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,
"Greg, we're not going to make it," I called. 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.
©2007 Ayun Halliday and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Ayun Halliday is author of The Big Rumpus and No Touch Monkey! and the popular zine East Village Inky. She is a columnist for Bust and a frequent contributor to Babble. Visit AyunHalliday.com.
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