The Vegetable Museum by Michelle Mulder

Author:Michelle Mulder
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781459816817
Publisher: Orca Book Publishers
Published: 2018-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

EIGHT

The church doesn’t look anything like a church. It’s a yellow house on a quiet residential street—no steeple, no parking lot. Inside, it’s bright, with big windows and maybe a hundred wooden chairs, set up in horseshoe rows. No crosses, no hymn books, not even any Bibles that I can see.

William was the one who suggested this place. He calls it a meeting house, and he’s allowed to invite us to have the memorial here because he’s a member of the Religious Society of Friends. I told Dad it sounds like a cult, but he just laughed and said it’s another name for the Quakers, an old and well-respected branch of Christianity.

“The Quakers still exist?” I asked, picturing William and dozens of other people sitting around in funny hats like the guy on the oatmeal package.

“They do,” Dad said, “and if you’re thinking of the oatmeal, don’t worry. They wear modern clothes now. They get together to meditate. Sometimes people stand up to speak if they feel it would be useful. Uli went a few times. He knew lots of people there through William, and he liked the quiet.”

So here we are. Nikko and I are the youngest by far. My parents are next.

They’re making a big effort this weekend. Mom’s been here almost twelve hours, and I haven’t heard a single angry word between them. Dad and I picked her up at the airport at midnight. Mom travels a lot, but whenever we picked her up at the airport in Montreal, she’d be in stretchy pants and a comfy sweatshirt. Last night she was wearing tight, stylish jeans and a purple, wraparound sweater. Dad did a double take, but I don’t know if Mom noticed. She was going on about how much I’d grown and how she liked my hair tied back. Eventually, she let go of me, hugged him and said he looked good, that he’d lost weight. He smiled. Things were starting off well.

Now here we are in a Quaker meeting house packed with people. Dad was shocked when he realized how many people Uli kept in touch with. We’ve spent weeks letting people know about this memorial service.

“Chloë, could you set up the photos, please?” Dad hands me a display board and points me to an easel in the far corner. I squeeze through the crowd to arrange the four pictures Dad rummaged out of a box this week. The first is black-and-white: a small boy in shorts holding the hand of a woman in a kerchief. I think of Uli’s story about the apple tree. That’s my great-grandmother, who escaped with Uli in her arms, saved the seeds and died before she could get to Canada. I wish I’d asked Uli if I look like her. I’ve squinted at her until my eyes hurt, but the picture’s too small for spotting any resemblance.

In the next photo, the little boy has grown to a man. He’s wearing a suit and standing beside a woman in a wedding dress.

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