The Confidant
by Nancy Kaminski
(c) December 2009
A short Christmas story just for the FK Holiday Card Exchange participants

“I used to talk to a dead man,” Natalie said, then, faintly embarrassed, buried her nose in her cup of cocoa.

“You still do.” Nick’s mouth twitched in amusement.

“I’m not talking about you, silly. Besides, you’re not dead. I mean real dead, as in door nail or the African violet on my living room windowsill.” Natalie grinned from behind her cocoa cup. “Or a Norwegian Blue.”

For once Nick didn’t rise to the challenge to quote from the Dead Parrot Sketch. “Tell me.”

It was December 20, and Nick Knight and Natalie Lambert were in the midst of their now-traditional gift exchange. Natalie had started it by appearing at Nick’s door the first year they met with a small poinsettia, hoping to bring him a little Christmas cheer. Nick, who had planned to spend Christmas moping around his loft, had nothing to give her in return and reciprocated by offering to answer any question she wanted to ask him.

The next year there was another poinsettia (a big red one, supplied by Nick) and another question and answer session. And then the year after that. The questions weren’t one-sided now; Natalie answered her fair share. This night Nick had already related some amusing anecdotes about his life as a page, and then it was his turn.

“Why pathology? Why medical examiner?” he had asked, and she had started answering with that cryptic confession.

“Well,” she began, “When I was nine years old, my parents took me to the ROM on my birthday. It was my special outing, Richie didn’t come with us.” She smiled at the memory. “It was my very first visit to a museum, and I was entranced by all the wonderful things I saw. Mom and Dad enjoyed it, too, and that made it even better.”

“And the dead man?” Nick prompted.

“I’m getting to that. Eventually Mom got tired—the cancer was beginning to affect her—and so she and Dad sat down on a bench and let me wander in the Egypt room as long as I stayed in sight. And that’s where I found him. Nesyamun, a 3,500-year-old Egyptian mummy.

“I had never seen a real mummy before. I was fascinated. He was partially unwrapped, and his face looked so serene. You could see his hands and feet, too—they were perfectly preserved, with nails and everything.

“At first all I could do was look at him just as a really cool exhibit. But when I was looking at his face, all of a sudden I started thinking, he had been alive, he was a real person. He probably had a wife and kids, and maybe he was crabby when he had to get up early, and he stubbed his toe sometimes, and got colds, and made jokes, and got bored, and maybe he liked cats and had a favorite color, and all the other things that ordinary people feel and do.

“It was such a revelation. All of a sudden history had a face, and I truly understood that the people who lived long ago were just like us, with emotions and feelings. And I started to wonder about his life, and I was sad that he died. I wanted to know all about him, and I knew we never would. All we knew was his name, and his job, and where he lived and died. He was Nesyamun, he was a priest of Amun, and he lived and died in Thebes a long, long time ago.”

“Ah.” Nick paused. “That can be a pretty big revelation, especially when you’re so young. So when did you start talking to him?”

“That day I found myself thinking, ‘I wish you could tell me how you died, and what it’s like being dead. Did it hurt?’ because, even though no one said anything, I could tell how sick Mom was getting, and I knew in my heart of hearts that she was going to die. And he was the only dead person I had ever seen, and carrying on a conversation with him, even in my mind, somehow made what was coming easier to take. It was like, you’re dead and you’re still here. Maybe Mom will stay with me somehow, even when she’s gone. I couldn’t say these things to anyone else. They were all so cheerful and optimistic, and I knew they were lying to make me feel better.” She fell silent and stared into her empty cup.

Nick took the cup from her and left her contemplating the flames in the fireplace. When he came back from the kitchen he handed her a glass of port.

“So how often did you go see him?” he asked.

“How did you guess?” she said, and took a sip of the deep ruby port. It sent a wave of warmth through her and she sighed. “The museum charged admission, so I would save up my allowance and take a bus maybe every two or three months. Can you believe they allowed me to do that? But it was okay, I guess, because I was pretty responsible and the bus went right past the museum. I would look at other things, but I always ended up at Nesyamun, and I would pour out my heart to him. I can’t imagine what the guards thought, this little girl standing by the mummy and just staring at him for a half hour.”

“I’m sure they thought you were just a budding Egyptologist,” Nick said with a smile. “How long did you visit him?”

Natalie shrugged. “For about two years. He was a good listener. And then Mom died, and well…it seemed pointless. Dad sort of retreated into himself, and I ended up taking care of him and Richie, and I just didn’t have time for anything but them and school.

