Chapter 8: Being a Good Wife

Early the next morning, Ban Ban slipped quietly out of the primary bedroom, barefoot on the corridor carpet. She stopped outside the guest room for two seconds. The door was closed and it was silent inside. Bending down, she saw no light beneath it. He was still asleep.

Satisfied, she went downstairs to the kitchen.

Auntie Jiang was preparing breakfast ingredients and looked surprised. “Madam? Why are you up so early?”

“Morning, Auntie Jiang.” Ban Ban rolled up her sleeves. “I’m making Wen Ting’an breakfast.”

Auntie Jiang nearly dropped the egg she was holding. “You’re making it yourself?”

“Yes.” Ban Ban inspected the ingredients. “I want to be a good wife. How do I do that? I’ll start with breakfast. What I’m making takes a while, so I had to get up early.”

She smiled as she spoke, earnest rather than resentful. Auntie Jiang watched her tie her hair into a neat bun, put on an apron and rummage through the refrigerator.

Her small figure looked especially intent under the kitchen lights.

“What would you like to make?”

“What does he like? Tell me about it.”

“He usually has iced coffee in the morning, then a sandwich or steak. He isn’t picky, but he must have coffee.”

Ban Ban took out a prepared chicken, ginger, scallions and goji berries. She winked at Auntie Jiang. “Since he isn’t picky, I’ll make noodles. Southern-style, with chicken broth.”

Watching her, Auntie Jiang couldn’t help asking, “How did you learn to cook all this?”

“I often cooked for Dad and Sis at home.” Ban Ban put the chicken in cold water to blanch, her movements practiced. “Dad’s particular about food, so Mom always put a lot of effort into cooking for him. After she died, I took over. Dad and Sis were busy, and I couldn’t help much, so I often experimented with food for them. I love trying new dishes.”

She lifted out the blanched chicken, filled the pot with fresh water, added ginger and scallions, brought it to a boil and lowered the heat to simmer.

“A good soup base needs chicken broth.” She covered the pot and wiped the fine sweat from her forehead.

By seven, the broth was pale gold. In another pot, she boiled thin white noodles, timed them carefully, rinsed them in cold water, drained them and placed them in a bowl. She skimmed the broth and poured it over, added a few goji berries and two pieces of blanched greens, then set a small mound of finely chopped scallions in the center.

At seven thirty, Ting’an came downstairs in a black shirt, its unbuttoned cuffs rolled loosely to his forearms. His freshly washed hair was still damp, a few strands falling near his brows.

He was looking at his phone when he caught sight of her in the kitchen and stopped. In her house clothes, hair in a bun and pale neck exposed, Ban Ban stood on tiptoe trying to reach a bowl in the sterilizing cabinet. Unable to reach it, she stretched higher, her body taut.

He watched for three seconds, put away his phone and went to the dining room.

Ban Ban came out with a white porcelain bowl. Her eyes brightened when she saw him sit down. “You’re up! I made you breakfast.”

“Auntie Jiang can do that,” he said.

“It’s fine.” She set the bowl before him and sat opposite. “Try it. It’s a Jiang City breakfast.”

The small white bowl held pale golden broth, neatly arranged noodles, greens and goji berries. The scallions in the center looked like a little seal. It smelled delicately of chicken broth, quite different from the rich, heavily sauced breakfasts of the north.

Ting’an lifted a mouthful with his chopsticks. The noodles were springy, the broth fresh and light, tasting simply of chicken, ginger and scallion. He chewed, swallowed and drank some soup before looking up.

Ban Ban sat opposite, chin in both hands, waiting for his verdict.

“Very good. I didn’t know you could cook.”

She couldn’t suppress her smile. She lifted her chin and sat straight, delighted. “Of course! I often cooked for Dad and Sis. They always said it was good.”

Leaning forward on her elbows, she added, “I know lots of noodle dishes: shredded chicken, mushroom, vegetable. I can make crab roe noodles too. They’re a lot of work, but delicious. Shall I make them for you tomorrow?”

He picked up another mouthful without looking up, though the corner of his mouth moved. “You don’t mind the trouble?”

