Chapter 4 — Makeup Artist for the Final Journey

Three weeks after Mr. Kiều Thị Nhẫn's case, Vĩnh An received another case that also did not have a full service contract, although this time the reason was completely different: a middle-aged man died in the hospital, the whereabouts of his relatives were unknown in the first two days because his identification papers were lost when admitted to the emergency room. On the third day, a daughter from another province found out where her father was being kept and rushed to Vĩnh An looking like someone who had cried all the way.

An Nhiên did not directly participate in that case - Mr. Nghi took over - but that evening, when eating with Nguyên Khang at a familiar restaurant near the funeral home, the story returned to something they had told each other many times in different ways: there were deaths that cause the living to search for each other in panic, and there were deaths where the living were already present, just waiting for the final moment to strike.

"Mr. Nhan makes me think a lot," Nguyên Khang said, picking up the unfinished piece of braised fish with his chopsticks. "You raised so many children, gave them a home, but when I left, there was almost no one around. It sounds a bit unfair."

"But in the end, someone still made it home in time." An Nhiên replied, looking down at the rice bowl. "I think it's not about fairness or injustice, but... another way to understand how people miss each other. Love doesn't always come when you need it the most, but it still comes, in its own way." Nguyên Khang looked at her for a moment, didn't say anything more, just nodded slightly, the nod of someone who understood that what he just heard was not just about Mr. Nhan.

*

The following Monday morning, a call came to Vĩnh An at five o'clock in the morning, much earlier than usual. An Nhiên heard the company's phone ringing loudly from the on-call room, quickly dressed and ran down, meeting Mr. Nghi standing there answering the phone, his face flashed with something unusual - not confusion, but a quick mental preparation that only a veteran worker can have when realizing that the upcoming shift will be more difficult than usual.

He hung up the phone, turned to An Nhiên, his voice lowered. "A little girl, seven years old. Died at the provincial hospital at four in the morning, after two years of treatment for leukemia. The family is on the way to take her home, arriving around seven o'clock."

An Nhiên stood still for a second, feeling the familiar coldness creeping through her chest — not fear, but a somewhat painful form of alertness that she always needed to prepare for every time she heard news about a child case. In five years of working, this wasn't the first time she took on a case like that, but never once did she find herself "familiar" with it in the way people think people who have been working for a long time will get used to it.

"I'll prepare the room," Mr. Nghi said, placing his hand on her shoulder briefly, without needing any other words of comfort. "I will work with you on this song." An Nhiên nodded, went into the preparation room, and began rearranging the tools in a different order than for adult cases - a smaller brush set, lighter and clearer tones for children's already delicate skin, a box of special smooth powder she ordered from a reputable supplier, only for rare cases like this. Children's skin, especially those who have undergone chemotherapy for a long time, is often so thin that it is almost transparent in some areas, capillaries are clearly visible, and any excessive movements can leave irreparable marks.

At 7:15, the ambulance carrying Đỗ Khánh Băng's body arrived at Vĩnh An. The baby's parents, Mr. Đỗ Anh Kiên and Ms. Trương Mỹ Hạnh, followed in a taxi, both of them so exhausted that they could barely stand. Ms. Hanh was helped into the waiting room by a relative. She could not walk on her own. Her crying had become hoarse from an unknown time. Mr. Kien stood silently in the hallway, his eyes were red but dry, the dryness of a person who had cried dryly for two long years watching his child struggle with illness, until now only a silent emptiness remained.

An Nhiên and Mr. Nghi took baby Bang's body into the preparation room. The little girl was petite, her face had become much thinner after the treatments, and her thin hair remaining after many chemotherapy sessions was carefully pushed aside by the hospital nurses before her family took her home. An Nhiên stood looking at the girl for a long time before starting anything, like she did with every shift, but this time the silence lasted longer than usual.

"Can you do it?" Mr. Nghi asked in a light voice, not doubting her skills but a sincere question, for a young colleague who was facing one of the most difficult cases in the profession.

"I can do it, teacher." An Nhiên replied, her voice was stronger than she expected. "I just need you to be here with me."

