Page 12 of Beach Bodies

All adults. No little kids here. This isn’t exactly the kind of resort you bring your family to. In fact, Skylar, the teen in tie-dye, is probably the youngest person I’ve ever seen at the Riovan.

Ugh. The memory of her mother and the way she talked down to her… it makes my blood boil. I’ve dealt with her kind before. If I had a little girl, I would make sure she knew she was beautiful to me. Period. And if anyone ever made her feel less than– well, I would know just what to do, wouldn’t I?

Never let anyone treat you like that again, Lily.

I shake my head quickly, because being filled with rage, no matter how justified– and I don’t think I’m crazy to say thatsome of it is justified– isn’t exactly a good state of mind for lifeguarding. I take a few deep breaths and sweep my eyes over the water again, feeling its cooling effect almost as if I were physically skimming it with a palm.

The world is full of injustices, like that mother chipping away at her daughter. Like Kyle, thinking he had some kind of a right to me. Like the residents of Calumet Heights, who only called Mom a slut because they were jealous of how goddamn gorgeous she was.

You can’t miss it, the injustices happening all around all the time, from bad parenting to misogynistic assholery all the way up the ladder to racism, war, genocide. The way I see it, there are two types of people: those who turn a blind eye to injustice, and those who can’t ignore it. The passive observers and those who refuse to be complicit.

And, yeah, I’m the second type.

I adjust my sunglasses and start to sweep the water line again, in the opposite direction.Swimmer one, check. Swimmer two, check.

All these people are here for different reasons. I know that. To unwind, to soak up the sunshine, to get that killer beach body– but they all want to be here, at some level. What would it be like to come here because I actually wanted to? With Jess. We’d be celebrating an anniversary, for example. Getting away from the kids– we’d have one by now at least, maybe two. We’d be saying things like,Oh God, I can finally hear myself think!andYou think the kids are OK? Is it too soon to text your mom?(In this world, my mom is still alive, though she sometimes says,But I’m too young to be a grandmother!and we all laugh.) Jess and I would loungeon the beach and enjoy the spa, and the scent of lemongrass and coconut would bring back visceral memories of hot sex on the delicious Riovan mattress.

But that’s not what I got.

Flecks of brightness burst from the water as it moves, and even with the protection of my sunglasses, I have to squint as I scan. Just a couple more minutes and I’ll climb down for my walk along the shore, flotation device under my arm, ready to save whoever might need saving.

It’s tedious work, lifeguarding. You have to hone your attention like a knife even as summer heat radiates up, tempting you, always tempting you,Relax, just for a minute… let your eyes slip closed…

My watch beeps. Somehow these fifteen minutes have felt like five times that. Time moves differently when you’re waiting for something to happen.

I climb down the chair and make for the cool, firm sand at the shoreline, my eyes tracking over the swimmers, relishing the feeling of movement in my limbs. I count them again, one to fifteen, then again backwards.

Did you know that drowning happens quietly? People think that a drowning person will be easy to pick out. Shouting, thrashing, making a scene. But in real life, they’re docile. Mute. There one minute, then they quietly slip under. It doesn’t even look like they’re struggling, until suddenly, they’re gone.

Jess went down quietly, too. So gently and so quietly that by the time I woke up to what was happening, it was too late.

Chapter Six

I slip inside Vic’s office, then close the door quietly behind me and turn the lock.

Staff training just ended– a smaller affair for those of us arriving mid-season to support the busy month of July. The focus on branding this year was more heavy-handed than ever, and I had to tune out Serena Victoria’s closing speech in which she used the acronym T-H-I-N to remind us of the hotel’s values: Thriving, Healthy, Inspirational, Natural. A strange tactic for all her purported ‘taking the focus off weight loss’. After training ended, it wasn’t hard to peel away from the group of about a dozen to ‘hit the bathroom’ and let myself into the corridor of offices behind reception. I copied Vic’s key five years ago, and thankfully he has yet to change the lock.

His office is dark, the air freshener lovely as ever. I make for the desk, which is a bit of a mess, with his tablet sitting on top of some brochures and what look like loose receipts. At a jiggle of the mouse, his computer monitor leaps to life, shedding enough light for me to see the Post-it note on whichhis password is scrawled– the same one as previous years but with more exclamation points at the end. Got to love that Vic.

Hunched over the computer, I double click the folder on the desktop labelled ‘4-Week Intensive Guest List’ and quickly find this year’s file.

The file has their basic information– name, gender identity, height, weight, address, employer, emergency contacts. Photocopies of their IDs, signed waiver forms, private health information– not to mention Vic’s personal research notes on each, which over the years have proved to be a treasure trove. As Executive Manager, Vic is personally responsible for the satisfaction of each and every guest, but the happiness of the four-week intensive group is his absolute top priority. It should be, since they’re paying what for some is a year’s salary to be brutalized by trainers and dietitians in the name of wellness.

I hit print.

The printer, a behemoth that sits against the wall, wakes up noisily, sending a rush of adrenaline through me. We have quiet cars now; why can’t they design silent printers?

For a few seconds, I’m certain someone will hear the noise, the door will fly open and I’ll be discovered– but as the first sheets of paper start spitting out into the tray, I remind myself that office hours are long gone.

By the printer, I look over the first sheet in the dim light from the monitor, already absorbing information on Melanie Ahrens, 42, who just had gastro surgery…

While the printer keeps churning, I pull out my phone, more from habit than anything else. To my annoyance, there’sa WhatsApp notification– a message from Becca, my office manager at Taste of Heaven back in Cincinnati. To my further annoyance, it’s a voice message. I told my staff not to bother me unless it’s an emergency, and Lisa, my General Manager, assured me everyone understood… Ugh. It’s too hard to mentally go back and forth when I’m Riovan Lily. I lower the volume on my phone and press it to my ear to listen. Becca’s voice comes through, clear and peppy as always.

‘Hey boss, some guy called for you. I know we’re not supposed to bug you while you’re gone, but it was just, um… kind of weird. He said he had this catering order for a corporate event, but he was only willing to speak with you about it. I said you were out of the office for a while, just like you told me to say, but I could connect him with Lisa. And then he was like, “Oh, right, Lily’s at the Riovan, isn’t she?” I was like, “Excuse me, who are you again?” He said you shared a mutual friend. Michael…’ There’s a rustling sound. ‘Jones? Or Johnson? Anyway, I told him you weren’t available but if I could just take down his name and number, we’d be happy to take care of his catering needs. He just kind of laughed and said, “That won’t be necessary,” and hung up. Anyway, it was such a weird call, I felt like you should know. Oh! And I got his number from caller ID in case you wanted to get in touch with him. It’s two-one-two…’ I stop the recording, a cold sweat already forming in my armpits.

Forget about ageing out of my Riovan job. I’m getting sloppy. Johnson was supposed to be old news, but the second I get here, Vic is still working on the pipes, and now there’s this reporter– because that is absolutely what this mysterious Mr Caller Guy is– claiming some mutual friend crap.

I walk over to the filing cabinet and start opening drawers. What am I looking for? Pipes. Electrocution. Johnson. Carli… There. A folder marked East Suite 6605. Michael’s room number. I splay the folder out on Vic’s desk and start rifling. A bunch of official-looking documents in French… Invoices for what looks like the transportation of Michael’s body back to the US, courtesy of the Riovan… Copies of various articles about the death…

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