The Fever
1349 Words
Day Two.
I woke up at 3:30 that morning.
Half an hour earlier than yesterday.
Wisdom was coughing again.
That damn window.
The rain had been coming in sideways all night, soaking the corner of the room where his mattress lay.
I pulled him against my chest and rocked him slowly.
His skin was hot.
Too hot.
“Mama, don't go,” he whispered, barely awake.
Something inside me cracked.
“Mama has to go, my baby.”
I kissed his damp hair.
“So we can fix the window. And buy your medicine.”
His little fingers curled into my shirt.
“Will you come back?”
“Always.”
I held him tighter.
Always.
Even when I was exhausted.
Even when I was scared.
Even when I had no idea how I was going to make it through another day.
I left extra money with Mama Dineo for cough syrup.
R40.
Everything I had left.
“Call me only if it's very bad,” I begged her while tying my shoes. “Please, Mama Dineo. Only if it's really bad.”
She looked at Wisdom, then back at me.
“He is coughing badly, Palesa.”
“I know.”
My voice broke.
“I know. But if I don't go, I could lose this job.”
She sighed.
“Go get that R15,000, child.”
I forced myself to leave.
At 4:30 AM, Joseph was waiting beside the black Mercedes.
Same car.
Same back seat.
Same sandalwood.
But I didn't feel comforted by any of it today.
I felt tired.
So tired my bones hurt.
“You look worse than yesterday,” Joseph said through the mirror.
“I didn't sleep.”
“Your boy?”
I looked up.
“How do you know?”
“Mama Dineo's grandson mentioned he was coughing all night.”
Of course.
Sunnyside had a way of knowing everything.
I looked out the window.
“Yes. He's sick.”
Joseph was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “Mr. Stuurman doesn't like people missing work.”
My stomach tightened.
“But…”
He paused.
“He wasn't always like this.”
I looked at him.
Joseph kept his eyes on the road.
“His wife died because they couldn't get her to the hospital in time. Traffic was bad.”
He didn't say anything else.
He didn't have to.
The rest of the drive was silent.
By 5:15, we were on the fifty-eighth floor.
Dark.
Cold.
Empty.
Except Pieter Stuurman was already there.
Of course he was.
Same black shirt.
Same unreadable face.
Same winter.
His eyes landed on me.
“You didn't sleep.”
Not a question.
“No.”
He studied me for a second.
“You smell like Vicks.”
My hand instinctively went to my shirt.
“I—”
Wisdom.
I had rubbed Vicks onto his chest at three in the morning.
I thought the smell had disappeared.
“My neighbour's child is sick.”
His eyes stayed on me.
For a moment, I thought he knew.
Then he held out his mug.
“Coffee.”
I took it.
“Eighty degrees.”
My hands were shaking.
I placed the thermometer into the water and waited.
Pieter watched me.
Not the coffee.
My hands.
“You're shaking.”
“I'm tired.”
He said nothing.
The thermometer beeped.
Eighty degrees.
I handed him the mug.
He took one sip.
“Better.”
I turned to walk away.
“Palesa.”
I stopped.
“You scratch your rose when you're lying.”
My heart dropped.
I pulled my wrist behind my back.
“I'm not lying.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Wisdom?”
I froze.
“What?”
“Is Wisdom sick?”
The mug slipped from my hand.
It hit the floor.
Coffee spread across the white carpet.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Then panic took over.
“Shit.”
I dropped to my knees.
“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll clean it.”
“Palesa.”
I grabbed a cloth.
“Please. I can fix it.”
“Palesa.”
His voice was sharper this time.
I stopped.
He crouched beside me.
Close.
Too close.
I could smell his cologne again.
Sandalwood.
Coffee.
Something warm beneath all that cold.
“Leave it.”
“But—”
“Someone will clean it.”
His hand closed gently around my wrist.
I stopped scratching the rose.
His fingers were warm.
Rough.
He looked at me.
“Is your son sick?”
I couldn't lie anymore.
Not with his hand around my wrist.
“Yes.”
“How sick?”
“It's just a cough.”
I swallowed.
“And a fever.”
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
“What caused it?”
“The window.”
He frowned.
“What window?”
“Our window.”
I looked down.
“It's old. The rain comes in when the weather is bad. His mattress gets wet.”
He released my wrist.
“How old is it?”
“I don't know.”
He stood.
Walked to his desk.
Opened a drawer.
Pulled out his phone.
I watched him make a call.
“Get someone to look at the apartment window.”
I blinked.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“Did I stutter?”
“No.”
He ended the call.
Then he reached for his wallet.
He pulled out five hundred rand.
I stared at the note.
“No.”
He placed it on the desk.
“Medicine.”
“I can't take that.”
“It's an advance.”
“I'll pay you back.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I said it's an advance.”
He pushed the money slightly toward me.
“If you pass your trial, it comes off your salary.”
I stared at the R500.
That money could buy Wisdom's medicine.
Maybe even something for the fever.
My pride told me to leave it.
My son told me otherwise.
I took it.
“Thank you.”
His expression hardened again.
“Don't thank me.”
He picked up his mug.
“Make another coffee.”
I almost smiled.
Almost.
At twelve, Joseph drove me home.
The entire journey, I watched the clock.
I had forty-five minutes.
That was all.
Mama Dineo opened the door before I could knock twice.
“He's sleeping.”
My heart loosened.
“His fever?”
“Went down after the syrup.”
I rushed inside.
Wisdom was curled on the mattress, sweaty but breathing normally.
I knelt beside him.
Kissed his forehead.
“Mama is going to fix that window,” I whispered.
“I promise.”
Then I forced myself to leave.
Again.
At 12:42, I stepped out of the elevator.
Six minutes late.
Pieter was standing there.
Waiting.
My stomach dropped.
He looked at his watch.
Then at Joseph.
“Forty-two minutes.”
Joseph straightened.
“I tried to get back sooner, Mr. Stuurman.”
Pieter's eyes moved to me.
“How is he?”
I blinked.
“Better.”
A pause.
“He's sleeping.”
Pieter nodded.
“Good.”
He turned toward his office.
I exhaled.
Maybe I was safe.
Then he stopped.
Without turning around, he said,
“Palesa.”
“Yes, sir?”
“If the window is the problem…”
He paused.
“Fix it.”
I looked at him.
He finally glanced over his shoulder.
“Rain shouldn't be getting into a child's bed.”
Then he walked into his office.
The door closed.
I stood there holding the R500 in my hand.
My borrowed pants still smelled faintly of Vicks.
And somewhere behind that closed door was the man who didn't know that the little boy he had just worried about was his son.
He didn't know.
Not yet.
But for the first time, Pieter Stuurman had looked at my life and seen something other than an inconvenience.
He had seen my child.
And somehow…
that frightened me more than losing the job ever could.
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