Chà Chà Novel

Tuy Hoa, September 2025.

Phong had just stepped out of the terminal when his phone rang. It was Grandma.

“Have you landed yet, sweetheart?”

He wheeled his suitcase to one side of the doorway and answered.

“I’m here. Have you had breakfast?”

“Yes. Take your time. There’s no rush.”

He heard a chair scrape, then her voice moved a little farther away.

“Leave that for me…”

“What are you doing, Grandma?”

“Nothing. We’ll talk when you get here.”

She hung up first.

Phong looked at the screen for a few seconds, then slipped the phone into his pocket.

Outside, taxi drivers stood waiting for passengers. A little girl ran toward a man holding a bouquet, her rabbit-shaped backpack bouncing behind her. Phong stepped aside to let her pass, then headed toward the taxis.

On previous visits, Grandma would ask what he wanted to eat days before he arrived. On the morning he was due, she would sit at the entrance to the alley and tell everyone who passed that her grandson was coming home.

This time, she had told him to come straight to the hospital.

“Where to?”

“Phu Yen General Hospital.”

The driver opened the trunk.

The wind caught Phong’s shirt as he bent to put his suitcase inside. He held the hem down, suddenly remembering his first arrival here. Back then, his clothes had been stuffed into an old backpack, and Grandma had been waiting at the bus station with a bag of warm sticky rice.

He had been nineteen.

This time, he had booked his flight out without deciding when to return. There was a missed call from his design team leader on his phone.

As the taxi left the airport, Phong opened his work messages, said he had arrived, and promised to get back in touch around noon. Then he scrolled up through his conversation with Grandma.

On Tuesday evening, she had sent him a photo of a pot of braised fish and asked whether he could come home that weekend.

On Wednesday afternoon, Auntie Hoa from next door had called.

“Your grandma’s in the hospital. She told me not to say anything, but I thought you should know.”

Phong had stood in the office hallway for nearly ten minutes, asking when she had been admitted, what the doctor had said, and who was staying with her.

Auntie Hoa assured him that Grandma was alert and feeling better. She was past the emergency now.

It was the “now” that made him restless.

On Thursday morning, he boarded the earliest flight he could get.

His phone lit up again. Auntie Hoa had sent the room number, followed by another message.

“She’s eating again. Try not to worry too much.”

Phong thanked her, then called Grandma.

This time, no one answered.

He rested the phone on his lap and watched the road ahead.

The hospital was already busy.

Phong wheeled his suitcase around the crowd at the information desk and found the elevator to the ward. Outside the room, he stopped to check the number once more.

The door was ajar.

“Have a little more, Grandma. Just a few spoonfuls left.”

Phong recognized the voice before he saw who was speaking.

His hand stayed on the suitcase handle.

Through the gap, Duong sat beside the bed, a bowl of porridge in one hand and a spoon raised in the other. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows. A canvas bag rested beneath his chair. Grandma leaned against her pillow, frowning like a child being coaxed to eat.

“I’m full.”

“Two more spoonfuls, then.”

“You said two spoonfuls a minute ago.”

“Well, it’s a small spoon.”

Grandma gently pushed at his wrist, but she took another mouthful.

Phong knocked.

She looked up first. For a moment, she simply watched him. Then she smiled.

“You’re home.”

Duong turned.

In the six years since their breakup, they had crossed paths. Once at the entrance to the alley, once at a mutual acquaintance’s wedding. Another time, Phong had walked into Grandma’s house just as Duong was getting up to leave.

They still said hello. Still exchanged a quiet question or two.

They had just never had to stay in the same room together for this long.

“Yeah. I’m back.”

Phong wasn’t sure whether he was answering Grandma or the man who had just stood up.

Duong set the bowl on the bedside cabinet.

“Tired from the trip?”

“No.”

Phong left his suitcase against the wall and went to Grandma.

She had lost weight. The wrist showing beneath her hospital sleeve was smaller than he remembered. During their video call last month, she had been sitting at her usual spot by the table, leaning into the screen for a moment before turning away again.

He hadn’t noticed.

“Are you still feeling tired?”

“Better now.”

“Then why did you tell me yesterday you’d only come in for a checkup?”

“I did. Then they told me to stay.”

Phong looked at her.

Grandma avoided his eyes and tugged at the blanket over her legs.

Duong brought the chair closer to the bed.

“Sit down. The doctor will be making rounds soon. We can ask about anything else then.”

Phong sat. Duong picked up his bag and checked inside before speaking again.

“Her records are in the cabinet. Auntie Hoa wrote down what the doctor said in a little notebook. I’ve added a few things.”

“Okay.”

“She’s eaten most of the bowl this morning. Check with the nurse if there’s anything else you need to know. And don’t let her cut back on her medicine herself.”

“I can hear you,” Grandma said.

“I know. That was for you too.”

Duong smiled at her.

Phong looked down at his hands. He used to know this way of speaking so well, half coaxing, half teasing. Now he was sitting right beside Duong and couldn’t find a way into the conversation.

“No classes today?” he asked.

“Two lessons late this morning. I came by early.”

Duong checked the time on his phone.

“I should go. I’ll come back after work.”

Phong nodded.

Duong took a set of keys from his pocket and placed them on the cabinet.

“Grandma’s keys. I borrowed them to pick up some things last night. I washed a few sets of clothes too. They’re hanging out on the porch.”

The little plastic fish on the key ring had almost lost its color. Phong had once offered to buy Grandma a new one. She had said this one still worked perfectly well.

