The Perfect Day

THE PERFECT DAY

Quilla opened her eyes looked up. It was so far. It was too far. She shut her eyes and started to cry.

*****

Quilla followed the trail along the escarpment edge, her feet crunching through the fallen leaves. It was the perfect fall day. The air was clear and crisp, not a cloud in the sky. The temperature was above average, and there was a warm breeze blowing, keeping any late-season bugs away. Perfection!

She kept striding along the path, taking in the panoramic view from the lip of the escarpment across the valley below. She inhaled the smells of the forest deeply—the smell of pines mixed with the musty smell of decaying leaf litter. She marvelled at nature’s palette in autumn—the reds and yellows and oranges contrasting with the greens of the conifers. It was breathtaking.

Quilla took out her phone and snapped a couple of panorama shots. Phones never really captured the glory of nature—but she’d have the pics to remind her of her of this perfect day.

It felt wonderful to be out in nature, alone, able to enjoy all nature’s offerings. Mind you, she wasn’t supposed to be alone. She was supposed to be with her partner, Ian. But after the row they had gotten into two days ago, she was happy to be alone. At least she could enjoy her solitude, and not have to listen to Ian’s never-ending litany of complaints and criticisms. No, this was much better.

She’d planned this end-of-the-camping-year outing months ago. They’d take their tiny trailer and spend a couple of days camping, hiking, cooking al fresco, communing with nature, talking. Quilla believed that it would be good for the soul—and the marriage. But that was before she’d questioned whether Ian actually had a soul. Bastard.

The marriage had been rocky right from the beginning. They’d been together for two years before they’d married four months ago. By all rights they should still be in the honeymoon phase of their relationship, but they weren’t. Far from it. More like a never-ending nightmare Quilla couldn’t wake up from.

The ink wasn’t even dry on their wedding license when Ian had changed. It had happened so quickly. The Ian Quilla had loved was gone in the snap of a finger. Quilla felt as if she’d been blindsided—the metamorphosis had been that quick. He had declared that, as the man of the house, he would now be making all the decisions, and he was in charge of everything. Most of those changes pertained to Quilla herself—what she should wear, what she should eat, who she could see, when she should be home, how she should behave, what she should say.

That first night as a married couple, he’d told her that she was his wife now, and he was in charge. He unilaterally declared that he would be making all the decisions about everything. Her job, she said, was to support and obey him. Quilla, of course, had laughed. But Ian didn’t think it was very funny. He’d come towards her, fists clenched.

She didn’t back away, she didn’t cower. She showed no fear. “Go ahead. Try it,” was all she said. Ian had stepped back. But he didn’t apologize, or show any remorse. He left and spent the night at his parents’ house. Quilla’s first night as a married woman had been spent alone. Not ideal, she’d realized, but it did give her time to consider the predicament she was in.

Ian’s mom, Dee was the quintessential trad wife—subservient, obedience, and without an opinion. His dad, Mike, was definitely the man in charge, machismo wafting off him like over-ripe cheese. “A woman’s place is in the home,” was actually embroidered on a throw pillow in their living room. When she’d first seen it, Quilla had hoped it was ironic. It was not. That was the gospel according to Mike—Ian’s role model.

As she walked along the trail, the fall sun warming her, she tried to recall whether or not Ian had shown any warning signs before the wedding. Sure, there were the odd comments about the role of women in society, and his belief that children needed their mothers at home, but those had been abstract comments on society. Or so she thought. She never even considered that this would be her future. What was this? The 1950s?

She really, really wished she’d paid more attention. Asked more questions.

And, of course, the whole we-should-start-a-family-as-soon-as-we’re-married conversation turned surreal. They had discussed it—a lot—before they were married. Quilla had always maintained that she wasn’t sure she wanted kids. Maybe yes, maybe no, but definitely not for a couple of years, minimum—she was growing her business and her time was at a premium. Then, less than a week after they had been married, Ian stated that he wanted six or seven kids. When Quilla said no thank you—one or two MAYBE, but definitely NOT six or seven, Ian had laughed without humour, saying she’d change her mind, and if she didn’t he’d help her change it. That’s when Quilla knew for sure their marriage had been a mistake.

She continued revealing in her solitude, walking along the trail until she came around a bend to a view that stopped her dead in her tracks. The entire valley was laid out in front of her in all its gob-stopping glory. It was awe-inspiring. From the lip of the escarpment she could see the woods roll out in front of her continuing all the way to the horizon. The colours were spectacular. She was certain that she had never experienced such beauty before.

