by John Heap
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A quietness descended on the flat as Peter finished his coffee looking at the door through which Maria had left. He collected the plates and glasses from last night’s supper, did the washing up and checked he had the necessaries in for scrambled eggs for when she got back. Placing the DVD back into its case and the case back in its alphabetical place, he looked around his living room and whilst now there was little evidence of Maria, there was still an echo; a tangible feeling of her absence. Life and excitement had been to this place and now it seemed flat and dead in comparison.
He sat on the couch, flicked on the television, settled down to catch up on the news and before long had fallen asleep.
He awoke with a start and checked his watch to find it was almost eight. Maria had been gone for hours, so she should be back soon. He switched off the TV and rising from the sofa went to make some fresh coffee. He sat at his desk and turned on his laptop and whilst waiting for it to boot, he picked up yesterday’s print out. He could make out that her mother had disappeared on the 20th March, and realised that this was exactly nineteen years ago today.
Peter opened up his browser to search for more information on tides, and found hundreds of pages on the topic, perhaps here was the key to Maria’s sickness.
‘Where was Maria, why wasn’t she back?’
He soon found out that the vernal equinox occurs about the 20th March, and is associated with exceptionally strong tides, known as equinoctial spring tides. ‘So one of the biggest tides of the year will happen today’, he thought. Last week he wouldn’t have been interested, but now he wondered why people weren’t kept informed of such important events. Maria had been telling him how her condition had been getting worse; perhaps it was all building up to this equinox and some sort of crisis.
Two clicks later and Peter was hit with a dread that snatched at his stomach. He had stumbled onto a thing called the Metonic cycle. Here was the link between the mother and the daughter and all the confirmation that Peter needed. Today was indeed the crunch and he had just let her go off on her own. He re-read the text several times, ‘the Metonic cycle, a period of nineteen years after which the new and full moons return to the same day of the year’.
‘Shit’, he thought, ‘today was the first Metonic anniversary of her mother’s death. The tides, the earth, the moon and the sun, in fact it seems the whole damned solar system was out to get her, and he had no idea where she was’.
He lit up a cigarette and tried to think. He didn’t know where she lived, he had no way of contacting her, the only thing he had was the shelter. If she didn’t return here then perhaps she’d go there. Peter looked at his watch, and did a bit of mental arithmetic. Low tide, Maria’s shelter appointment won’t be till after ten this morning. Half an hour later, there was still no sign of Maria, and whilst there was a chance that she had just fallen asleep, he doubted it. Peter had a shower, for some reason he always felt he could cope better when clean and then forced himself to make some breakfast, he had some more coffee and yet another cigarette.
It was time to go, he would be early but he just couldn’t wait any longer. He felt that if he could only get her through today, she would be safe. He reached the shelter, and looked out. The sea was not to be seen, and the beach whilst not as empty as on previous occasions still held only a scattering of dog walkers.
