Удушье (Choke)

I say, okay. Walking with her, I say, 'Thanks for back there. For lying, I mean.'

And Paige says, 'Who says I was lying?'

Does that mean she loves me? That's impossible.

'Okay,' she says. 'Maybe I fibbed a little. I like you. Some.'

Breathe in. Breathe out.

In the chapel, Paige shuts the door behind us and says, 'Feel,' and takes my hand to hold it against her flat stomach. 'I checked my temperature. It's not my time anymore.'

With the load already building up behind whatever in my guts, I tell her, 'Yeah?' I say, 'Well, I may have beat you to it.'

Tanya and her rubber butt toys.

Paige turns and walks away from me, slow, and still turned away she says, 'I don't know how to talk to you about this.'

The sun through the stained-glass window, a whole wall in a hundred shades of gold. The blond wood cross. Symbols. The al­tar and the Communion rail, it's all here. Paige goes to sit on one of the benches, a pew, and she sighs. Her one hand grips the top of her clipboard, and her other lifts some clipped papers to show something red underneath them.

My mom's diary.

She hands the diary to me and says, 'You can check the facts yourself. In fact, I recommend you do so. If only for your own peace of mind.'

I take the book, and it's still gibberish inside. Okay, Italian gibberish.

And Paige says, 'The only good thing is there's no absolute assurance that the genetic material they used was from the actual historic figure.'

Everything else checks out, she says. The dates, the clinics, the specialists. Even the church people she talked to have insisted the material stolen, the tissue the clinic cultured, was the only authenticated foreskin. She says this has opened a giant political can of worms in Rome.

'The only other good thing,' she says, 'is I didn't tell any­body who you were.'

Jesus Christ, I say.

'No, I mean who you are now,' she says.

And I say, 'No, I was just swearing.'

How this feels is like I just got back the results on a bad biopsy. I say, 'So what does this mean?'

Paige shrugs. 'When you think about it, nothing,' she says. She nods toward the diary in my hand and says, 'Unless you want to ruin your life, I'd recommend you burn that.'

I ask, how does this affect us, her and me?

'We shouldn't see each other anymore,' she says, 'if that's what you mean.'

I ask, she doesn't believe this junk, does she?

And Paige says, 'I've seen you with the patients here, the way they're all at peace after they talk to you.' Sitting there, she leans forward with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, and she says, 'I just can't take the chance that your mother is right. Not everybody I talked to in Italy could be delusional. I mean, what if you're really the beautiful and divine son of God?'

The blessed and perfect mortal manifestation of God.

A belch rumbles up from my blockage, and the taste in my mouth is acid.

'Morning sickness' isn't the right term, but it's the first term that comes to mind.