“And then Dad died in that car crash and my world really fell apart. That’s when Nana took us in, and I went back to being a little girl and being told what to do. She…wasn’t so understanding. One day I didn’t ask permission, I just got on the bus and went downtown to visit Nesyamun one more time, and he was gone. They had changed the exhibits, and he was gone. I never found out what happened. So I never got to even say goodbye to him.” She closed her eyes and Nick saw tears glistening on her eyelashes. She rubbed her eyes. “How stupid, I’m getting weepy over a mummy.”

Nick studied her face. “Not so stupid. He was important to you. I know how you feel, when something that seemed to be permanent is suddenly gone. First your parents—and then your confidant.” He twiddled his wine glass. “I’m curious, though. Why didn’t you just ask someone at the museum where he went? Surely a guard would have known.”

Natalie shrugged and smiled slightly. “I was shy, and anyway, I don’t think it ever occurred to me that I could ask anyone. I pretty much tried not to be noticed most of the time. No one knew what I was doing there, and I didn’t want anyone to find out.

“Anyway, the end of this long story is that, because of him, I wanted to help find out the stories the dead can tell us. I didn’t want to think of anyone leaving this world without someone caring about them, and wanting to understand them, and why and how they died. People shouldn’t end up just as a name on a headstone—or on a museum exhibit tag. So I ended up studying pathology.” She raised her glass to him. “And that’s why I met you. Thanks for being one of the very few dead people I’ve met who didn’t stay that way and was able to tell his story without having to go through dissection and forensics to do so.”

“You’re welcome.” Nick clinked his own glass against hers, then sat back in his chair. He took a sip of wine, and said, “I have Christmas present for you.”

“But you already gave me my present—you answered your annual question.”

“Consider this a bonus answer.” He smiled at her.

“Well? Don’t keep me in suspense!”

“I know what happened to Nesyamun.” He paused to enjoy her look of astonishment.

“How would you know…oh, wait, that museum curator, what’s her name.”

“Uh-huh, Alyce Hunter. In between all the murders and mayhem and general unpleasantness, we actually spent some time talking about archaeology. Not just about Mayan stuff, but Egyptian stuff, too. And she mentioned that the museum had a rather fine mummy, although it wasn’t on exhibit—something about the ethics of displaying human remains, I believe. So I’m guessing that your mummy is in storage in the museum basement.”

“Oh.” Natalie took another sip of her port. “Poor guy, locked away with no one to visit him. It makes sense, though. All I could think was that they sold him to some other museum.”

“Do you want to see him? I do still know some folks at the museum, and I could ask.”

Natalie shook her head. “Thanks, but no, I don’t think so. It’s just nice to know that he’s still there. I’ll wave next time I drive past. Thanks so much for telling me.”

“You know, it was very important to the Egyptians that they be remembered after death. As long as their name was known, they would live forever. So you’ve given him a very precious gift.”

Natalie raised her glass in a toast. “Merry Christmas, Nesyamun. I hope you’re sailing in the sun boat with Ra and enjoying whatever version of heaven you believed in.”

Nick returned the toast. “Hear, hear.” They solemnly clinked glasses again. “You know,” he mused, “I know of at least one Elder who was born in ancient Egypt. In fact, I believe he is from Thebes. Do you want me to ask him if he knew Nesyamun?”

Natalie said, horrified, “Good lord, no! Lacroix’s scary enough. I don’t need any more ancient vampires in my life. One is enough!”

“Okay, just thought I’d offer. I don’t blame you, I think he’s pretty scary myself. And besides, he usually won’t talk to anyone who’s less than 1,000 years old. He thinks Lacroix is an annoying teenager.”

“I think I need more liquor to properly process that image, but that’s for another time. It’s time to call it a party.” Natalie stood up. “Thanks very much for my present—presents." She grinned. "Who would have thought remembering childhood traumas would make me feel so good? Merry Christmas, Nick.”

Nick stood and gave her a hug. “It was my pleasure. Merry Christmas, Nat.” He helped her into her parka and went to open the elevator door.

Natalie settled her fuzzy hat on her head. "Lacroix as a teenager," she mused. "I'm sorry, that doesn't compute at all. He was born six feet tall with that voice."

"You might be right. He never really told me about his childhood—maybe the problem is he never had one, so he's got issues? Here, don't forget your mittens."

Natalie accepted the mittens Nick held out to her, and said, "Okay, next party, let's psychoanalyze Lacroix."

"I'd much rather talk about mummies," Nick replied. "They're so much more relaxed." He waved as the door closed on his own confidante and friend, and then, as he turned back to start cleaning things up, a voice—THE voice—came from the balcony above the living room.

"Allow me to tell you about my childhood, Nicholas..."

FINIS

Comments