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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I land, laughing, in a thicket of verdant foliage. Max rushes over, asking if I'm okay.
"I'm fine, I closed my eyes and lost my balance."
He holds out his hand and I grasp it so he can hoist me up. "Sometimes I'm kind of uncoordinated," I say with a laugh. "Unlike you."
"I've got enough coordination for both of us," he says, kissing me on the cheek.
I brush myself off and continue walking. About fifteen minutes later, as we're nearing the end of the trail, I feel a deep burning sensation on my bare legs. I stop to inspect my calf and itch furiously.
"Did something bite you?" He kneels to inspect my leg. "It looks pretty irritated, so don't scratch anymore. Oh, the other one does, too."
"Weird." But telling me not to scratch is like telling a fish not to swim. I can't keep my nails off my legs. "I'll be okay."
"I saw a first aid kit inside. Maybe there will be some cream." His face is pinched with worry.
By the time we're back at the cabin, both calves are an angry red and I feel like jumping out of my skin. My legs not only feel like they're on fire, but they're an alarming, hot temperature, as well. I kick off my shoes and socks, whimpering.
Max finds the kit and unscrews the cap from a tube of calamine lotion. "It's expired," he says with a wince.
"Let's try it anyway."
He squeezes a thick dab into his hands.
"Wait," I say, a little too loudly.
He looks up.
"If I have plant poison or sap or whatever, on me, you might get it on your hands. Don't touch me."
"Ooh, right."
I scoop the lotion off his palm and rub it into my legs.
"Better?" He's standing over me, hands on hips, gnawing on his bottom lip.
"Maybe a little? You need to get on your call."
"Right, right. I'm worried about you, though. I think you might've come in contact with some poison ivy. Do they have that here in Canada?"
"Eww. I dunno. Let me find out." I head to my laptop and Max goes into the other room, where his phone is, to make his call.
While I overhear snippets of conversation about autograph sessions, interview requests and the offer of a biography, I try and fail to keep my hands off my legs. A quick Google search reveals that indeed, poison ivy is everywhere in Quebec and a brief peek at my calves proves that the expired calamine lotion isn't doing squat.
Holy crap, is my skin blistering near my ankle? I twist my leg and contort my body so I can peer at the spot near my Achilles heel. It is, indeed, puffing into a blister.
"Gross," I whisper.
Max appears in the room while I'm twisted like a pretzel. "That looks awful. I think we should take you to the hospital."
"No, no," I wave him off, biting back the discomfort crawling across my legs. "I'll be okay."
"I think we should try a cold bath with either baking soda or maybe oatmeal."
By the time he fills a tub, I'm almost crying from the throbbing, fiery sensation. It's like a million stinging ants.
There's some temporary relief while I step into the tub, which Max has filled with cold water and white, pasty baking soda. I yelp, because the water's colder than the lake. I haven't even bothered to take off my shorts or bikini bottom, because I'm that distracted by the pain.
"I know, it's not going to feel good. But you need to bring down the inflammation." He holds my hand and elbow as I sink down, the cold water numbing the irritation.
"How do you know what to do?"
"We had to take a first aid course when I was younger and getting into Go-Karts."
"And they gave you a lesson on poison ivy?"
He grins, the worry smoothing from his face. "They did, actually. They're very thorough in Germany."
"Thank God for that." I blow out a breath.
"Is that better?"
I ponder this for a second, then screw up my face. The pain is so intense that tears are streaming from my eyes. "No," I wail. "It still feels like it's burning my skin off."
"Okay, that's it, we're going to the hospital."
The next hour is both quick and excruciatingly slow. Max alerts the bodyguards and driver, and they pull the SUV around to the front of the cabin. Then Max hoists me into his arms while I protest that he's going to get poison on him.
"I don't care," he growls.
We end up in the backseat, and because we're so secluded, we must drive for a solid thirty minutes to get to the hospital. Once there, a doctor recognizes Max and I'm whisked into a private room.
Bu this time, the back of one leg has formed multiple blisters. It's so disgusting that I can't even look at it. I'm unable to form words anyway, and communicate only in whimpers. Thank goodness Max is there to talk with the doctor.
Good lord. This is the second hospital I've been inside this month. What is my life?
I'm given an industrial-strength steroid, some antibiotics, and a painkiller. I feel almost instantly better, but a little inebriated. Maybe I'm drooling a little, but I don't care. It's better than feeling like my legs are on fire.
By the time that's all happened, Max and the entire hospital staff are old friends, and I woozily invite the doctor to the race on Sunday.
"Oh God, the race," I mumble, as Max pushes me out of the hospital in a wheelchair. "I need to call Dad. Or Jack. I'll be okay to go to Montreal tomorrow."
"Of course, babe. Let's just get you back to the cabin so you can sleep all this off."
He pushes me outside, where the SUV is waiting. So are two photographers and what look to be three or four reporters. In my slightly altered state, I can't really tell the media from the people gawking at us outside of the hospital. It's not every day that a Formula World driver pushes a drooling woman in a wheelchair out of a medical facility.
