Full Circle

She slowly allowed herself to sink beneath the luscious strawberry-scented foam, the water tickling and trickling into her ears and nostrils and other openings. Now, she could allow herself to breathe. That was the funny thing, being underwater had always given her a feeling of space. Entombed and enwombed like this, that's when the memories could occasionally burst free of their worldly bindings.

Once she could descend no further, she braced her feet against the end of the bathtub and slowly opened her eyes. She exhaled through her nose, watching the bubbles wobble their way skywards to the distorted naked light bulb. She wondered if tears might come in her suspended animation, and if they did, would she even know?

This time there were no memories with this stasis of breath, this voluntary respiratory arrest.

When her lungs began to burn, she came up quickly and sucked in a load of humid air. Some of the water lapped over the side and splashed onto the shaggy faded bath mat and her cotton slippers. Sighing, she stood, grabbed the warm towel off the radiator and dried off her pruney body.

Mum was pretending to have just been walking past as Emma swung open the bathroom door.

"I've opened the window, I'll clean the bath in a mo," said Emma quickly.

Mum gave a funny smile. "I know, just wanted to see if you were free to come and sit with me and Dad for a minute."

Emma frowned. "What is it?"

"Shall we give you ten minutes," said Mum, wandering away, not waiting for an answer.

Emma sighed again. She didn't exactly regret moving back in with them, but when you were in your forties, it was far from ideal. It isn't forever, she thought. Get a grip. Not your fault you got retrenched, is it? Or is it? She dressed in a hurry, throwing on a baggy sweatshirt and leggings. Her cotton slippers had to go on the radiator to dry off, so she contented herself with a pair of thick hiking socks instead. She glanced at her reflection in the hall mirror. You look like a middle-aged drudge. No wonder they got rid of you. No wonder Ian got remarried. Loser. She shlepped her way to the sitting room, wondering what her parents had decided was so frigging important. She had been planning on doing her cuticles and now they would have to wait for her next bath. They were not the sort of family to have little chats. Perhaps they were going to tell her it wasn't working out, they needed their privacy. Fair enough.

She pasted on a bright smile and raised a hand. "Hey."

They gave brisk smiles in return.

"Nice bath, love?" enquired Mum, patting the sofa next to her and adjusting one of the many throw cushions for her in clear invitation.

Emma sat on the rug by the electric fire. It felt safer to be a few feet away from them, so she could absorb as slowly as possible whatever horrible news was coming next.

Her dad cleared his throat. "Em," he began.

"Now then," interrupted Mum. Emma wasn't surprised. Dad barely got a word in when Mum was around. She wasn't sure she'd heard her Dad utter a full sentence in quite a long time, to be honest. "We have someone coming to visit this evening. Someone very special."

"Oh yeah?" said Emma, trying to sound enthusiastic. She found a bit of dirt on the carpet and picked at that instead of looking at her parents. A lodger, they will need your room, time to pack your bags, we found you a lovely little flat just a few miles away, we will come and visit of course.

"Well, just to make sure you'll be here, that you haven't got anything else on," said Mum.

Emma snorted. The last time she had gone out was the work Christmas function in town, where her boss got a bit tipsy and pinched her bottom. It was the first male attention she had had since Ian had left her for his colleague, and a small sad part of her was even pleased to be seen as a bit of a sex object. Well, that was a good few months ago. Anyhoo.

"That mean yes?" grunted Dad. He noisily slurped his tea to avoid confrontation.

"Yes, Dad."

"Very good," said Mum.

#

After an hour of surfing the net for flatshares, she had a shortlist of four. As a reward, she spent an enjoyable hour painting her toenails in ten different colours. Being a receptionist in a nail salon had its perks. She was about to start reading a library book which she had renewed the maximal number of times allowed, when Mum called her name. She shut Dating For Dummies, it'll probably never get read, and made her way down the corridor.

A thin man with slightly greying hair was shaking Dad's hand. Mum was shuffling about, something she only did when she was agitated. "So wonderful to finally meet you, Eric," Mum said as she gave him a perfunctory hug. Emma thought her eyes must be lying. Mum did not hug. Who was this Eric?

"This is our other daughter, Emmalee," said Mum, and pushed Emma forward.

The man called Eric had gentle eyes and a warm smile. He proferred his hand which Emma took. "They usually just call me Emma," she said.

"Emmalee is a lovely name," he said, and with a twinkle in his eye, he added, "My aunt has a cat called Emma."

The group spilled into the lounge. There was a noticeable scent of allspice and cinammon in the air. Emma sniffed loudly. "You been baking, Mum?"

Mum pointed to the candles on the mantelpiece. "They're scented ones."

"Makes me feel hungry," said Emma and stopped herself. She really had to stop thinking about food now that she was dating. Not that she had actually had a date, mind, but she was going to, soon. She would date as soon as she had shifted that stubborn ten kilos that had gone on with baby Jamie. She hoped Jamie was happy with Ian and his new wife. He really was much better off with a proper family, in a well-to-do suburb, and Ian's wife was a paediatrician too, so that was good wasn't it.