“Not at all. I like cooking.”

He finished the noodles and most of the broth, put down his chopsticks, wiped his mouth and stood. “As long as you’re happy.”

She watched him walk toward the door, sleeves rolled, tall shoulders straight. “Will you come back for dinner?” she called.

He paused by the stairs. “No.”

“Oh.” Her voice grew softer. “All right.”

Ban Ban had been there a month, and Ting’an hadn’t come home for dinner once. She became used to making him noodles in the morning. When she rose early she prepared elaborate broths; when she didn’t, she made simple ones. Sometimes she slept in and didn’t get up in time.

She made crab roe noodles twice, spending nearly two hours picking the roe and paste from several crabs. Ting’an finished them, said they were good and left for work. At night he was still nowhere to be seen.

Ban Ban didn’t ask where he’d gone or press him. She placed a small vase of flowers on the table: sometimes lisianthus, sometimes pink roses, sometimes a handful of daisies from the garden. Ting’an would glance at them in the morning but say nothing.

One evening during that month, Wen Henian came specially to see her. He sat drinking tea in the living room while Ban Ban kept him company and refilled his cup three times.

“Ban Ban, are you settling in?”

“Yes, Dad. Auntie Jiang cooks well, and the house is big.”

“Has Ting’an bullied you?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Wen Henian looked into her clear eyes, then at the flowers throughout the room, and fell silent for a while.

On his way out he went to the kitchen and quietly asked Auntie Jiang how things were. When she told him his son slept in the guest room, his brows knotted.

“That unfilial boy.” He smoked a cigarette in the courtyard, then told Ban Ban before leaving, “You’ve married and come all the way to Dong City on your own. If you’re homesick, go back for a visit whenever you like.”

She saw him to the door and smiled. “Thank you, Dad.”

In the car, Wen Henian sighed. Such a good girl, and his scoundrel of a son didn’t know what he had.

Ban Ban returned to her room and showered. Under the hot water she felt warmth flow from her nose. She looked down to find her palm red. She rinsed it away, but in the mirror another trickle appeared.

She stuffed a tissue into her nostril and sat with her head tipped back for a while. Was it too hot lately?

For several days she noticed traces of blood when washing in the morning and evening. She didn’t pay much attention, assuming it was the change of climate. She didn’t even mention it to Auntie Jiang, afraid of seeming fussy.

Then one morning she turned over sleepily and felt dampness on her face. She opened her eyes to find a dark red patch on her pillow. She touched her nose; her hand came away covered in blood. It was still running, dripping onto the quilt and spreading in little red flowers.

She sat frozen for several seconds. Then fear poured over her like cold water.

What was wrong? Was she ill? What illness? Leukemia?

She imagined a television heroine whose nose had bled before she was diagnosed with leukemia, lost her hair, wasted away and died miserably.

Without stopping for slippers, Ban Ban flung back the covers and ran barefoot down the carpeted corridor to the guest room. She opened the door, rushed to the bed and shook Ting’an’s arm, calling tearfully, “Wen Ting’an, wake up!”

He opened his eyes and saw blood covering the lower half of her face. His pupils contracted. He sat up and seized her shoulders. “What happened?”

She threw herself into his arms, face buried against his chest. “I’m sick. I think it’s something serious,” she sobbed.

His body stiffened. Morning light came through a gap in the curtains; he could see the fine hair at the back of her neck, feel her trembling and notice she wasn’t wearing a bra.

He laid a hand on her back and patted gently, his voice steadier than he’d expected. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’ve had nosebleeds for days. This morning was the worst.” She sniffled. “I’ve never had one before. Do I have leukemia?”

His hand stopped. He closed his eyes. So she was guessing.

He breathed out and patted her back twice more. “It’s all right. The air may be too dry. I’ll take you to the hospital for a checkup.”

She lifted her face, smeared with blood and tears, nose red and eyes swollen. “Is it really just dryness?”

“Let’s find out first.” He released her and got out of bed, his tone allowing no argument. “Go change.”

She nodded and sniffled her way back to her room.

