Chapter 4 — When the Spider Plant Turned Black

Even a doctor might not have identified the hidden threat lingering within the foot-soaking water. Go to the police? I lacked even tangible, definitive proof to articulate. Thus, I resolved to document everything first. The tea water. The accumulated tea dregs. The small iron container. And the daily, insidious transformation of the orchid pot. By the sixteenth day, the cascading orchid had completely draped itself over the rack. Long, serpentine vines dangled limply from the inner ledge of the balcony, swaying gently whenever a passing breeze swept through. A neighbor from the floor below sent a message into the residential group chat: *Whose household has such a gifted touch with orchids? It is beginning to resemble a cascading waterfall.* Upon seeing the notification, my mother-in-law's expression darkened instantly. She seized her phone, her finger jabbing at the screen with considerable aggression.

There is nothing special to photograph here.

I replied deliberately, feigning innocence: It looks rather lovely, mother. She raised her head and shot me a piercing glare.

Things that grow with excessive vigor do not necessarily portend good fortune.

I smiled.

Is the flourishing of living plants not considered a blessing?

She slammed her phone facedown onto the wooden table.

You understand nothing of these matters.

That evening, my mother-in-law prepared a fish soup. The broth was a murky, opaque white, sprinkled generously with chopped scallions. She pushed the largest bowl directly in front of my seat.

Drink deeply, it is exceptionally nourishing.

I leaned forward, inhaling the steam. Beneath the familiar, heavy scent of fish, there lingered a faint, distinctly bitter undertone. It was remarkably subtle—so faint that had I not spent recent days acutely attuned to it, I surely would have let it slip past my notice. My hand, gripping the spoon, froze mid-air. Chen Yan noticed my hesitation.

Why are you not drinking?

My mother-in-law fixed her gaze upon me as well.

Do you find my cooking unpalatable?

I set my spoon down gently against the ceramic.

My stomach feels rather uneasy this evening.

My mother-in-law retorted immediately: A troubled stomach makes consuming hot broth all the more imperative. Chen Yan nudged the bowl an inch closer toward my plate.

Do not upset mother.

I looked at them, positioned to my left and right, acting in tandem as though rehearsed through countless repetitions. A strange, humorless laugh escaped my lips.

Very well, I shall drink it.

I lifted the bowl, raising the rim toward my lips, when the shrill ring of my mobile phone pierced the silence. It was my mother, Tham Mai, calling. I accepted the connection. Her voice boomed loudly through the speaker:

Ha Vu, I am coming to visit your place tomorrow, bringing along a batch of homemade pickled vegetables.

My mother-in-law’s eyebrows twitched imperceptibly. I spoke up at once: Yes, mother, do arrive early. My mother laughed warmly on the other end of the line.

I shall be there by morning.

Ending the call, I placed the bowl of soup back onto the table.

My mother is visiting tomorrow, so I must retire early tonight, otherwise she will complain that my complexion looks unwell.

My mother-in-law stared intently at the bowl of soup. Seconds later, she dragged the bowl back toward herself.

In that case, do not drink it at all.

I stood up and retreated to the bedroom. Before pulling the door shut, I heard the heavy thud of the bowl's base slamming against the tabletop. My mother arrived at nine o'clock the following morning. Stepping across the threshold, she dropped her cloth satchel in the foyer and pinned her gaze directly onto my face.

Why have you grown so thin?

My mother-in-law emerged from the kitchen, wearing a forced, agreeable smile.

She is simply a fussy eater, older sister. I try to nourish her every single day, yet she only finds fault with it.

My mother glanced sideways at her, offering a polite, hollow laugh.

The youth of today are all alike; none of them possess the fortitude to endure hardship as our generation did.

The two women traded conventional pleasantries, playing their respective parts with practiced ease. Standing in the middle, I was once again struck by the oppressive sensation of being an outsider. My mother changed into her indoor slippers and walked toward the living room, only to halt abruptly. Her gaze became fixed upon the balcony. The orchid pot had spilled its foliage all the way down to the tiled floor. The longest vines trailed downward from the bracket, coiling sinuously along the base of the wall. The leaves grew thick and dense, possessing a shade of green so deep it bordered on the grotesque. The smile evaporated entirely from my mother’s face. My mother-in-law quickly noticed this sudden shift in demeanor.

In-law, you also find the unnatural growth of this plant rather unsettling, do you not?

My mother offered no reply. She walked toward the balcony entrance and squatted down to inspect the soil within the container. Before her fingers even brushed the surface, she jerked her hand back as if burned. I asked in a hushed whisper: Mother, what is wrong? She raised her head, meeting my eyes with a heavy, troubled expression.

What on earth have you been using to water this plant?

My mother-in-law interjected hastily: Water, of course, what else could it be? My mother rose to her feet and turned to face her.

This odor is certainly not plain water.

The living room fell into an abrupt, suffocating silence. Chen Yan was away from home. Only the three of us remained. My mother-in-law let out a dry, forced chuckle.

My dear in-law, your sense of smell is remarkably sharp, isn't it?

My mother returned the smile, her eyes entirely devoid of warmth.