There’s a clean cutting board and a fresh knife in that drawer,” Barbara said, breaking two stalks from the bunch of celery. “You can slice these as soon as I get them washed.”

  Missy hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip before saying, “I’m not very good at slicing.”

  “Well,” said Barbara, “get the board and the knife and we’ll work on that. What seems to be the problem?”

  “I can’t make them...you know, the same size.”

  Barbara leaned over and whispered in Missy’s ear. “For pot roast, it doesn’t matter!”

  Missy pulled a doubtful face.

  “It’s true!” Barbara said. “For a side dish, the pieces need to be the same size so they can cook uniformly. But with pot roast, the vegetables are just for flavoring, and to keep the meat moist. So it’s a great way to practice. And practice is all it really takes.”

  They progressed from celery to carrots, with Barbara showing Missy how to cut off the tops and tips, to an onion, over which they both shed tears, laughing over the absurdity of crying. After demonstrating how to brown the dredged meat on all edges before adding the vegetables and water and reducing the heat, Barbara announced, “And now, we can kick back and relax.”

  “How long will it take to cook?” Missy asked on the way to the living room.

  “That depends on the weight of the meat and how you like it cooked,” Barbara said. “I like pot roast falling apart tender, so it’ll probably take two to three hours.”

  In the living room, Missy moved as if to sit down, then hesitated self-consciously.

  “Just make yourself at home,” Barbara said. “You can kick off your shoes and lie down on the couch if you’d like.”

  “Like at a shrink’s?” Missy asked cautiously.

  It was so unexpected, so off-the-wall and yet so logical at the same time, that Barbara chuckled. “I’m not a psychiatrist, Missy. I just thought that you might want to relax after a long day at school. You can sit in the armchair and prop your feet on the coffee table if you’d rather.”

  “Can I unsnap my jeans? They’re kind of tight.”

  “Sure you can. There’s nobody here but us girls.” She tried to sound nonchalant. “You’re going to have to get some maternity clothes soon.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Don’t you like to shop?”

  Missy made a face. “Heather and I go to the mall sometimes, but—”

  “Earrings are more interesting than maternity pants?”

  Missy nodded sullenly.

  “What about your dad? Do you shop with him?”

  “Not very often. He doesn’t know much about...you know, clothes.”

  “Maybe you and I could go some afternoon. I love to shop.”

  Missy seemed to want to speak, but didn’t, so Barbara took a different tack. “Would you like some music? I have a new tape of songs that were popular when I was your age.”

  “Okay.”

  Barbara turned on the stereo, then settled in the armchair opposite the coffee table from Missy. “Your dad would probably remember some of these,” Barbara said, careful not to make the observation seem too important. “We went to the same high school. Did he tell you?”

  Missy nodded.

  “It was quite a surprise seeing a face from the past.”

  After a thoughtful silence, Missy asked tremulously, “Did you know my mother, too?”

  It was the most logical question in the world, but Barbara was blindsided by it. She hesitated, composing her reply before answering. “Not very well. She was a couple of years older than I was, so we didn’t have classes together or anything.”

  “Do I look like her?”

  The expression in the girl’s eyes as Barbara studied Missy’s expectant face tore Barbara apart inside. She tried earnestly to remember Christine’s face and make a mental comparison, but the only image of the young woman that came to mind was the one of her wearing a smug, self-satisfied smirk as she had hung on Richard’s arm at the football game. All Barbara saw when she looked at Missy was a troubled child-woman. And all she could think of was that this was Richard’s daughter who was in so much trouble. “I think you favor your father more, but that could be because it’s been so long since I saw Christine.”

  Missy looked away. “Grandmother thinks I’m just like her.”

  “You probably are a little bit like your mother, Missy. You’re also a little like your father, and a little like your grandmother, and a little like every person who’s been important to you. The special blend you are makes you a unique person. It’ll be the same with your baby.”

  Missy had grown thoughtfully quiet. Barbara waited a while before initiating conversation again. “Earlier I told you that I’m not a psychiatrist, and that’s true. I just want to be your friend, in case you need one. But I want you to know that you can trust me, Missy. If you need to talk—about anything—you can talk to me, and anything you tell me will stay bet
ween the two of us.”

  “You won’t tell...anybody?”

  “Not if you didn’t want me to.”

  “Not even my daddy?”

