father, always about what he paid for and her lack of gratitude. She could not be grateful for what she did not want.
“Let’s not revisit that.” Reyna put the beers down and turned on the kitchen light but did not sit. She felt braver on her feet. She was beyond his reach, she reminded herself. He had no leverage, not even money. He only supported her while she was in college because it looked good to do so, tailing responsibility for the child he’d fathered out of wedlock. He could always withdraw his support. She’d never asked for it and wouldn’t complain if it ended. But his enemies might notice. That he was too ambitious to willingly supply his enemies with fodder was his concern, not hers.
As if by way of an answer, he pulled a piece of paper from a slender file, smoothed it on the table, then pushed it toward her.
She picked it up warily. A medical report from the UCLA Medical Center. Her mother’s name swam up off the page, entangled with a phrase she only knew from her study of Flannery O’Connor’s life. It frightened her to see it paired with her mother’s name. Lupus erythematosus.
The paper fell from her numb fingers, coming to a rest on the table between them.
She wanted him to stop talking. She was his daughter, after all, and she had known how his mind worked since she was sixteen. Words were unnecessary.
“Her medical insurance is poor, and after the expenses of her breast cancer treatment still in remission, thankfully she’s almost at her lifetime maximum. My people can be slow or quick with checks. There can be a professional with her twenty-four hours a day, or just checking in by phone.”
“I’ll take care of her. I’ll leave school if I have to.”
“I don’t doubt that you would. I’ve always admired your ability to work hard.” He was smiling when he ought to have realized he had lost. There was obviously something she did not yet know. He would tell her when it suited him.
She smoothed the medical report on the table and pushed it back toward him. It was bravado in the face of his smile, a smile of victory.
“Immunosuppressive drug regimens can cost eighty-five dollars a day. I’m sure you can do the math. Her insurance will be exhausted in seven months. Without further complications.”
She could do the math. Having no idea where she would find thirty-one thousand dollars a year, she nevertheless said firmly, “We’ll manage.” He kept smiling.
Her life had been of his design, even before he had acknowledged that she was his daughter. Her mother was strong in beauty but frail in spirit, and had always taken the path of least resistance. What Grip Putnam wanted from her he got. Reyna couldn’t blame her mother for being true to her nature. He wanted them to move, they did. He wanted discretion, then she was silent.
Then, when Reyna was eight, that had all changed. Grip’s son and wife had died in an automobile accident and he’d claimed Reyna as his own. In his first autobiography, written two years into the phenomenal success of his syndicated radio program, he’d said that the tragedy had taught him how important family was, and he knew then that financial support was not enough. His out-of-wedlock daughter deserved everything he would have given the son from his marriage.
He wanted Reyna’s last name to be his, and it happened. She was enrolled at an exclusive private school, provided with tutors whenever her grades faltered below perfect, and lavished with language and riding lessons and a closet full of designer clothes. She learned to carry herself like a daughter of the Putnam lineage, a great-granddaughter of a U.S. senator, the granddaughter of a California congressman, the daughter of a conservative analyst who could tip his supporters’ positions in almost any direction he pleased. She was not allowed to forget that she could some day be the daughter of a president. Grip Putnam had aspirations and the cool, careful logic required to
“Let’s not revisit that.” Reyna put the beers down and turned on the kitchen light but did not sit. She felt braver on her feet. She was beyond his reach, she reminded herself. He had no leverage, not even money. He only supported her while she was in college because it looked good to do so, tailing responsibility for the child he’d fathered out of wedlock. He could always withdraw his support. She’d never asked for it and wouldn’t complain if it ended. But his enemies might notice. That he was too ambitious to willingly supply his enemies with fodder was his concern, not hers.
As if by way of an answer, he pulled a piece of paper from a slender file, smoothed it on the table, then pushed it toward her.
She picked it up warily. A medical report from the UCLA Medical Center. Her mother’s name swam up off the page, entangled with a phrase she only knew from her study of Flannery O’Connor’s life. It frightened her to see it paired with her mother’s name. Lupus erythematosus.
The paper fell from her numb fingers, coming to a rest on the table between them.
She wanted him to stop talking. She was his daughter, after all, and she had known how his mind worked since she was sixteen. Words were unnecessary.
“Her medical insurance is poor, and after the expenses of her breast cancer treatment still in remission, thankfully she’s almost at her lifetime maximum. My people can be slow or quick with checks. There can be a professional with her twenty-four hours a day, or just checking in by phone.”
“I’ll take care of her. I’ll leave school if I have to.”
“I don’t doubt that you would. I’ve always admired your ability to work hard.” He was smiling when he ought to have realized he had lost. There was obviously something she did not yet know. He would tell her when it suited him.
She smoothed the medical report on the table and pushed it back toward him. It was bravado in the face of his smile, a smile of victory.
“Immunosuppressive drug regimens can cost eighty-five dollars a day. I’m sure you can do the math. Her insurance will be exhausted in seven months. Without further complications.”
She could do the math. Having no idea where she would find thirty-one thousand dollars a year, she nevertheless said firmly, “We’ll manage.” He kept smiling.
Her life had been of his design, even before he had acknowledged that she was his daughter. Her mother was strong in beauty but frail in spirit, and had always taken the path of least resistance. What Grip Putnam wanted from her he got. Reyna couldn’t blame her mother for being true to her nature. He wanted them to move, they did. He wanted discretion, then she was silent.
Then, when Reyna was eight, that had all changed. Grip’s son and wife had died in an automobile accident and he’d claimed Reyna as his own. In his first autobiography, written two years into the phenomenal success of his syndicated radio program, he’d said that the tragedy had taught him how important family was, and he knew then that financial support was not enough. His out-of-wedlock daughter deserved everything he would have given the son from his marriage.
He wanted Reyna’s last name to be his, and it happened. She was enrolled at an exclusive private school, provided with tutors whenever her grades faltered below perfect, and lavished with language and riding lessons and a closet full of designer clothes. She learned to carry herself like a daughter of the Putnam lineage, a great-granddaughter of a U.S. senator, the granddaughter of a California congressman, the daughter of a conservative analyst who could tip his supporters’ positions in almost any direction he pleased. She was not allowed to forget that she could some day be the daughter of a president. Grip Putnam had aspirations and the cool, careful logic required to
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