Page 141 - Too Much and Never Enough - Mary L. Trump

to witness the open contempt. As far as I knew at the time, Donald not only had been my grandfather’s favorite, he had also seemed to be the only child of his that he liked. I knew my grandfather could be cruel, but I thought the largest measure of that cruelty was reserved for my father, who, to my shame, I thought had probably deserved it. I didn’t know how lonely and frightening life in the House had been at the time of my grandmother’s illness all those years ago. I didn’t know that my grandfather hadn’t taken care of any of his children during the year of Gam’s absence or that Donald had been particularly vulnerable to that neglect. And far from supporting and nurturing my father as he ventured out into the world with the sincere intent to be a success, Fred was really only enabling Donald, waiting until he was old enough to be of use.
In 1994, I moved from my Upper East Side apartment to Garden City, a town on Long Island only a fifteen-minute drive from the House. I would take Gam to see her great-grandchildren, my brother’s daughter and son, driving her in the red Rolls-Royce my grandfather had bought for her birthday a few years earlier. Behind the large, loose walnut steering wheel, I felt so high up that I could practically see the curvature of the earth. Sometimes Gam and I chatted easily during the forty-five-minute drive, but more often she was moody and taciturn. On days like that, the trip felt interminable. She sometimes smelled strongly of vanilla even when she hadn’t been baking. Other times, I would see her out of the corner of my eye surreptitiously slide her hand into her purse and put something into her mouth.
Usually we sat in the library chatting. I was often there when Maryanne made her daily phone call to check in. After answering, Gam covered the receiver and said to me, “It’s Maryanne,” then, to her daughter, “Guess who’s here? Mary.” She paused, I guess to give Maryanne a chance to say something such as “Tell her I say hi,” but she never did.
Sometimes we went to eat at a local restaurant. One of Gam’s favorite places to have lunch was the Sly Fox Inn, a low-key pub directly across the street from the grocery store parking lot where she’d been mugged. We never talked about Dad much, but one day she seemed particularly nostalgic. She reminisced about the trouble he and Billy Drake used to get into, how easily Dad had made her laugh. She went quiet after the waiter