Page 57 of Beach Bodies

‘Hi,’ I call out, feeling the need to put her at ease. ‘Beautiful morning.’

Her response is to disappear back inside. The path leading to the luxury villas is private; I’d better leave in case she’s calling hotel security.

I head down the pathway, taking care where I place my tender bare feet, and head back to the hotel. First stop, front desk, because my sleepwalking self didn’t grab a key.

The first time I sleepwalked was with the Miller family, back when I was in foster care. I liked them. They had a girl my age, and a boy two years older– Shari and James. They played board games on Saturday nights as a family, went on long Sunday bike rides, and genuinely seemed to like each other. But one night, I was dreaming that I had accidentally killed James with a skillet and I had to run away before they realized what I’d done.

When I woke up, people were screaming at me. I was confused, overwhelmed, and I remember bursting into tears, because I didn’t understand why I was in the driver’s seat of the family’s Honda Odyssey. Thankfully, I hadn’t actually tried to drive it yet. The minivan was just idling in the garage, and the family woke up because the carbon monoxide detector went off.

I was reassigned to the Loetz family within the week.

The Loetzes weren’t into board games. They were a self-described ‘boring’ family, which meant that they and their adult son who lived in the basement watched a lot of TV. They knew about my sleepwalking, so every night, the dad locked me in my own room ‘as a precaution’, with a toddler potty from their bygone baby days in case I had to go in the night.

One night, I dreamed that they were poisoning me through the vents so that I would be weak enough for them to take out. I had to escape. That time, I woke up in their kitchen, crouched on the counter and armed with two knives, with the husband shouting, ‘Put the weapons down, Lily!’ as the wife held up throw pillows like shields. I dropped the knives and started shaking and crying. Apparently I had escaped out of the window, jumped one storey down, and headed straight for the knives. They had security camera footage and replayed the whole thing for the social worker.

‘I’m sorry,’ I remember crying. ‘Please give me another chance.’ The Loetzes weren’t as nice as the Millers, but I didn’t want to move again. It was the nicest bedroom I’d ever had, with a window seat and a desk and a reading lamp that you could turn on by touch. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing.’

There were a few more episodes, though not as dramatic as the first two. Thankfully, a shrink put me on benzodiazepines, and the sleepwalking stopped as suddenly as it had started. I haven’t sleepwalked since. Until last night.

I need to get my hands on some benzos.

‘Can I help you?’ says a friendly voice. I’m next in line at the front desk. I lower my voice, feeling self-conscious about my situation. And my appearance. The tiny polka-dot shorts and tank top are the opposite of ‘on-brand’.

‘Hey. I, um, locked myself out of my room.’ Thank God it’s not the same woman as last night.

‘OK. Happy to help you. Room number?’ says the young woman, whose name tag reads Carolina.

I give her my information; she gives me a key.

I really, really have to pee at this point, so before returningto my room I make for the restrooms down the hall. The women’s restroom is a cavernous affair with marble sink countertops and golden fixtures. A few women are chatting at the sink while they wash their hands, and the smell of coconut and lemongrass is overpowering. ‘The jungle excursion was booked, but she got me a spot!’

‘Do you think we need bug spray?’

‘Oh, good idea. Let’s check the gift shop—’

A couple of stalls are occupied, but I keep my head down and disappear quickly into a free one. For a while, I just sit there on the toilet as I relieve my bladder, head hanging, listening to the sounds of people coming and going with brisk morning energy.

I hate the feeling of impotence sleepwalking gives me. As if I’m a loaded gun in the hands of a stranger… and the stranger is myself.

Self-pity really isn’t my thing, but a little voice edges in anyway.

Why are things always so hard for me?My childhood, the loss of my mom, losing Jessica– and now this mess with Daniel, the only person I’ve felt drawn to in years, who’s trying to make a case that links all the deaths together, to a single killer. Which he may or may not already believe is me– a question I intend to answer tonight at the Sunset.

‘Hey, what’s wrong, honey?’ says a voice I recognize, pulling me out of my pathetic little pity-party. It’s Serena, her voice echoey in the bathroom. There’s a sniffling.

‘It’s my mom,’ says a second voice. A younger, more childish voice, which I also recognize immediately. Skylar. ‘We’re going on the waterfall exploration tour today. So I put on my bathing suit? And she said I’m f-f-f-… fat.’

‘Oooooh,’ Serena croons. ‘Hon, growing up is so hard.’ She clicks her tongue compassionately, and for a second, I think– maybe Serena is about to redeem herself.

If she’s kind to Skylar, I decide spontaneously, I’m not going to kill her.

‘I just don’t look… pretty enough,’ says Skylar, gulping back her words in a way that tells me she’s trying not to sob.

‘Trust me, when I was your age, I had exactly the same struggle,’ says Serena.

‘R-really?’

‘Of course! I was overweight as a kid, too! But don’t worry. We all have the power inside us to make a change.’

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