Jaz drank half of her juice. Then she quietly clicked the lid of her pills bottle closed, dropping it into her bag. She stuffed the bag in its nook between her hip and the door. When she checked that no one had seen, it was then that she let her eyes slip to the mirror.
This time he wasn’t looking at her, and the tension that she'd felt when she'd prepared herself to snap her eyes away, faded. She watched him without his knowledge. It was a good minute before she’d even realized she’d been staring and when she finally peeled her eyes away, she noticed she had difficulty moving them. They felt sluggish as if she’d just woken up. It was a strange feeling. She stretched her lids wide as she forced her eyes open. Her lids still felt heavy. Stupid iron pills, she thought irritably. She hated taking them.
No, she hated the fact she had to take them, she corrected herself.
She was a young woman, fit, healthy, ate well, drank plenty of water, exercised, and yet she couldn’t do anything about her severe iron deficiency anaemia. She’d had it since she was a small child. I was diagnosed when I was five, she remembered. Ever since then she’d had to take two iron tablets daily, and had to go to the hospital to have one injection per week for five weeks at a time. Then she'd have a break, somewhere up to a year, maybe more if the pills and her diet were working. Usually not. The doctors didn't know why.
It was hell.
The fact that she had to rely on them to survive the day really pissed her off. She hated relying on anyone or anything. Her own body should work and be able to absorb the iron itself. It should, but it didn’t. And no doctor could explain why.
There was no cure, just a lifelong treatment of popping pills and injections.
Some days she felt so weak she had to lie in bed. Her anaemia wasn’t the norm, but it was the closest explanation anyone could find for her symptoms.
She needed the pills; even more, she needed her strong dosage of shots. Without any of them, she’d die.
She wasn’t sure if it was because she was ashamed of it, but she just didn’t want anyone knowing. The only people who knew about it were her parents. If she’d had any choice, they wouldn’t know about it either. She wasn’t about to tell her aunt or uncle.
Yet even with these pills she still felt tired. Goddammit. “Do you mind if I roll down the window?” she asked, loud enough for all to respond.
“Not at all,” her uncle replied.
Her aunt spoke over him. “Are you too warm?”
“No, um, just want some fresh air.”
“Sure, open it.”
This time she didn’t see the exchange of glances between her aunt and Driver through the mirror.
She pressed the button, the window rolled down an inch and the fresh air attacked her face. It was exhilarating and helped her tiredness ease a little. “Let me know when it gets cold,” she called over the loud whistling of air as the car sped down the motorway.
“Sure,” her aunt mumbled.
*
2:04 p.m.
On the M6
An hour had passed before she started to feel it.
Her stomach became sensitive. Any strong bump in the road made it groan in discomfort. It contorted from within as if she’d swallowed a buzzing beehive. She coped with it for another ten minutes before it started to writhe and she could feel the acid gurgling just below her oesophagus.
She didn’t want to throw up in this car. It was a nice car. And she’d probably die of embarrassment if she barfed right there and then. She didn’t want to ask them to pull over so she kept quiet.
Then her head started to feel strange, like it was clouded in thick black fog and she couldn’t concentrate or think of anything coherent.
She stared sluggishly out the window with one hand across her tummy as she tried to soothe the fire beneath the thick layers of flesh and stomach lining. Even as her hand rested on her turquoise-green t-shirt she could still feel the scorching heat of her belly. It made her sweat. The salty water trickled down her spine and pooled in the pits of her arms. Her breathing became shallower and heavier as the minutes passed. The cool wind wasn’t helping anymore.
She wriggled out of her leather jacket and removed her two black and gold rings from her slippery fingers, stuffing them into her jacket pocket.
Her vision started to act strangely. The passing hills that had been ordinary shades of green and dusty yellow were suddenly bright and luminous forms of their original colours. They began to hurt her eyes as they danced violently across her vision. She closed her lids and rested her burning head against the cool glass. The vibrations of the road only made her stomach worse. She let out a quiet groan.
It was then that Aunt Erica asked her, “Are you okay, darling?”
Jaz’s response was delayed and sloppy. “I-I dunno.”
Uncle Bo swung round. “What is it, Jaz dear?” he asked, surveying his niece’s sweaty brow, abnormally pale skin, and droopy eyes.
“I don’t feel so good,” she managed to say.
“What’s wrong?” Aunt Erica questioned in a tense voice.
“My eyes hurt, I feel tired, dizzy and this close to vomiting,” she said, holding her hand up with her index finger and thumb almost touching.
“Maybe it was the sandwich?” Aunt Erica suggested.