While soaking up the vista she was a tiny bit sad that she didn’t have anyone to share this fantastic day with, but no regrets that it wasn’t Ian. In the last week or so, he’d become moody and non-communicative. When he wasn’t sulking, he was demanding and controlling. Or he tried to be. Quilla was not one to let her life be dictated by anyone. She was her own woman—a strong and independent woman who owned her own home and business, had no outstanding debts, and had substantial savings and investments. She was proud of herself. But her one big regret was Ian.

How could she have been so blind?

Their last fight had been about her work team. Ian had lost his bananas when he’d found out that her work partner Pat was a man, not a woman. He accused her of being unfaithful, called her a slut, threatened to kill Pat. He demanded that she she replace him with a woman.. Quilla had been incensed. How dare he try to dictate the conditions of her life!

“You are insane!” she’d replied. “I will not defend myself against your delusions.”

He’d given her an ultimatum—either she sever her relationship with Pat, or he’d do it for her. She’d laughed. It was her own damn company! She wasn’t going to dismantle a partnership that was working just because Ian was so insecure that he couldn’t tolerate Quilla working closely with a man.

“You are so not the boss of me!” she said, her arms folded across her chest. “I am the boss of me, and I will do what I want, when I want. You will not dictate the terms of my life!”

He’d quickly stepped in and slapped her across the face. “You WILL do what I say! I am the man of this family!”

Quilla had looked at him, again not flinching, standing her ground. “Get out,” she said, her voice eerily quiet.

“I will not leave my home,” Ian retorted.

Indignation roiled through her. “Get out now, or I call the police. It’s my house. Your name is not on the deed.” She stared at Ian, her resolve strong. “You have five minutes to pack a bag and get out.” She’d looked at her watch. “Starting now.”

He’d looked stunned, but had gone to their bedroom and quickly threw clothes and toiletries into a bag. Four and half minutes later he was downstairs heading for the door.

“You’re going to be sorry you ever crossed me!” were his last words to her.

She wasn’t. What she was sorry about is that she hadn’t clued into his true intentions before they had married. Not for the first time, she wondered how she could have been so wrong about him.

Quilla sighed as she looked out on the valley. She sat down on a log and unpacked her lunch, ruminating. She needed to find a divorce lawyer and set the ball in motion. Again, she was struck at how completely he’d bamboozled her. She hadn’t seen it coming, at all. She considered herself a good judge of people. How had Ian fooled her for so long?

She sighed again, annoyed at how foolish she’d been. When she finished eating, she stowed her lunch remnants in her backpack. She stood, soaking in one last vista before she headed out. She had about eight more kilometres until she made it back to the campground and she needed to get going.

As she was hoisting her backpack onto her back, she heard someone walking towards her, through the forest, leaves rustling. She was a bit surprised. She hadn’t seen another person since she’d left the campground.

Quilla wasn’t a fearful woman, but she was a cautious one. She flipped the safety off of the bear spray she was carrying on her hip, and placed the canister in her pocket for easy access. She stepped back into the trees, out of sight, as she waited for whomever was walking her way.

Her mouth literally fell open. Ian! And he was looking at his phone. He stopped, looked up and their eyes locked.

Without a word he marched over to her, grabbed her arm and started dragging her towards the lip of the escarpment. Quilla pulled out the bear spray and deployed it, striking him square in the face.

“Bitch!” he screamed, flinging her towards the lip of the drop off. Then she was airborne, falling, falling, falling.

*****

She didn’t know how long she’d been unconscious. At first she didn’t even know what had happened. Then she remembered. Ian. He had thrown her off the escarpment.

Quilla opened her eyes and looked up. It was so far. It was too far. She shut her eyes and started to cry.

But only for a few moments. She looked around. She fallen about three metres, landing on her back on a sandy outcrop.

Not a bad place to die, she thought, then quickly vanquished the thought.

She tried to move. It hurt. A lot. Her left hip, in particular, was extremely painful, causing her to gasp when she moved. She wiggled her toes and fingers. They all moved—painfully—but they were working. She tried to lift her right arm to maybe lever herself into a sitting position, but her wrist was screaming. Probably broken. She used her left arm instead. It was slow and painful work, but she managed to awkwardly prop herself against the wall. The pain in her back brought her to tears. Quilla knew she was in a bad way.

I’m screwed.

Her pack was pushing painfully into her back. As she slowly and painfully removed it, she realized that it was probably the reason that she hadn’t died—along with the six or seven inches of sand that covered the ledge. She’d packed clothes and coats and protein bars. The most solid thing her in backpack was her water bottle, which she figured was the culprit behind her excruciatingly painful hip.

