I hate the Indiana BMV.
It began in July, when my ass went numb in a plastic chair after waiting ninety minutes for my number to be called, only to be informed the new computer system had a few "bugs" and couldn't perform the activities necessary to change the last name on my IDs. I went back at the beginning of December and waited another hour to be sent to the Social Security office for a numi report confirming my number, because even though I had updated my card, the number was still attached to my maiden name.
The following Friday, I sat for forty-five minutes in ANOTHER plastic chair next to a woman who smelled like toenail fungus with eight other people in for the same reason I was, eight other people who probably received the same condescending eyeroll from the clerk when requesting their numi reports because she's sick and tired of the BMV sending everybody and their taxidermist to the damn Social Security office.
Last Saturday I went to the BMV again, where thankfully there was no numbing of the ass; instead, I stood at the clerk's desk for an hour and fifteen minutes, but I was wearing my new Simple shoes, plus I left with an updated license and ID, so no worries. It was all good in the 'hood.
Today I received a letter from the BMV. It states that my driver's license application is missing a signature and sufficient proof of my Social Security number. "Please bring in your original Social Security card," it says.
You mean scribbling the information on the back of my "Get out of jail free" card wasn't good enough? The fuck?
Obviously I'm more than a little pissed, because not only will I be stepping foot into the damn BMV for the fourth time in a seven-month timespan, I also have to fit it in before my ten o'clock dentist appointment, at which time a metal post will be implanted in my gum. It will take every ounce of will power not to march into that facility, grab the receptionist by the collar, and beat her head against the countertop until she fully grasps the incompetence of her employer and sends me on my merry way. Or until she dies. Whichever comes first.
But you don't care about my BMV troubles. You want to know who died in the Dairy Queen parking lot. Some friends you are.
CHAPTER EIGHT - JENNA
I fell to my knees trying to run out of the car's way.
At that moment, I felt David's strong arms push me towards the sidewalk. I stumbled on my feet and fell hard on my stomache. I felt something pop inside of me. In the corner of my eye, I saw the car smash into my boyfriend, throwing him into the Dairy Queen parking lot. It drove away.
"Oh God!!" I screamed. My hands grabbed my belly. It felt like my insides were oozing out of me.
Then I blacked out.
* * *
The first faces I saw when I woke up were Dr. Foremann's and my parents'. They were speaking in low voices, and my mother was crying. I tried to speak, but only a high-pitched sound came out. All 3 of them looked at me sadly.
"Oh Jenna! My poor baby!" Mom cradled me awkwardly in her arms. Dad just squeezed my hand.
"Don't try to talk," Dr. Foremann ordered. "You're very weak."
[At this point I can only assume they're in the ER. Would your ob/gyn meet you at the emergency room?]
I ignored him. "What's wrong?" I asked, my voice hoarse. "Is my baby OK? Where's David?"
"Calm down," my doctor said gently. He looked at my parents. "I'll need a minute alone with her." They nodded and hurried out. [Because in Frema, M.D.'s world, apparently physicians don't allow family members to comfort patients when hearing bad news?]
I felt empty inside. My arms tried to feel my belly, but I was too weak.
"Jenna," he began in a kindly voice, "a car hit you. You have a mild concussion, and a few cracked ribs."
[I have no idea what it means to crack a rib, but I remember hearing about those types of injuries in my Nancy Drew books. They're totally real, right?]
"I'm sorry, Jenna. She's gone."
"No." I couldn't breathe. Tears instantly blinded my vision. Dr. Foremann grabbed my hand. "I'm so sorry, Jenna. The impact of the car was too much. She was killed instantly."
[Now, Doctor, don't sugarcoat the news. Be as blunt as you can--you know, REALLY rub it in.]
My head hurt, and my hands finally felt my stomache. The bulge I had loved to touch so much was gone.
[There is a double entendre here somewhere, itching to break the surface, but I'll refrain out of respect for the dead.]
"No, please not my baby," I whispered. "You're joking. Please say you're joking. Tell me Mary Katherine is OK. Tell me!!" I sobbed.
[Because healthcare professionals are famous for their fake-miscarriage pranks.]
I heard the anguish in my doctor's voice as he continued. "You could have been more seriously injured if Mr. Donovan hadn't pushed you out of the way."
For the first time I thought about David. My hero. [Actually, it's the second, but Dr. Foremann was too busy shaking with excitement over the thought of telling you about your dead baby to give your question his full attention.]
"I hate to be the bearer of even more bad news." I heard him take a shaky breath. "He was also killed instantly."
"Oh God no," I whispered.
I had ignored him for days, called him every name in the book, and he still didn't hesitate to save my life.
And now he was gone.
[Along with his Mickey D's pension. Dammit, Kayla!]
* * *
"As we lay David Anthony Donovan to rest [I actually underlined his initials on the page, just in case readers missed the connection between his name and the fatherhood role he never had a chance to fulfill. It's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife!], let us remember that he is now with God, and that he will suffer no more. Amen."
"Amen," I echoed. His casket was lowered into the ground, and I felt a part of me die with him.
David's death had caught the attention of the media, so a few TV reporters were present. They were also there when a special service had been done for little Mary Katherine the day before.
A lot had happened during the four days before my loved ones' funerals.
Kayla and Cassie were caught and taken in to the station. (A witness had remembered the car and the description of the passengers in it.) They didn't deny hitting me and David, so they were charged on 2 accounts of involentary manslaughter and attempted murder. [And it's Frema, juris doctorate to the rescue! She can marry two contradictory charges in a single bound! Also makes great fries!] After the charges, they told the whole story. When Cassie realized that David had been killed, she went into a state of shock. She didn't eat, didn't speak, didn't move. She had become like a recluse, isolating herself from the rest of the world.
Kayla just cried. Whenever she was shown on TV, tears were streaming down her face, making herself look like the wounded victim.
Rot in hell, Kayla.
As for myself, I holed up in my room and grieved. Grieved for my daughter, and for David, and all that could've been. [Marriage, infidelity, Big Macs, divorce....] In one instant, everything that I loved most had been taken from my grasp.
Cassie I could understand and forgive. She had tried to save her brother, tried to protect him by trying to kill me. But Kayla was another story. She wanted David because she had no one else. She had been greedy and selfish. [OK, yes, she killed your boyfriend, but to be fair, she had him first!] Well, God had punished her for her actions. She'd lost David, too. But she hadn't been punished enough.
And there are still fifty-three pages to go! You are so lucky.