Course Correction by Ginny Gilder Page B

friend, never foe, even when she was angry, but she was crossing into new territory now.
    She straightened up. “You pig, clean up this room completely. I’ve had enough of your slovenliness. Now.” She bent down and picked up a book, flung it at Peggy, but her aim was off, and it thudded harmlessly on the floor.
    Peggy kept her expression impassive as she reached for the clothes nearest her and began folding them. Mom watched her briefly and said, “I’ll be back shortly and it better be perfect!”
    She turned toward the door and saw me. Without a nod or a word or a gesture, she strode past me, her fancy nightgown trailing behind like a train. I caught a whiff of her sour smell as she sailed by. I flinched and recoiled, and felt an immediate burn of shame.
    I shuffled into Peggy’s room. She glanced at me, eyes brimming,and turned away. I realized we would not speak of this incident tomorrow, or ever. Half-heartedly, I reached down to pick up some papers from the floor.
    Peggy waved me away as she got off the floor and sat on her bed. “She won’t be back tonight, don’t worry.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œCouldn’t you tell? She’s drunk.” She saw my shocked expression. “We’ll be okay, Ginny. I can deal with her. Don’t worry.”
    Without my dad at home in those days, life deteriorated further. Mom lost her way. She stopped cooking, cleaning, and organizing on any regular basis. She stayed in bed for entire days, crying or sleeping, leaving Peggy and me to fill in the gaps where we could—making dinner, cleaning up, giving the Littles their baths, and tucking them into bed at night. Our home became a ghost town, with four shadows tiptoeing through, trying to figure out the new lay of the land.
    And then, our family imploded.
    One night, after we had cooked dinner, eaten with the Littles, and cleaned up afterward, Peggy and I happened upon Mom in the dining room. She sat in Dad’s old place at the far end of the table. Her head bobbed gently as she slurred a hello. A depleted liquor bottle teetered in front of her, and her closed fist rested on the table.
    Peggy didn’t waste a moment. She ran into the room, grabbed Mom’s wrist and jerked her hand to open it, but Mom tightened her closed fingers.
    â€œCome on, Ginny, help me.”
    Peggy pulled Mom’s hand toward me and I grabbed the clenched fingers, trying to pry them open. It took Peggy’s and my combined strength to counter Mom’s determined clawing, until I finally saw what Peggy had already seen: the prescription vial Mom was gripping like a life preserver. I wrenched it out of her talon-like grip.
    â€œUgh, Valium and vodka. Get rid of these,” Peggy said.
    I didn’t have textbook knowledge of the risks associated with downing a giant dose of “mother’s little helpers” chased by several shots of alcohol, but I knew enough to be scared. I ran through the French doors separating the dining and living rooms and stopped all the way at the other end of the room at the piano. I scattered the pills among its innards.
    â€œNo, you idiot, the toilet!” Peggy said, still battling Mom over the bottle on the table.
    Reversing course, I ran into the main entry hall, through the library and jerked open the lid on the toilet in the powder room. As I flushed away the tiny blue rounds of oblivion, the phone rang. I rushed back into the library to answer it.
    â€œGinny, is that you?” asked Gramps. My father’s parents lived three short blocks away, on 79th and Lexington, and we kids were regulars at their place. In fact, Peggy and I had run away there once when we were seven and five. Oh, thank goodness, someone I knew and trusted! “I’m just calling to check in, see how everything’s going.”
    I replied in a rush, “Mom just drank a bunch and took I don’t know how many pills. I’m not sure what they