They began their work in silence. Mr. Nghi is in charge of adjusting the posture, while An Nhiên focuses on the face. She mixed an extremely light, almost clear foundation tone, just enough to even out the skin tone without covering up the already delicate natural lines. She remembered, while at work, a detail from many years ago, when she was a child, she stood next to her mother in a makeup shop, watching her apply makeup to a five-year-old girl who was a bridesmaid at an acquaintance's wedding - her mother had told her, her voice gentle but decisive: "A child's skin is very thin, just touch lightly, let nature come first, I'm just helping it become a little clearer, not doing anything different."

That sentence, more than ten years later, still guides An Nhiên's every move that morning.

*

Near noon, Ms. Trương Mỹ Hạnh, after being taken care of by her family and drinking some water, asked to go into her room to get ready for a while, even though Mr. Nghi gently advised her to wait until the work was completed. She said, her voice broken but determined: "Let me stay a little closer to you, please. For the past two years, you have always had to suffer alone in the hospital room. I don't want to leave you alone again." An Nhiên looked at Mr. Nghi, he nodded slightly. Ms. Hanh was brought in, stood a few steps away from the operating table, did not come close, just stood looking, clutching a small cloth bag in her hand.

"This is my favorite dress," she said, her voice choked, giving the cloth bag to An Nhiên. "It's yellow and has a rabbit image on the front. I often wanted to wear it to kindergarten. Later when I got sick, it didn't fit me anymore because I was getting thinner, but I still kept it and occasionally took it out to look at it."

An Nhiên received the bag with both hands, opened it slightly, and saw a small yellow dress, the neckline embroidered with a jumping white rabbit. "I will dress the baby in this outfit, don't worry."

"And..." Ms. Hanh hesitated, pulled out a small teddy bear from her pocket, the fur was frayed from being hugged too many times. "This bear I slept with for two years in the hospital. Can I hold you with me?"

"Okay sister. I will put it in the baby's arms and let the baby hug it like always." An Nhiên replied, her voice trying to remain calm, even though in her heart, something was tightening - not simple sadness, but a sympathy so deep that it was almost physically painful, when she saw the image of a mother trying in every smallest way so that her child would not have to leave in the absence of anything familiar.

Ms. Hanh stood a moment longer, watching An Nhiên skillfully smooth each of baby Bang's thin strands of hair, and install a small butterfly-shaped bow clip - the item she brought along with the dress - in her child's hair. Then she turned away, without saying anything more, walked out of the room, her shoulders shaking.

The door closed, the room prepared to return to its familiar silence. Mr. Nghi stood silently for a moment at the tool table, folding up a few used brushes, then spoke, his voice slow as if he was talking more to himself than to An Nhiên.

"Thirty years ago, the first case I did alone was a ten-year-old boy who drowned. That night I went home and sat in front of the door until morning, unable to sleep." He looked down at his hands. His fingers were old, the skin was a bit loose, and there were still a few old calluses where he had been in contact with professional tools for decades. "Many people ask me if I've been doing this job for so long, I must be used to it. I always answer no. For adults, I can still think of them as having lived a whole life, whether short or long. For children, it's different, there's no way to comfort myself with that argument. I think if one day I get used to this, then on that day I should quit my job, because at that time my hands will be working but my heart is no longer there." An Nhiên nodded, her hand still adjusting the last fold on the yellow skirt. "I think so too. But there are times when I wonder if I keep carrying all these cases with me, will one day I won't be able to stand it."

"Have," Mr. Nghi answered directly, without beating around the bush. "So I'm not alone. That's why you shouldn't do this job alone, even one person is skilled enough to do all the steps. Today, the teacher is here, not because I lack the skills, but because there are cases, I need someone to stand next to me to share, even if no one says it out loud." An Nhiên didn't answer right away, just continued to perfect the final details - placing the furry teddy bear in little Bang's arms, in the position of a sleeping child, tucking a small strand of sideburns behind her ear. When everything was finished, she stood back, took one last look, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to think about the question that had followed her all morning: if that day, thirteen years ago, someone had done for her mother what she had just done for baby Bang, would her father, and herself, have been any better. She couldn't find an answer, so she just gently closed the lid of the toolbox, and walked out to tell her family that she could visit.