Course Correction by Ginny Gilder Page A

show you; just you wait. Reason was bantering with me, keeping things light inside. We lost a race. It’s not the end of the world.
    I felt a tiny bit better. Not great. I was disappointed, yes; angry, yes; but mostly okay.
    Until I saw Chris. Her college career was over, marred by unfinished business. She would never beat Radcliffe head-to-head. Her scowl started at her forehead, drove her eyebrows sharply down, deepened into her eyes, flared her nostrils, and settled across her mouth; then she howled at us huddled on the dock. Focusing specifically on the five freshmen, she unleashed her fury. “You gave up! How could you? You gave them the race! When are you going to learn how to pull?”
    I had never seen Chris cry. I felt like a traitor.
    When my father pricked the bubble of my growing up in a happily-ever-after family that evening in the twilight off Madison Avenue, the air began to leak out of my world. I didn’t realize when I was eleven that the dissipation of our family’s atmospheric mix of routine, structure, duty, and affection meant the end of life as I knew it, but everything became clear soon enough.
    A great divide had always existed in our family between subject matter for adults and children, until Dad moved out. Overnight he assumed the stereotype of a disappearing dad, and it fit like a well-worn shoe. He didn’t visit, rarely called, and saw us only on weekends. Mom’s anger moved in and filled the empty spaces he left behind. The normal family topics of homework, dinner, clean rooms, and laundry fell by the wayside, derailed by new, grown-up ones of betrayal and abandonment.
    Mom sniped nonstop about Dad: “You know, he left me for that whore, that bitch. Just ask him. See what he says!”
    I couldn’t deny or downplay her pain, but I doubted her charges against Dad. The tumble and turn of events seemed so sudden and fantastic. I couldn’t keep up. I felt as if I was living in a made-up story told by a crazy person, and the shock of the new script immobilized me. Without my father’s confirmation or denial, I didn’t know who or what I was supposed to believe. My parents, who’d always served as the bastions of truth, had blown apart into separate corners of the universe, leaving me to sort out the facts myself.
    It wasn’t only the topic of family conversations that changed, but Mom’s behavior, too. The first time she ventured out of character, I was unprepared.
    The yelling sounded far away, muffled by layers of sleep. When I finally woke up, the loud noise sounded as if it was next door. Then I realized it was: in Peggy’s room. “You disgusting pig. Look at this mess. No wonder he left,” my mother was saying.
    I crept out of my room down the hall to Peggy’s open door. Light spilled from the bedroom into the darkened hall. Peeking around the doorway, I saw the cluttered floor, covered as usual by clumps of clothes, piles of dirty dishes, and stacks of books and homework papers. Peggy was in bed, halfway sitting up and looking scared. Mom stood over her, disheveled and ranting. She wore one of her flowing nightgowns, filmy material designed for allure, a flimsy cut suggesting sex. Her dirty-blonde hair stuck out in all directions, her face contorted.
    Mom reached out to grab Peggy. Peggy eluded her grasp, rolled out of bed to the floor, and then crouched with her hands in front of her body. Mom lunged toward her but tripped, banged her shin against the bedpost, and fell on the bed.
    â€œHow could you do this to our family? You selfish bitch. He’s not coming back.” Mom started sobbing. The remnants of her mascara smudged her eyes and cheeks with black ink.
    I wanted to tell Mom she had it all wrong, that Peggy was just being Peggy, messy maybe, but not a villain. I wanted to put my arm around her and comfort her, but I couldn’t move. Her snarling and physical aggression terrified me. She had always been