“Thanks.”

Duong looked at him, then gave a small nod.

“I’m off, Grandma.”

“All right. Remember to eat breakfast.”

“I have.”

“What did you eat?”

“A banh mi.”

She let it go.

Duong slung the bag over his shoulder and headed for the door. Phong stood and moved his suitcase farther aside to clear the way. Duong held the door for someone passing in the hallway before stepping out.

It closed softly behind him.

Phong remained beside his suitcase.

“He didn’t get any porridge for himself,” Grandma said. “Just bought mine and sat there making sure I ate.”

He turned back.

“Do you want some more?”

She shook her head.

“Let me rest a little.”

Phong helped her lie down, fumbling with the pillow. Grandma reached up and pulled it lower.

“There. That’s better.”

“Tell me if anything feels uncomfortable.”

“All right.”

He drew the chair close to the bed and sat down.

After a while, Grandma touched his hand.

“How many days could you take off?”

“I’ve sorted it out.”

“Don’t neglect your work.”

“I’m not.”

Phong paused.

“Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

She looked toward the door.

“When I first came in, I thought they’d let me go home the next day. Then you called, and you were still at the office.”

“I could have come.”

“I know.”

Her voice was quiet. Her hand stayed over his.

Phong wanted to say more, but her eyes were tired. He pulled the blanket up over her stomach instead.

“Get some sleep, Grandma. I’m here.”

Near noon, Phong spoke with the doctor, asked about Grandma’s condition, and noted on his phone what he needed to watch for.

The notebook Auntie Hoa had mentioned was in the cabinet. Her writing filled the first few pages, rounded and slanting. Farther in, Duong’s handwriting was smaller, the lines close together. Mealtimes. Rest. Questions to ask when the doctor came.

Beside a note about Grandma’s poor appetite, someone had added:

“Doesn’t like minced pork porridge. Ask for something else.”

Phong closed the notebook.

He called Grandma several times a week, sent money regularly, and came home every year. Just last Tet, she had seen him off at the entrance to the alley, insisting he take more rice crackers even though his suitcase was full.

He had never thought he knew everything about her life. He just hadn’t realized how much he didn’t know.

Duong’s name came up in the stories she told. Sometimes he had fixed a light. Sometimes he had taken her to an appointment. Other times, he had simply stopped by with something from his family.

Phong would ask whether she had eaten, whether she needed anything else.

When it came to Duong, he listened and left it there.

That afternoon, Auntie Hoa arrived with food. She put the bag on the table, looked at Phong, and sighed.

“It’s good you could come. Your grandma’s always afraid of being a bother.”

“You should have told me sooner.”

“I did tell you. Got an earful from her this morning for it too.”

Grandma lay with her eyes closed, but the corner of her mouth moved.

Auntie Hoa pulled up a chair.

“Go home, wash up, and get your things. I’ll stay until this evening. Have a proper meal before you come back.”

Phong checked the time.

“Okay. I won’t be long.”

Before leaving, he leaned down to tell Grandma. She opened her eyes and said there was a thin blanket in the cupboard in his room. He should bring it so he wouldn’t be cold at night.

“No need to buy a new one. I’ve washed it already.”

“I’ll get it.”

The house at the end of the alley looked much as it had when Phong came home at the beginning of the year.

The pots by the door had been raised a little higher. Grandma’s usual chair stood against the wall, a light jacket draped over its back.

Phong unlocked the door and went inside.

On the table were a basket of guavas and a note in Auntie Hoa’s handwriting with the water delivery number. Out on the back porch, Grandma’s clothes hung on the line, water still clinging to the hems.

He put his suitcase down and opened the windows.

Wind moved through the quiet house, knocking one of the shutters gently against the wall. Phong reached out to catch it.

Back when Grandma sold sticky rice, she would have packed up her stall by this time and be sorting beans for the next morning. Whenever he came home, she still asked whether he wanted corn sticky rice. Some days, even when there were only the two of them, she made enough to sell.

Phong went into his room to find the blanket.

Beneath a stack of folded shirts in the cupboard was a cloth bag of old belongings. He pulled it out to look for a pillowcase, and his hand brushed a hard edge.

His sketchbook was inside.

He had left it here when he moved away from Tuy Hoa for work. On later visits, he had opened the cupboard for clothes, put away gifts for Grandma, then shut it again.

This time, he carried the sketchbook to the desk.

The cover had faded along the spine. The edges of the pages rippled, still bearing the marks of the time they had got wet. He turned a few pages and stopped at a drawing of a house with a corrugated metal roof.

Beneath the porch was a charcoal stove. Beside it sat a boy holding chopsticks, his face turned to one side. The corner of his mouth had been erased and redrawn so often that the paper there was a little thinner.

Phong rested his hand on the edge of the page.

That morning, Duong had sat at the same angle beside Grandma’s bed.

Only when he turned to look at Phong, he hadn’t smiled.

His phone vibrated.

“I’ll be at the hospital around six. Do you need anything picked up from the house?”

Phong read the message, his finger resting on the screen.

“No. I’m home getting a blanket. I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay. Be careful on the way.”

He put the phone down.

The two little stones were still in the pen box on his desk. He took one out and placed it on the corner of the sketchbook. It felt smooth and cool beneath his fingertips.

Nearly nine years ago, he had used those stones to hold down a wet page.

That day, he had ridden out of the house thinking he would only be gone a little while.

It had rained often in Tuy Hoa that October.