  Not even her daddy! The realization hit Barbara then of what a precarious and potentially compromising position she was in, counseling Missy while sleeping with Richard. It was not nearly so simple as it had seemed when she and Richard had agreed, in the afterglow of lovemaking, that they should keep their relationship confidential for a while. Richard had explained that he felt Missy’s life was in enough turmoil with her pregnancy; he did not wish to add to her emotional load by asking her to adjust to his rather sudden, but quite serious, romantic involvement with a woman.

  “If there was something I thought he needed to know, then I would encourage you to talk to him, but no, I wouldn’t violate a confidence.”

  She waited for Missy to respond. As usual, Missy surprised her. “Could we really go shopping?”

  “We’d have to get your dad’s permission, but I’d love it. We could go next week. Instead of coming here.”

  “Okay.” Missy hesitated, as though deciding whether to commit herself further, then said, “I really need some stuff bad. I need...bras.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Barbara replied. “Your breasts change a lot when you’re pregnant. Did you know that? I mean, that it’s normal for your breasts to change?”

  “Yeah. It’s in a book the doctor gave me. I just—” she shrugged “I didn’t want to ask for...you know.”

  “Maternity bras?”

  Missy nodded.

  “Well, maybe it won’t be so bad if we ask for them together.” She smiled reassuringly. “That’s the kind of thing I was hoping I could help you with. Girl stuff. If you have any concerns about your pregnancy, physical or otherwise, we can talk about those.”

  Though quiet, Missy appeared receptive, so Barbara decided to take a big chance. “We could talk about how you feel about the baby, or about the baby’s father.”

  She had touched a chord. Missy paled, and sadness clouded her eyes. “I don’t see him anymore.” Embarrassed, she turned her gaze away from Barbara’s as she confessed, “He goes to another school, but that’s not the only reason I don’t see him. His mother won’t let him see me. She thinks that I...that it’s my fault.”

  His mother won’t let him! It was ludicrous enough to make her groan and sad enough to break her heart. Two young people expecting a child, and the father’s mother wouldn’t let them see each other. She was left little time to think about it, though, because suddenly Missy released a heart-rending sob.

  “It’s not true, Ms. Wilson. Everything she said. It wasn’t true. I didn’t get pregnant on purpose. We were using a condom, but it busted. I didn’t plan the whole thing.”

  Barbara grabbed a box of tissue and took them to Missy, perching on the arm of Missy’s chair so she could put her arm around her to comfort her. “People often say things when they’re upset that they know aren’t true. I’m sure this boy’s mother didn’t believe everything she said.”

  “She did,” Missy said, curving into Barbara’s embrace. “She did. Oh, Ms. Wilson, she called me a slut, and Josh just sat there, and then my dad asked him how he could just sit there and not say anything when he knew good and well that I was a virgin when I met him, and Josh’s mother said she doubted that. Then Josh tried to tell her and she told him to shut up because he was too naive to know what I was up to, and that she wasn’t even convinced the baby was Josh’s.”

  She sniffed mightily. “It was so awful.”

  Barbara hugged and rocked her. “Of course it was. It must have been horrible for you.”

  The story poured from Missy, as if she’d been holding it in, just waiting for the right moment to tell someone. “She said that if I was going to sleep around, that I should have been responsible enough to make sure I didn’t get pregnant, and that girls can do a lot more about it than guys. And then she said that Josh was too young to be a father, and that I wouldn’t be a good mother, and that if I had any sense, I’d have an abortion, and I said no, that I didn’t want to kill my baby.”

  She drew away to blow her nose. Barbara went to the bathroom for a damp cloth, then sat down on the floor in front of Missy’s chair and patted Missy on the knee. “How did Josh’s mother react when you told her you wanted to keep the baby?”

  Missy bathed her face with the damp cloth, then swallowed. “She called me a bunch of names again, and Daddy told her to shut up and said that she couldn’t talk to me that way, and that Josh was just as responsible as I was. And Josh’s mother said that if I didn’t have an abortion that I would be ruining Josh’s life and my life and the baby’s, and that it wasn’t fair that Josh should have to pay for my stupidity. And she said that if we expected Josh to support the baby, that we’d have to get a blood test after the baby was born to prove that Josh was really the father.”

