I’ll never forget the day my mother called Mrs Harris from her new cell phone. I was in my room with the door ajar, straining to hear every word.
When my mother hung up, she did not enter and start scolding. So I walked into her room to find out how much trouble I was in.
And I saw her sitting on the bed, head in her hands.
When I sat next to her, she lifted my hand and kissed it. Tears were streaming from her face, and she wouldn’t tell me why.
***
Nothing’s the same without Mrs Harris. I miss our chats in the corridor, but Luke sits with me in the mornings now. Every day he brings me red apples that are the crunchiest and sweetest I’ve ever tasted.
One day he hands me an apple with a note taped to the bottom:
Will you go to the matric ball with me?
At least there’s one thing I didn’t lie to my mother about. I sort of do have a boyfriend now, although he hates it when I call him rich.
Just before our final exam season starts, there are whispers about why Mrs Harris is leaving. Some kids say she had an affair with one of our teachers, while others are convinced she received a better job elsewhere.
Luke is the one who finally tells me the truth. Much like mine, his mother is good friends with Mrs Harris.
“She’s dying, Khanya,” he confesses. “Stage four cancer.”
***
After school, Luke drives me to the giftshop where I buy a card and a teddy for the woman who changed my life and is now losing hers. I break down when I see a get-well-soon card. Now I know the reason my mother was crying after that phone call.
“Take it anyway,” Luke insists, removing the card from the shelf. There are pop-out flowers on the cover. Lots of glitter and sequins. “Write a special prayer inside or something. Miracles happen.”
He drives me to Mrs Harris’s home; says he’ll wait outside until I’m done.
***
It’s my headmistress’s husband who opens the door. He’s young and good-looking and the stress on his face clearly shows that he’s not ready to lose his wife.
“You can go right through,” he says with a strained smile. “She’s in the first room on the left.”
Clutching the bear under my arm, I walk through the darkened hallway. I find her reclining on a couch in a room filled with flowers. The sunlight pours in through the open windows, the gentle breeze playing through wispy white curtains.
Mrs Harris pats the seat beside her, too tired to get up, but never too tired to smile.
“Ma’am, I heard and wanted to come,” I tell her, setting the teddy on the coffee table beside a stack of cards labelled with my classmates’ names.
“I’ve been given more time than most people,” Mrs Harris says. Her voice sounds thick and distorted. Is that the cancer or the grief, I wonder.
Mrs Harris’s husband brings out warm tea with honey. We drink it facing the garden.
“Ma’am,” I say. “I’m so sorry this has happened to you.”
She won’t tolerate talk of her sickness. Instead, she wants to hear my feelings on the upcoming exams. Like all my classmates, I’m scared, but I don’t have the right to tell her this when she’s standing at death’s door.
When her husband brings her medication, I get up to leave. Then I realise the card is still wrapped in cellophane. I unwrap it to write a message for Mrs Harris.
I take the golden pen off from around my neck — it’s the only one I have with me — then I start filling the card with my neatest, cursive handwriting.
My hand hovers, wondering whether I should write the next words. I pause, look up at Mrs Harris who is eyeing me curiously. She wears a serene smile, like she’s made peace with the whole world and everyone in it.
I stare at the pen, recalling all the trouble it’s caused over the last few weeks. Although my mother hasn’t brought it up again, I can see the way she looks at me now. She thinks I have a rich boyfriend, but the truth is much worse. And it’s the pen’s fault.
Impulsively, I write the words: I wish you had more time.
Mrs Harris takes the card from me. She smiles and squeezes my hand while she reads it.
“Want to know a secret?” She leans closer and whispers, “Sometimes I feel like I’ve already had too much time. Asking for more would be selfish.”
She gestures to my pen with her teacup.
“That’s a very unusual pen,” she says. “So pretty.”
I hold it up, take a good long look at it. I don’t want to steal groceries again or copy Luke’s answers in the final exam. To remove that temptation, I hand the pen to Mrs Harris.
“You should have it,” I insist. “Make a wish list with it. Write down all the things you still need to do or want to do.”
The magic pen has become a curse in my life. Because of it, I lost the respect of the person I love most in the world — my mother. Mrs Harris may have better luck than me.
And even if it doesn’t work … she’s already dying. It’s not like things can get any worse.
Tell us: Do you think Khanya should have told the headmistress how the pen really works?