When she finally got the pack off her back, she took stock. She had food and water, and enough clothing to help keep her warm if she was stranded overnight on the ledge.

Her heart was hammering in her chest. Overnight? On a tiny little ledge that may or may not be strong enough to support her weight. She cautiously looked over the side towards the valley floor, thirty metres straight down. Vertigo caused her to pull back. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

Okay, okay, okay. I’ve got this.

She shut her eyes and took three slow, calming breaths, centring herself, willing the fear to leave.

She realized that she was crying. She wiped at her tears. Her fingers came back bloody.

Okay, I’m crying and bleeding.

She felt her panic surge again. More calming breaths. In … out. In … out.

Someone would walk by, right? There were leaf peepers all over the park. It was peak colour season. Someone would find her. She hoped.

But she reminded herself that she’d been on the trail for two hours before Ian had attacked her, and she’d not seen another person.

Despair bubbled. How long can I survive out here? Temperatures are supposed to drop into the single digits tonight. How much water do I have? Would anyone hear me call?

Quilla leaned over the side of her ledge and vomited.

She reached into the side pocket of her backpack—not the side with the water, but the other side with the zipper. Her phone.

She brought it out and examined it. Her screen was badly cracked where the edge had impacted when she’d fallen ...

No! Not fallen! Thrown!

Quilla held her breath and powered up. It still worked.

YES!

But there was no reception.

Of course.

She sat there looking at her screen. Then, summoning her resolve, she opened the camera app, and pressed video.

“My name is Quilla O’Hara. If you are watching this video, it means that I am dead. My husband Ian McCallister murdered me. While I was hiking today ….”

Quilla laid out the entire ordeal. It took over ten minutes. She hoped that no one would ever see the video, but she wanted to make sure that Ian didn’t get away with killing her.

She sat still, looking out over the valley. It was still one of the most beautiful sights she had ever seen.

It may be the last sight I ever see.

She needed to make an inventory of what she had. Who knew how long she was going to be stranded on the side of the escarpment. Unzipping her pack she looked inside. Clothes, coat, poncho, protein bars, energy tablets for water, a Swiss Army knife, matches, and …

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” she yelled.

Her hand closed around her Garmin In-Reach GPS. She smiled and hugged it to her chest.

She and Ian had fought about it. Quilla was an avid hiker, Ian, not so much. When she had bought if for herself as a birthday present, Ian had questioned the purchase. Where was she going that she needed a dedicated GPS device, and who was she sharing her location with? He’d demanded that she return it to the store.

But she’d ignored him and kept it. It was her money, and she would spend it on whatever she wanted. And she activated the subscription that very day, even though she had no plans to go out in nature. She’d done it to spite Ian. She’d put it in the small zipped pocket inside the backpack and ignored it. That was two months ago.

And now it was going to save her.

Quilla pushed the SOS button, and waited, holding her breath.

“PleasePleasePlease. Please work” she chanted.

A beep and the screen flashed, “Message Reveived”

*****

It took almost five hours before Quilla was rescued off the side of the escarpment. It was a tricky extraction that included a helicopter and a litter basket to winch her to safety.

She had a concussion, a herniated disc, two spinal compression fractures, a ruptured spleen, a deep gouge on the back of her head, a fractured pelvis, a broken wrist, a sprained ankle, and two fractured ribs. The doctor told her, repeatedly, how lucky she had been.

Quilla didn’t feel lucky. Her husband had tried to kill her.

*****

Ian was arrested. Bail was denied. The police found tracking software on her phone, which explained how he was able to find her in the woods. As well, there was another tracking device on her car and a keystroke recorder on both her tablet and laptop.

Quilla was ashamed. How had she been so clueless?

*****

It was spring before Quilla was able to return to the trail. She was now able to walk with very little pain. Physical therapy had been gruelling, but she was determined. She still had a small limp, but she wouldn’t let that stop her. She had a goal.

As she walked along the same trail she had last autumn, Quilla couldn’t help but marvel at nature’s rebirth after the long, cold winter. New growth was everywhere—from the delicate buds on the trees to the vibrant green of new plant life pushing up through the forest floor, to the songs of migratory birds returning to the forest.

Quilla reached the spot where her life had almost ended. She walked to the lip, drinking in the signs of new beginnings and rebirth everywhere. She took off her wedding ring and threw it over the side of the escarpment, watching as the sun glinted off the band as it arced away towards the valley floor. This was her own new beginning.