  She sobbed, and pressed the cloth to her face. Her voice was thin as she continued. “Daddy was really, really mad, and he said that if Josh didn’t want to live up to his responsibility, he would have to agree to give up any right to the baby, ever, and Josh’s mother said that was just fine, just to send the papers over and Josh would be more than happy to sign them. And Josh...Josh just sat there. He didn’t say a thing.”

  “That must have hurt you very badly.”

  Missy buried her face in the washcloth. “I thought—”

  “You thought he cared more about you.”

  Missy nodded frantically.

  “And you must have cared a great deal about him, or you wouldn’t have made love with him.”

  Missy froze, then turned slowly to face Barbara. She sniffed pitifully, then released a sigh of such relief that Barbara wondered that a person’s lungs could have held so much air. “He’s the only one, ever.”

  Then with eyes so pleading that Barbara thought her heart surely would break for the girl, Missy asked, “You believe me, don’t you?”

  Moving back to the arm of the chair, Barbara embraced Missy and hugged her tightly—as tightly as she would have held any child of her own who was aching. “Oh, Missy, yes, I believe you. Of course I believe you. Your father does, too. And he loves you very much. And your grandmother—”

  She knew instantly she’d made a mistake as Missy turned to stone and said vehemently, “I wish I didn’t have to tell my grandmother, ever. She thinks—”

  The thought trailed into a shuddering sigh. Barbara would have given a month of lunches to know what Missy was so convinced her grandmother would think about her pregnancy, but after a prolonged pause, Missy lifted her head and, chin quivering, repeated, simply, “I wish she never had to know.”

  Barbara smoothed a strand of hair from Missy’s moist cheek. “When do you plan to tell her?”

  “Daddy says we can wait until she gets back from her trip in April.”

  “That gives you time to think about the best way to approach her.” She gave Missy a gentle hug. “You know, once she’s past the initial shock, she may surprise you by being very understanding. After all, the baby inside you is her great-grandchild.”

  Missy’s sniff somehow managed to convey skepticism, but she was much calmer. Pleased with the way Missy had opened up to her, Barbara remained silent, letting Missy decide which direction their discussion would take.

  She didn’t take it in an easy direction. She posed the question softly, so softly that Barbara wouldn’t have been able to hear it if she hadn’t been so close to her. “Do you think I should have had an abortion, like Josh’s mother said?”

  It was the last question in the world Barbara wanted to hear. “I’m probably not the right person to answer that question, Missy, because I can’t be objective. But I can tell you this—I think you did what your heart told you to do, and sometimes that’s the only thing a woman can do when she’s trying to make that decision.”

  Missy contemplated Barbara’s reply for a while, then asked, “Why did you say that you coul
dn’t be objective?”

  Who’s counseling whom? Barbara thought, trying to decide how much of herself to share. But, since she had nothing to hide and she was trying to win Missy’s confidence, she answered the question frankly. “Because I’ve always wanted a child, and that makes it impossible for me to think of abortion as a solution without thinking about the babies I’ve never had. When I see a nice young woman like you, with her life ahead of her, I think, up here—” she pointed to her temple “—about how an unplanned baby would complicate her life, economically and socially and educationally. So I can understand why abortion would be an appealing option. I know women are desperate sometimes. But, in here—” she patted her heart “—in here, I can’t help thinking about the babies and thinking that, sometimes, life is unfair, both to the women who want babies and can’t have them, and to the ones who are pregnant and don’t want to be.”

  “Why don’t you adopt a baby?”

  “I might have, if my husband and I hadn’t divorced. But we did, and I put my energy into other things. I finished my master’s degree, then became a guidance counselor.”

  “Single women have babies.”

  “Yes. But parenting is hard work, and if I had a child, I would want to be sure I could give it all the nurturing it needed, and that would be difficult with the job I have. My students help fill the empty place where my child would be. It’s almost as if I get a couple of hundred kids every year.”

  Missy exhaled a soft sigh. “My doctor says that she has patients who can’t have children, and that if I want to give my baby up for adoption, that she could help find a good home for it.”

  “Are you considering adoption for your baby?” Barbara didn’t know why the prospect had not occurred to her before.

  Missy shrugged. “The lawyer who drew up the papers for Josh to sign said that if I wanted to put the baby up for adoption, Josh can’t stop me.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  Missy grew very still. “It would be a lot easier than trying to raise a baby. And it might be better for the baby.” Her chin succumbed to one little quiver before she was able to reclaim her composure. “But I’d never get to see my baby again. I think I’d be sad.”