A Year of Second Chances. Buffy Andrews

outside and watched as he locked the door and put the key back in the lockbox. He handed me his card. “Call me if you want to chat. Obviously, I can sell your other property and have you in this one, hopefully by the fall.”

      I nodded. “Thanks for showing it to me, Ed. And I’ll definitely be in touch. I have a lot to think about.”

      A bell jingled as I opened the paneled door and walked inside the used book store adjacent to the property. A young twentysomething with a wisp of pink hair framing her heart-shaped face glanced up from behind the counter. “Hi. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

      I shook my head. “Just browsing.” I walked through the store, crowded with wooden tables piled high with books. Shelves hugged every inch of wall space. A black book about two inches thick caught my attention. I walked over and picked it up. It felt like it weighed five pounds. I traced my finger over the title, written in gold ink: Eugenics.

      I opened it and saw a 1904 copyright by the S. A. Mullikin Co. and started reading the introduction by Bishop Samuel Fallows. “Know thyself” were his first two words. Thumbing through the book I couldn’t help but smile. It’d been written more than a hundred years ago and contained advice on everything from how to be beautiful, to sensible courting, to diseases peculiar to men.

      It was almost surreal, standing in the middle of this bookshop, filled with thousands of old books I’d never have time to read even if I wanted to. Just like the one I held in my hand, each book was locked in its own era. Bound and dated, tombs long-since forgotten.

      And that’s when it hit me like one of David’s fastballs in the gut, knocking the wind out of me. I’d come to the realization that the plot of my life didn’t make sense to me anymore. I wanted to rewrite it, to care less about things and live life a little more playfully. Like a beach ball that bobs about during a game of volleyball with brief encounters, I wanted a life that was buoyant and unexpected but always in play.

      I wanted that store, and I bought the book as a reminder that, while I couldn’t know how history would turn out, I did have the power to write my own.

Chapter 8

      I called Mom before I went to bed to ask for the millionth time if anyone in our family had ever had breast cancer. I’d decided to tell her about my abnormal mammogram because I wanted to know if there was any family history.

      “Scarlett, the answer is the same as it was when you called this afternoon. No. But I suppose it has to begin with someone.”

      “Mom!”

      “Oh my. That came out all wrong.”

      “No kidding.”

      “Listen, sweetie. I’m sure everything will turn out. You always did worry too much. Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you to see the surgeon?”

      “No, I’ll be fine.”

      “Well, if you change your mind, call me tomorrow before seven. I promised the girls I’d meet them at the diner for breakfast.”

      “I don’t need you to go along, Mom. Go to breakfast. If I have cancer I’ll call you.”

      “Scarlett Elizabeth! Stop talking so dumb. Call me afterward and let me know what Dr. Edwards said. I’ve been checking around and I’ve heard a lot of good things about him. He worked on Ethel Musser’s breast and she was happy.”

      “Jesus, Mom. Worked on? Really? You make it sound as if my breast is a damn car.”

      “I didn’t mean it like that, Scarlett. You’re too sensitive. Dr. Edwards removed Ethel’s breast and it looks better than I thought it would. Flat with a scar right across the middle.”

      I had to get off the phone with Mom because I really didn’t want to hear any more details about Ethel Musser’s breast. I was already freaking out about seeing Dr. Edwards the next day and I didn’t need Mom fueling my anxiety. I was thankful my appointment had been moved up after someone else had canceled.