Chapter 2 — When the Spider Plant Turned Black

She parted the leaves of the orchid with her fingers, peering into the damp soil as though searching for a hidden secret. A moment later, she picked up the small garden trowel resting beside the pot and gently turned over the top layer of earth. My heart leaped directly into my throat. She unearthed several damp tea leaves. Pinching the leaves between her fingertips, her expression shifted abruptly, a shadow of cold realization crossing her features. Yet, just as quickly, she buried the leaves back into the dirt, patting it smooth. When she turned around to face me, a warm smile had already bloomed across her face once more.

This orchid is growing so lush and green.

I forced a smile and replied, It must be because it gets plenty of sunlight. She studied me intently.

Is that so?

Ever since that day, my mother-in-law began brewing tea with startling frequency. What used to be a single pot in the evening expanded to another batch right after lunch. The teapot was always brimming to the brim. Every time she added fresh tea, she made sure to close the kitchen door firmly. Whenever I walked past, I could hear nothing save the sharp scrape of a porcelain spoon against the bottom of a tin container. On one occasion, as I intended to step inside to pour myself a glass of water, she spun around with a violent start.

What are you doing in here?

Her sudden outburst startled the breath right out of me.

I just wanted some water.

She hurriedly shoved a small black iron tin behind her back.

There is water out in the living room, isn't there?

My gaze dropped to her hands. Her knuckles were stark white, as though she were gripping something forbidden, something she could not bear for another living soul to witness. I chose not to press the matter further. That very afternoon, she announced she was heading out to the market. The moment the elevator doors clicked shut, I bolted into the kitchen to hunt for the mysterious iron box. It was not on the upper kitchen shelves. It was not in the lower cabinets either. It was nowhere behind the rice container. Finally, I discovered it tucked away inside an old, disused steamer basket resting in the dark recesses beneath the sink. The outside of the iron tin bore no labels whatsoever, and the lid had been sealed with stubborn tightness. It took a fair amount of effort for me to pry it open. Inside lay far more than ordinary tea leaves. There were jagged, dark brown leaf fragments mixed with tiny, withered roots, all mingling with several deep red, pellet-like seeds. The aroma that surged out of the tin was far more pungent and heavier than anything that ever made it into the teacups. It smelled bitter and vaguely metallic. As I leaned in closer to take a cautious sniff, a sharp, clawing sensation seized my throat, and I could not stop myself from coughing twice. Suddenly, the sound of a key turning rattled the front door. Panicking, I scrambled to slam the lid back onto the tin and shove it hastily back into the steamer. When my mother-in-law stepped into the apartment, she was carrying nothing more than a single bundle of scallions. She looked entirely unlike someone who had just returned from a long trip to the market. She lingered in the hallway, her gaze sweeping sharply from my face to the open kitchen door.

Were you just in the kitchen?

I swallowed hard and replied, I was just looking for a cup. Her movements as she changed out of her shoes were agonizingly slow.

Did you find it?

Yes, I did.

She walked straight into the kitchen and yanked open the cabinet door beneath the sink. Finding the steamer basket resting undisturbed in its exact spot, she finally set the bundle of scallions down. In that chilling fraction of a second, I knew with absolute certainty that she had never left the building at all. That evening, when Tran Nghien came home from work, I recounted the entire bizarre episode to him. Upon hearing it, his very first reaction was not to ask why his mother was concealing things from me, but rather to frown at me in deep disapproval.

Have you been snooping through my mother's belongings?

I was so infuriated I nearly laughed aloud.

Your mother forces me to soak in that strange brew every single day, and I am not even allowed to find out what it is?

He tossed his briefcase onto the sofa with a heavy thud.

Do you honestly think my mother would ever try to harm you?

I am not saying she wants to harm me, but the smell of that concoction is simply not right.

You are always letting your imagination run wild with suspicion.

His voice began to edge with thinly veiled impatience.

My mother raised me all by herself, enduring every hardship imaginable, and now all she wants is for your body to grow strong so that you can give this family a grandchild soon.

I froze in my tracks.

What on earth does soaking my feet have to do with getting pregnant?

Tran Nghien deliberately avoided meeting my eyes.

Old people just have a lot of traditional superstitions.

Did she say that, or did the two of you discuss this beforehand?

He fell completely silent, offering no defense. The heavy sense of dread pooling in my chest began to sink even deeper. Standing at the entrance of the bedroom, my mother-in-law held a plate of freshly peeled fruit in her hands. She must have overheard every single word of our argument. Yet, despite this, she maintained a gentle, serene smile.

Ha Vu, please do not argue with Nghien.

She placed the plate of fruit gently on the coffee table, her gaze lingering for a lingering moment on my lower abdomen.

Everything I do is simply for your own good.

My name is Ha Vu. Before I entered into this marriage, I always considered myself quite perceptive, adept at reading the subtle expressions and moods of the people around me.