Heights have never held much touristic appeal for me. I'm not opposed to breathtaking views. What I object to is the 2,000 worn stone steps it takes to reach them.I like it much better when my vistas catch me by surprise, preferably in some charming al fresco café with cute waiters and cheap beer.
Given my lifelong aversion to any holiday view requiring a climb, it would have been ironic had I accidentally dropped Milo from the cathedral tower in Trogir, Croatia‘s town square. Also tragic and inexcusable. What kind of mother hauls her innocent, wingless babes forty-seven non-safety-proofed meters straight up, when all parties would've been perfectly happy on the ground?
I don't know. The kind who discovers that admission to bell tower is included the Cathedral's five kuna entry fee, maybe. The kind who then has to figure out how to get everybody down in one piece, a much scarier proposition than the trip up, when I was able to spot Milo's body with my own. Presumably, if he'd started to slip between two of the steep, backless metal steps spiraling up the bell tower's inner walls, or pitched sideways beneath the rusting handrail that is the only thing separating visitors from the void, my reflexes would've kicked in in time to save him. I could've grabbed the back of his shirt. Something. On the way up, my own butterflies stayed fairly contained, hemmed in by the endless patter pouring out of me as I worked to keep the boy calm. "Good job, honey. One foot in front of the other, that's right. Hold on tight. Don't look down. Doing great."
Had I only but known. Going up is a cakewalk, compared to coming down.
Coming down, Milo could see just how long of a drop it was to the stone floor below. I had to choose between trailing behind to keep an eye on him, or preceding him in hopes that I might break his fall. Actually, I let him make the call, because if it was up to me, we would've remained under those giant iron bells, crouched far from the open hole that is the only means of exit for those for whom flinging themselves over the waist-high stone wall isn't an option.
I was impressed by the little man's confidence. He said he'd go first.
Inky had already started down, escorted by her father. I would have to do this alone, without Greg's steadying influence, one harrowing step at a time. Hopefully nothing would disrupt my concentration. The pigeons roosting across the way wouldn't launch themselves into sudden, noisy flight. The massive bells wouldn't start chiming the hour, their mighty vibrations blowing my tiny son right off of his feet. (Thank God he wasn't wearing his red cowboy boots this morning. The floor-sweeping hems of my fetchingly low-slung trousers were problem enough.)
The whole scene was discomfittingly close to the recurrent nightmare that's plagued me for the last nine years. In it, I'm descending a long and rickety ladder with a baby or toddler, usually some earlier incarnation of Milo, in my arms. The rungs are spaced at odd intervals, and invariably, the ladder is swaying. I know I'm in a dangerous situation, but I have no choice but to continue. Without warning, the child makes a violent lurch backward. I make a blind grab, but am not quick enough. There's nothing I can do but wake up.
Only, this time I couldn't wake up. If only I'd stayed on the damn ground, where, will the ironies never cease, there was a charming al fresco café with cute waiters and the nerve-steadying beer that now seemed cheap at any price. At this hour, the café was packed with tourists writing postcards and taking photographs of the quaint old bell tower, oblivious to the horror show taking place within.
I would have been terrified even if Milo hadn't been there.
"Don't look down, baby. Just keep one hand on the wall and one hand on the rail and feel for the next step with your foot. You're doing great. I'm so proud of you."
"It's too scary," he said, face crumpling. "I'm scared."
This admission was like a magic wand. All the times on this trip when he whined, or sagged to the cobblestones, or refused to eat what he had ordered, or begged for souvenirs his behavior did not warrant, vanished, leaving in their place the guileless, precious being I had given birth to six years earlier, obediently trying to do as was asked of him, utterly in peril.
"Greg, we're not going to make it," I called, buttressing the now-paralyzed Milo with my knee. "He's crying." Greg, who has a tendency to charge ahead of the rest of the troops, this time had remained mercifully within earshot. "I can't do this." One look at my stricken face was apparently enough to convince him that this was no time for a pep talk. Leaving Inky to continue down alone, he retraced his steps, tucked Milo into one arm, and carried him to safety, murmurring apologetically to a non-English speaking couple heading up with their teenaged son, all of whom pressed themselves to the wall so we could pass.
I don't know what we would have done had Milo been big for his age. Waited for the Trogir Volunteer Fire Brigade, maybe.
Even though my childhood religious instruction never took root, I wish I'd thought to duck back into the cathedral and show my appreciation by lighting a candle. Perhaps I could've prayed for other families to be granted safe passage, or for my son to give up on his dream to become a chimney sweep. I'm not sure he realizes all the risks that are involved.