Chapter 10 — The Chorus of Those Out of Rhythm

Three weeks since Thu An started the logistics work, her life rhythm has completely integrated into the rhythm of the choir. She knows each member's name by heart, clearly remembering who has knee pain, who needs to take breaks because of high blood pressure, who likes to drink hot tea, and who can only drink filtered water because of diabetes. She created a simple health monitoring chart, posted it on the hall wall, noting things to keep in mind for each training session, an initiative that touched Mrs. Chin Thoa so much that she hugged Thu An right in the middle of the training session.

"You're as thoughtful as your mother was," Mrs. Chin Thoa said, her eyes welling up with tears. "The only difference is that you care about our health, while my mother used to only care about music."

That sentence, even though it was not sarcastic, still made Thu An pause a bit, but this time, instead of feeling hurt like before, she just smiled and responded gently. "Maybe it's because I see more clearly the cost that not taking care of yourself can cause, aunt."

Before the rehearsal, Ha Uyen also stopped by, bringing with her a sample performance outfit that she had personally designed - a traditional turquoise ao dai for all members, a choice that both enhances the beauty of the elderly and reminds of the image of the ancient streets that the theme song wants to portray. Mrs. Ca Yen, who used to be a tailor before retiring, looked at the sketch, nodded in approval, then volunteered to take on the task of finding a tailoring place suitable for the limited budget that Thu An had calculated.

"Let me take care of this," Mrs. Yen said, her eyes shining with rare enthusiasm. "In the past, she made ao dai for the whole neighborhood, but now she can sew it for her own teammates to wear on stage. What could be more fun?"

The bustling atmosphere of preparation made the whole hall seem energized, everyone discussed excitedly about colors, designs, and who would stand in which position to show off their best physique. But that joy quickly gave way to tension when Ms. Nguyet lightly tapped her conducting wand on the music stand, signaling the official start of the rehearsal.

She decided to let the whole group test out the entire two performances continuously for the first time, to evaluate the overall performance before entering the detailed fine-tuning phase. The atmosphere in the hall was more tense than usual — this was the first time everyone really felt the pressure of a real performance, even if it was just an internal rehearsal.

The first performance, "Urban Memories", went quite smoothly, the group's voices blended together so touchingly, that when the song ended, several people in the hall were silent for a few seconds before bursting into spontaneous applause. But by the second solo number — a faster song that requires intricate coordination between the parts — things start to get messy.

Midway through the song, Ms. Nguyet suddenly stopped using her commanding wand, stood still on the podium, her eyes dimmed for a brief moment but enough for the group to realize something was wrong. The singing gradually became chaotic and then stopped completely when everyone realized that their leader was no longer leading.

"Miss Nguyet?" Mr. Kha stood up from the piano bench, his voice filled with worry.

Ms. Nguyet stood there, still holding the conducting chopsticks but not moving, her eyes looking down at the music in front of her as if trying to remember something that had just disappeared from her mind. “Sorry,” she said finally, her voice shaking more from panic than from illness. "I... I forgot what the next part was."

The whole hall was silent. This is a song that Mrs. Nguyet has taught and conducted countless times over the years, a song that she knows by heart so much that she can sing it in her sleep. The fact that she suddenly forgot the next paragraph, even for just a few seconds, made the vague fear her doctor had warned about — about the possibility of memory loss that comes with Parkinson's disease — become something more present, scarier than any hand tremor.

Mr. Kha quickly walked to her side and gently placed his hand on her shoulder. "It's okay, sister," he said softly, loud enough for only her to hear. "The next part is 'Old town with mossy tiled roofs', I still remember. Just breathe evenly, we'll start again from that part."

Mrs. Nguyet looked at him, her eyes shining with both gratitude and shame, then she nodded, took a deep breath, and raised her command wand again. The rehearsal continued, but the atmosphere had changed — everyone sang more carefully, more reservedly, their eyes occasionally glancing at their conductor with an unconcealed worry.

Ms. Chin Thoa, standing in the second row, gently held the hand of Mr. Tam Loc standing next to her, the two exchanged a confiding look. They had been with Mrs. Nguyet for twenty years, had witnessed her from an enthusiastic young woman to an elderly woman who still stubbornly led the group, and now, witnessing that rare moment of her weakness, none of them felt disappointed, only a deep sympathy and determination to try harder to not disappoint the person who had led them for so long.

The rehearsal ended with the performance completely completed, although there were still many areas that needed editing. Everyone left in a mixed state of worry and determination, but no one talked back, no one mentioned giving up, as if the fragile moment they had just witnessed only made them more connected to each other, more determined to complete the road ahead together.

After practice, when everyone had left, Thu An stayed with her mother, both sitting quietly on plastic chairs in the empty hall.

"You see," Mrs. Nguyet said, her voice tired. "This is what I'm most afraid of. It's not that my hands are shaking, it's that I'm forgetting. If this happened on a real stage, in front of hundreds of spectators and judges..."

"Mom, you're not alone. Did you hear what Mr. Kha said?" Thu An interrupted, her voice determined. "He remembers all the songs, enough to remind me at any time. And now I have you too."

"I don't know how to command," Mrs. Nguyet said, shaking her head slightly.

"I don't need to know the commander," Thu An replied. "But I can memorize the order of the music and learn how to signal and remind you if needed. You don't have to shoulder it all alone anymore, mother Nguyet."

That was the first time in many years that Thu An called her mother with that intimate title — not the dry "mother" as usual, but "mother Nguyet", a calling that mixed between intimacy and a new respect that she had never shown before. Mrs. Nguyet heard it, her eyes turned red, and in that moment, she reached out and hugged her daughter, an awkward hug, awkward because it had been so long, but filled with the feelings that they had both suppressed for fifteen years.

"Thank you," Mrs. Nguyet whispered in her daughter's ear, her voice choking and unable to hide it. "Thank you for coming back, for staying, even though I know I don't deserve it."

Mother and daughter sat hugging each other in the empty hall, the fluorescent lights still fell steadily, and outside, night had fallen on the city, bringing with them worries about an uncertain future, but also a new ray of hope that, although the road ahead was still full of challenges, they would not have to walk alone anymore.

On the way home, Thu An drove slowly through the well-lit streets, her mother sat behind her, her head resting lightly on her back like a tired child after a long day. Thu An thought about the moment her mother stood frozen on the command podium, about the fear that flashed in her eyes, and she realized something she had never thought of before: that the mother she had always considered strong, proud, sometimes cold, turned out to be just an ordinary person, facing the fear of losing herself every day.

Returning home, Thu An helped her mother into the bedroom, carefully pulled the blanket over her, then sat beside the bed for a while, watching her mother slowly fall asleep. She took out her phone, opened the notes app, and began typing out a new list — not the usual list of logistics or legal documents, but a list of all the songs in the show, along with the order of each verse and each verse, which she planned to memorize in the coming days, so that if there was ever a moment when her mother needed a support, she would be there, standing next to the podium, whispering back what she needed, just like a mother would. You should do it, it's late but it's never too late to start over.