As they left, Auntie Jiang hurried after them. “Aren’t you having breakfast?”

Ting’an was changing shoes. “Ban Ban isn’t feeling well. I’m taking her to the hospital.”

Auntie Jiang looked alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s all right. Just a checkup.”

In the passenger seat, Ban Ban gripped her seat belt with both hands, staring ahead, lips pressed into a line. After two blocks she spoke.

“Wen Ting’an.”

“Yes?”

“I’m still so young.” Her voice was thin and trembling. “We just got married. What if I’m sick? Will my hair fall out?”

He glanced at her. Her round cheek caught the morning light, her lips pale with tension. She was terrified but holding back her tears.

“It’s all right,” he said, looking back at the road. “Don’t frighten yourself.”

She said no more, but her fingers were white on the belt and her sadness was plain.

At the hospital, he took her straight to a VIP consultation room. Blood was drawn and a full set of tests performed. Waiting for the results, Ban Ban curled into a small ball on her chair, clutching her skirt. Ting’an sat beside her and looked over several times. She never changed position, like a rain-soaked sparrow huddled under an eave.

The results came quickly. The doctor entered with the reports. “Mrs. Wen’s results are all within the normal range. She’s healthy. The nosebleeds are typical of dryness. Having lived in the south, she’s adjusting to a northern climate, and the capillaries in her nasal lining can easily break. Drink more water and put a humidifier in the room.”

Ban Ban stared for two seconds. “Really?”

“Really.” The doctor smiled and handed her the report. “You’re perfectly healthy.”

She looked at it again and again. She didn’t understand the numbers, but she recognized the word “normal.” She let out a long breath and went limp with relief, turning to Ting’an.

“I’m all right.” She smiled, her eyes still red.

He nodded and helped her up. “Let’s go.”

They walked side by side toward the entrance. Her spirits lifted, her steps light; she kept turning the report over in her hands, smiling.

At the door a man in a casual suit approached. His eyes brightened when he saw Ting’an. “Mr. Wen?”

Zhou Lin hurried over, looked him up and down, then studied Ban Ban for two seconds: round face, fair skin, traces of tears, looking no older than twenty.

He grinned. “Young Master Wen, bringing a woman to the hospital so early? What, did you get her pregnant?”

The smile vanished from Ban Ban’s face. The words circled in her mind. She looked at Zhou Lin’s carefree face, then at Ting’an. Did he often get women pregnant? How many of the women from his scandals had been to this hospital?

Her chest tightened.

Ting’an frowned. “What nonsense? Get lost.” He reached for Ban Ban’s hand, but she pulled it away and stepped back.

“I can walk by myself,” she said quietly, head lowered.

His hand froze in midair. Looking at her slightly crooked bun and the loose strands by her ear, he felt his brow twitch. “Don’t listen to his nonsense.”

She didn’t answer. She went ahead, opened the passenger door and got in, closing it a little harder than usual.

Through the window, Ting’an saw her sitting with her hands clasped on her knees, motionless. He looked at Zhou Lin coldly.

Zhou Lin hunched his shoulders. “Did I say something wrong?”

Ting’an ignored him and went around to the driver’s seat.

Zhou Lin called after him, “Where did you find her? She’s short enough, and she’s got a temper too.”

Ban Ban heard. She rolled down the window and snapped, “You’re short! Your whole family is short! And on top of that, you’re ugly.” She rolled it up again.

The engine started. The car left the hospital in silence. Ban Ban looked out of the window, the back of her head toward him.

Ting’an glanced at her profile, one hand on the wheel. As her husband, he thought, he should explain.

“Ban Ban.”

She didn’t turn.

“His name is Zhou Lin. He’s my friend.” Still no response. “He talks without thinking and likes to joke. He didn’t mean anything else.”

She finally turned to look at him, then faced the window again. There was little anger in that glance, only an indistinct disappointment.

His fingers tapped the wheel twice, and he fell silent. Plane trees slid past outside; sunlight through the windshield picked out the dust drifting in the car.

Ban Ban murmured something.

He hadn’t heard. “What?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

What she’d said was: And to think I got up early to make you breakfast.