Chapter 16 — The Chorus of Those Out of Rhythm

Three weeks before the final, the training intensity gradually increased again, although this time Ba Nguyet learned to listen to her body and the other members' bodies more, no longer pushing everyone to the limit like before. But despite being more careful, the stress of a major competition was still unavoidable, and it began to show worrying signs in the group's leader.

Wednesday night's practice session, in the middle of guiding the group to practice the climax of the optional performance, Ms. Nguyet suddenly stopped, her command wand hanging in the air, her eyes looking down at the floor with a bewildered expression. This time, it wasn't just a momentary forgetting of the lyrics like before, but a complete blank — she couldn't remember where she was, or what she was doing, for nearly ten seconds.

"Miss Nguyet?" Mr. Kha stood up immediately, his voice filled with worry, and walked quickly to her side.

Ms. Nguyet blinked, gradually regaining consciousness, but her face was pale, sweat beaded on her forehead even though the hall was not hot. "I... I'm sorry," she stammered. "I don't know where I was just now."

Thu An, who was sitting in the last row watching the practice session with a notebook recording the order of the music she had memorized, immediately ran up to help her mother. "Are you okay, Mom? Do you want to sit down and rest for a bit?"

"Mom, it's okay," Mrs. Nguyet tried to smile, but that smile couldn't hide the panic remaining in her eyes. "Just tired, probably from working out too much."

But Thu An did not believe that assurance. Right after the workout, she called doctor Lam Gia Phuc, describing the symptoms that had just occurred, and the doctor's voice on the other end of the line became much more serious.

"It may be a form of temporary 'freezing' associated with Parkinson's disease, combined with excessive psychological stress," the doctor explains. "I advise you to bring your mother in for a check-up as soon as possible, and more importantly, find ways to reduce her mental pressure during this time."

The next morning, Thu An took her mother to the hospital, and after a series of tests, Dr. Phuc confirmed that Ba Nguyet's condition had shown signs of progressing faster than expected, partly due to prolonged stress from competition pressure and worries about the cultural house.

"I can't stop you from participating in the contest, because I know it's important to you," Dr. Phuc said, his voice both stern and sympathetic. "But I must warn you, if you don't control your stress, 'freezing' like just now may happen more often, even on stage, in the middle of your performance."

Ms. Nguyet sat still, her hands clasped together. "So what should I do, doctor?"

“First of all, you need a backup plan,” Dr. Phuc said. "Someone needs to be ready to replace your command role at any time, if a bad situation occurs. Second, you need to learn to let go of some responsibility, so that you don't have to shoulder all the pressure alone."

Before leaving the clinic, Dr. Phuc also advised about the rest regimen, the need to alternate periods of complete relaxation between exercise sessions, and the importance of not letting yourself fall into a state of prolonged anxiety. He also suggested that Ms. Nguyet should consider increasing her medication dosage during this peak period, even though that may come with some mild side effects such as drowsiness or transient dizziness.

"I understand you don't want to rely too much on medication," the doctor said, seeing the hesitation on Ms. Nguyet's face, "but during an important period like this, good symptom control is also the best way for you to fulfill your wishes to the fullest."

Ms. Nguyet nodded, received a new prescription, and left the hospital with her daughter in a complicated mood — both relieved that there was a solution, and heavy because she had to face the reality that her illness was progressing faster than she had ever hoped.

On the way home, the taxi rolled through familiar streets, Ms. Nguyet sat quietly, her eyes looking out the window with heavy contemplation. "I'm scared, Thu An," she said at last, her voice trembling not necessarily because of illness. "I'm afraid if that happens on a real stage, in front of hundreds of spectators, in front of the judges, I'll disappoint everyone. For the twenty years I've been leading this choir, I don't want it to end with such an embarrassing moment."

"I won't disappoint anyone," Thu An said, holding her mother's hand tightly. "And you don't have to carry it alone anymore, remember? I've already memorized the entire order of the music. If anything happens, I'll be standing next to you, ready to remind you, or even take over if needed."

"I'm not a professional musician," Mrs. Nguyet protested weakly, even though in her heart she felt the extraordinary steadfastness in her daughter's promise, a steadfastness that she had never dared to expect during the years mother and daughter were apart.

"You don't need to be a professional musician to love your mother and want to help her accomplish what she cherishes most," Thu An replied, her voice steady. "We'll practice together, I'll teach you what you need to know, so that if the worst situation happens, I won't have to face it alone, like I've had to face so many things alone over the years."

Mrs. Nguyet looked at her daughter, her tears falling silently, not because of fear anymore, but because of a feeling of protection that she had never felt so completely in her entire life - the feeling that, no matter how much her body betrayed her, she would not have to continue on the road ahead alone.

That evening, when the story was told to the group, no one appeared panicked or discouraged. Instead, everyone discussed together and built a detailed backup plan — Mr. Kha would be ready to prompt music from the piano if Ms. Nguyet had difficulty, Thu An would stand in a position to clearly observe and intervene when needed, and the whole group also agreed to practice more carefully so that everyone could confidently sing even without direct guidance for a few seconds.

“We are a team,” Mrs. Yen said, her voice as firm as an oath. "None of us have to face anything alone, be it illness, age, or any other difficulty. That's why we're here, together, for the past twenty years."

Those words, simple but powerful, made the whole hall silent for an emotional moment, before applause rang out, closing the evening full of anxiety but also filled with solidarity with a firmer belief than ever in the power of the collective.

After practice, when everyone had left, Mr. Kha lingered, sitting down at the piano, his fingers lightly gliding on the keys, playing a slow melody, not belonging to any song in the performance, just a piece of music he improvised to calm himself after an anxious evening.

Ms. Nguyet walked over, sat down on the chair next to the piano, and listened quietly. "What music is that?" she asked softly, as the melody gradually subsided.

"No name," Mr. Kha replied, smiling slightly. "I often play random passages like this when I need to calm down. Today, when I heard that something happened to you in the afternoon, I was very worried."

"I'm fine," Mrs. Nguyet said, even though they both knew it wasn't entirely true. "It's just that things are becoming more difficult than I thought."

"You don't have to be fine all the time," Mr. Kha said, stopping his playing and turning to look at her. "You've shouldered too much on your own for the past twenty years. This time, let us — let me — share with you, even if it's just a small part."

Mrs. Nguyet looked at him, her eyes carried many mixed emotions that she was not ready to name, but she did not retreat like before, just nodded slightly, letting the warm silence between the two last a while longer in the empty hall, under the fluorescent light that still fell as steadily as it had during the nearly twenty years they had been together.

When Thu An returned to the hall to find her mother, accidentally catching that moment from outside the door, she quietly stood still, not wanting to break the rare gentle atmosphere between the two. She smiled to herself, then quietly backed out and waited a few more minutes before entering, pretending not to see anything, just to give her mother a moment of privacy that she deserved, after all those years of always putting others before herself.