Dad poured the tea from the posh china teapot set on the special silver tray that normally only came out for the Queen's Speech. He passed the biscuits round. Emma took two. Choc-chip, damn you diet.

"So," said Eric. Emma stole glances at him from time to time. He wore a shirt and a tailored suit. He looked to be in his early fifties, perhaps. With a start, she realised what this meeting was all about. Mum and Dad were matchmaking.

Dad cleared his throat, slurped his tea. Mum smiled at each and everyone in the room, stirring her tea like an extra from The Stepford Wives.

Emma thought he didn't look too bad. Perhaps she could go for him. He wasn't a heartthrob, but then, neither was she. They would rub along at first, but love would surely blossom, and they would grow old together and look back on today with fond pleasure. She wondered if he would be like Ian in bed. She blushed and dunked her biscuit for something to take her mind off sex.

"Wendy, would you like me to tell Emma?" suggested Eric. Mum nodded, uncharacteristically quiet. Emma felt herself stop breathing. Was this the moment he was going to tell her he was a successful businessman and needed a wife, someone to look good on his arm at social events, someone to come home to after his late nights in the office? She could certainly give her best, though he probably wouldn't like her cooking. Ian never did. She shyly raised her eyes to his. He smiled back. "I am a lucky man," he began quietly. Emma strained forward to hear. He took a sip, then set his cup and saucer down, and clasped his hands on his lap.

"I think I'm ready to hear whatever you have to say," said Emma, surprising herself. In the corner of her eye she saw her parents look at one another. She put her cup down too. This was going to be a life-changer, that much seemed evident.

Eric set his mouth in a firm line, paused. Then, "I am a lucky man, because once I was very, very ill and was told I wouldn't live to be this age."

"Well I'm forty-three," said Emma, trying to make him feel more comfortable.

"Indeed. Um. So I'm almost forty now, myself. I know," he said, noting Emma's surprised look, "I look older, don't I."

"I didn't mean -" stuttered Emma, mortified.

Eric waved his arm. "No offence taken, really."

"Let Eric finish what he's saying," said Mum, and she put her hand on Emma's shoulder. "This isn't easy for anyone."

"Okay. Please, do go on, Eric."

"I was born with severe heart disease, and though I had multiple operations to try to correct the defects, I never really got better. All my childhood photos are tinged with blue, I was never far way from my oxygen cylinder, I never really had a proper childhood. Sickly, I was. Every infection going, I had it. I couldn't take more than five steps without having to sit down, not the sort of friend you'd want when you're a kid, so I was on my todd pretty much for years. But this isn't a whinge, fear not!"

Mum and Dad looked at each other again. Why were they so cagey, making me feel like I'm ten again, thought Emma.

"The most wonderful thing, the most wonderful gift, came to me ten years ago. It's allowed me to have what I craved every day, a normal life. I've been able to work, push my niece around in her pram, walk my two German Shepherds, even run marathons."

Maybe we aren't going to get on, thought Emma, sounds way too sporty for my liking.

"Ten years ago, I received a new heart."

The room became very still. "What?" said Emma, flinching under her parents' sudden intense gaze.

"Emma," said Eric. He repeated her name and she looked at him. "The heart came from your sister. From Amanda."

An arm enfolded and steadied her as she swayed. "W-what did you say," she murmured. Was this a strange dream?

"Amanda was on the organ donor register," whispered Mum. "We didn't tell you because you were so upset after the car accident, we didn't want you to have to think about that, just then. It would've been too much."

Her chest felt like it was being hacked open. She stared dully at Eric, who looked a bit like a cardboard cut-out, along with her parents. She felt like she was going to throw up. And could someone turn down the fire? She slumped into her mother's arms in a dead faint.

#

After a few minutes, Emma was sitting up and drinking a large glass of soda on Mum's orders. She felt stupid. She hadn't fainted since high school, and that was embarrassing enough. "I'm okay everyone, sorry about that," she said. She did feel okay though a little jittery. What to do with all this craziness?

"I'm so sorry," said Eric for the umpteenth time. "This was all my idea, I wrote to your parents via Donor Family Support, and to my surprise your mother wrote back. I just wanted to express my gratitude, and the written word just didn't seem enough."

"We are just as grateful as you," said Dad from his armchair. "Losing Amanda was the worst thing that ever happened to me, to all of us. But this was something good out of... utter tragedy."

"You don't need to say anything, love," said Mum, stroking Emma's hair back from her still clammy forehead.

What could she say? Eric was right. How could words convey anything near to what was being felt? "Come here, Eric," she found herself saying. "Please."

Eric was at her side within moments. He crouched beside her, face full of concern. She felt her hand go out to his, and he let her take his warm, dry hand in hers. She stroked her fingers almost like a caress over his wrist, and where the warmth bounded, she let her fingertips rest lightly. Her mother leant into her side, who was supporting whom now? And with tears running down her face, the first since Amanda had gone, she let out the long breath she had been holding onto for so long.