A SECOND CHANCE MAY BE TOO HOT TO HANDLE
They say there are no second chances, and for Lily Onassis, ever since she walked away from Formula World driver Max Becker, she's considered this true. Instead of a glitzy, glamorous life on the auto racing...
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LILY
A little over an hour later, I'm running into an enormous hospital in downtown Miami. I'd had the presence of mind to wash my face, change out of my dirty clothes and into a blue tank top dress and sneakers, but haven't showered and swept my hair into a messy bun.
A doctor in a white coat meets me in the lobby. He has kind eyes and a gentle smile, but his brow is furrowed with concern. I can see the sweat on his forehead, beading in the fluorescent light. I try to explain who I am and why I'm there, but my words come out in a jumble.
"What happened? Dad! How is he?" I'm breathless with worry and fear. Nothing like this has ever happened to my father. Quite the opposite; even at sixty-three, he seems strong and strapping, invincible even.
"I'm Dr. Mihir Patel, and it's nice to meet you, Ms. Onassis. I'm so sorry to meet you like this, but your father had a heart attack while at the race."
"What? No!" I press the heels of my hands to my forehead.
"He's stable now. We've given him medicine to thin the blood and nitroglycerin to help improve blood flow and ease the work the heart needs to do. We're also giving him thrombolytic medications, what we call clot busters. We want to begin the angioplasty procedure, but he insisted on seeing you prior to that surgery."
"Surgery?" I seem to only be capable of yelling one-word responses.
"Angioplasty is a common procedure. It allows us to see inside the arteries and look for the blockage. Once that's found, we'll insert a stent..."
Dr. Patel's talks for a few minutes while I have to steady myself against a wall. My father had a heart attack? But he runs and stretches and Mom even convinced him to drink kale smoothies once a week...
"I need to see him," I blurt.
"Of course, we've got him stabilized." Dr. Patel indicates I should follow him, and I'm silent as we ride an elevator and walk down a long, sterile hallway that's lit in a bright, menacing fluorescent glow. He pauses before opening a door. "We'd like to get him into the operating room as soon as possible."
I nod and push my way past him. There, in a bed, is my wide-shouldered, strong father. Only he doesn't look so robust right now. His skin is a disturbing shade of grey, and his eyes are shut.
"Papa," I cry, rushing to his bedside. I take his hand in mine and feel the cold, clammy skin. His chest rises and falls with labored breath. Discomfort is etched on his face. The tube in his nose is taped to his cheeks and the wires attached to his arms are beeping. I can hear the machines monitoring his vital signs and the steady drip of the IV. His breathing is slow and shallow.
I can also hear my own heart, pounding in my chest. He opens his eyes.
"Kamari mou," he murmurs. That's what he always calls me. It's a Greek phrase for "my pride," and the words have never made me sob as much as right now.
