Tiffany must have
called Faye Bedwell to let her know we were coming. The grieving widow greets
us at the front door. She’s a mess. Her hair is tousled, her eyes red, and her
face blotchy. She waves us inside. “Thank you for coming.”
Tiffany leans in
and hugs her. “We are here for you.” The widow weeps. I closely continue to
watch how my wife does this. I am always amazed at the ease and naturalness
with which Tiffany draws people to her and makes them feel comfortable.
From a bag I didn’t
even realize Tiffany had in her hand, she removes a lasagna she purchased from
our favorite Italian restaurant. “A little comfort food,” she says, leaning in
again. I suspect the touching is likely to go on for a while.
Another woman
enters the fray, takes the lasagna, and leads us into the living room. Several
people are there, including a child I assume must be Muffin. Dammit, Bran.
I sit down
uncomfortably and realize everybody is looking just as uncomfortable. I relax.
Tiffany mingles, doing it well. People are responding to her. Perhaps she
should run for president. Ha, who knew I had a sense of humor.
I don’t know who
these people are, but they all seem to know their surroundings and the Bedwell
family. I assume they are relatives and neighbors. I’ll confirm that with
Tiffany.
I glance at my
watch in what I hope is a nonchalant move. This is a
perfunctory visit; I’m hoping we’re in and out in under 30 minutes.
As I look up, I
realize Muffin is looking directly at me. Dammit. Bran. I’m hoping he didn’t
see my sidelong glance. I smile. It’s a mixture of warmth and sadness. I get a
quivery smile in return. This is good. The kid must not know what looking at a
watch indicates. I’m in the clear.
Tiffany catches my
eye and motions me toward the kitchen. As always, protocol is her forte. I rise
and follow her to the adjoining room. It’s warm from the oven and stove,
brightly lit, and HGTV comfortable. I struggle to picture Norm here eating,
doing dishes, or sipping coffee. I fail. The fact is, I don’t even know if Norm
drank coffee. All I seem to know for certain is his fondness for pastry.
Samantha, Norm’s
sister, sets our lasagna on a table laden with more lasagna, rolls, salads,
soups, and sandwiches. She sees me staring. “People have been kind.”
“As they should. How
is Bran doing?” I realize it’s a stupid question, but commonly asked in
situations like this.
“He’s shaken. And
confused.” Samantha turns, a little uncertainly, I think. Now she looks me in
the eye.
Oh, god.
“Can I ask you
something?”
I want to point out
that she already has asked me something, but I know that would not be
appropriate. I nod.
“Did you know Norm
well?”
The real answer is,
“Well enough to keep him at arm’s length and out of my life.” The suitable
answer is more nuanced. Hesitation works well in these situations, I’ve
discovered. Psychologists and shrinks like to use
indicators like this to demonstrate the presence of psychopathy or sociopathy.
It doesn’t always. A delay is acceptable and anticipated for real people
grappling to find the appropriate words.
My history with Norm is short. Canadian Cannabis opened in
2015, producing medical marijuana for a global market of patients suffering
everything from depression to fibromyalgia to cancer. I arrived 18 months later
to prepare the company for the domestic recreational cannabis market as Canada
became only the second country in the world to legalize marijuana.
Norm was already in place when I assumed the helm. I got the
feeling he would have liked to have been friends, which is the last thing I
ever wanted. Distance is a safety valve for me. Get too close, and you are more
likely to trip up. In Norm’s case, it was also chemistry. I don’t have friends,
but I understand the concept. You must have common ground, mutual respect, and
a shared fondness for each other. We didn’t have that. More accurately, I didn’t
have that.
I look up at Samantha. “I’ve known Norm since I moved here
three years ago. I saw him almost every day. We worked well together, but we
were not close.” It’s an honest answer. Shit. Where did that come from?
“Did you expect this?” Samantha asks.
More confusion on my part.
“That he killed himself,” she explains somewhat cautiously.
It’s a great question. The obvious answer is “Yes.” I dig a
little deeper. The answer is the same: “Yes.” That’s what I tell Samantha.
“Me too.” Norm’s sister twists a dish towel in her hands
tighter and tighter. “I keep going over it in my head. It just doesn’t make
sense.”
I remain silent. I’ve learned people will fill the silence,
doing the work for me.
“I’m down from Sydney because Norm and Faye were supposed to
be going to Cuba for a week’s vacation, a romantic getaway. I was staying with
Bran. They had non-refundable tickets. They had plans.”
I agree it doesn’t make sense.
“Do you think he killed himself?”
My bewilderment is obvious even to me. I feel the shockwaves
in my bones. “What else could it be?” I simply did not see this question coming
even in the long list of possibilities I reviewed on the drive over.
“I don’t know,” Samantha says, looking me directly in the
eye. “But I don’t believe my brother killed himself.”
It turns out Samantha’s disbelief was well-founded.
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