Page 85 of Burn
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. 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 tendon. 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.”
“We should try a cold bath with 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 when 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.