You're in the middle of a heap of paperwork when your assistant peeks her head through the door.
"Inspector Peck," Jenny says, "I have an Officer Durant for you on line one."
"Thanks, Jenny," you responds putting down your pen and taking off your glasses. "Oh, Jenny," you call after the younger woman, "can you dig up last year's excessive force complaints file? I'm going to need that data to put together this report for the meeting next week."
Jenny nods and pulls the door closed behind her.
You rub at the bridge of your nose before reaching to pick up the phone.
"This is Inspector Peck," you say.
The conversation is brief, but when you hang up the phone your brow is troubled. Immediately, you pull out your cellphone and call Gail, frowning when it goes straight to your daughter's voicemail. You leave a message, and then dial your son, mouth pursed with displeasure as you get his voicemail as well. Quickly, you gather up your jacket and purse, and then call Jenny into your office for a moment.
"I need you to track down my daughter," you says quietly, "and have her call me as soon as possible."
Jenny stops writing mid-sentence. "Ma'am?" she asks.
"There's been a car accident, my daughter-in-law is at the hospital, her car was totaled, and I can't get a hold of Gail. Call Frank over at the 15 and explain what's going on; he'll know how to get in contact with her."
"Will do," Jenny says, and after a pause, "and your daughter-in-law, she's okay?"
"It sounds like she's mostly shaken up-a few cuts and bruises," you answer. You hope to God that's true, because you know how important Holly is to your daughter. If anything happened to her wife, or the child she carries, you know it would devastate Gail.
Jenny nods and pats your arm as you leave, your final instruction to your capable assistant to cancel anything on today's schedule, because you'll be out for the rest of the day.
Gail still hasn't called back by the time you arrive at the hospital. A nurse escorts you back to the exam room where your daughter-in-law is sitting on a bed looking shaken. There are cuts on her face, one or two apparently deep enough to require stitches, and you can see bruises already forming. Her left wrist is wrapped in a splint, and she's cradling her belly with her uninjured arm.
There's a loud noise out somewhere in the chaos that is the city's biggest emergency trauma center, and Holly looks up, noticing you for the first time.
"Elaine," she says, her normally strong and confident voice quiet, a small tremble echoing through the word. "I'm sorry for bothering you, but Gail's in on a big drug bust today and I don't want her worrying about me-"
She pauses and you see something in her face shift before she continues.
"I don't want her worrying about us when she should be keeping her mind on staying safe."
You can see the worry in her eyes, you recognize it well. You know what people say about you and your uncompromising dedication to your work, but just because you can watch your husband, son, and daughter strap on their guns and go out into the streets doesn't mean you can ever forget about the dangers the streets can hold. But there's something else bothering your daughter-in-law and you take a moment to observe her while you take off your jacket and move over to stand by the exam bed.
Aside from the wrist and the lacerations, she seems to be in one piece, but she won't look up at you, won't meet your eyes. Instead, she just stares at her stomach, at the child your daughter is so excited about.
"Holly," you quietly, taking her uninjured hand in your own, "are you okay? Is the baby okay?"
She freezes at your question, and then something you don't expect happens. She breaks. Crumpled into your chest, your daughter-in-law weeps while you hold her.
When she finally speaks, you can barely hear her.
"I haven't felt-" she starts, "I haven't felt the baby move for a while. After the accident she was kicking up a storm, but then she just stopped. I've been sitting here, trying to wake her up, and she's not moving." You've never heard this woman sound so scared. Not even when Gail was in the hospital and went from "concussion" to "brain surgery" in the space of hours.
The sliver of ice you felt in your chest when you received the phone call grows into a shard.
"Hey," you say, stepping close enough that her belly brushes against you. "I'm sure everything's going to be just fine. He's probably just sleeping, that's all. Now, has a doctor been in to examine you and the baby?"
"They're bringing an ultrasound machine in," she says, wiping at her eyes.
You're sure they are, but it probably wouldn't hurt to light a fire under someone out there. You assure Holly that you'll be right back, and then you pull back the curtain, ready to do what you do best.
Within ten minutes there's a portable ultrasound next to Holly's bed and the deputy head of the department of obstetrics is smoothing cool gel over your daughter-in-law's stomach. You're very good at throwing your weight around, after all.
As he waves the wand over her belly, Holly clenches tightly at your hand. Every moment of silence is tragic. And then suddenly, majestically, the sound of a rapid heartbeat fills the small space of the exam room. Holly lets out a relieved gasp.
"Okay," the doctor says, "heartbeat sounds good. Strong and fast, just what I'd expect for a 28-week fetus."
"Everything's okay," she asks, a little worry still in her voice.
"Take a look for yourself," he says, turning the monitor to face the two of you at the head of the bed.
You've seen the previous ultrasound pictures, but this is different. This is beautiful. There on the screen is your daughter's first child; that is the sound of your grandchild's heart beating. You can't help it, you grip Holly's hand a little tighter.
"Now," the doctor says, "looks like the baby was just sleeping, that's all. Because I'm seeing no reason to suspect that the accident caused any harm to your child. You should make an appointment with your OB-GYN to follow up but everything looks great, mom."
He smiles at the two of you, and you mouth back a grateful "thank you" as he starts to pack up his equipment. He starts to wipe the gel off Holly's belly, but you put your hand over his and take the towel to clean her up yourself.
It takes another hour or so to get Holly signed out of the ER, but soon you're settling her into the bed she shares with your daughter. You put a glass of water on the bedside table, and then against her protests that you don't have to stay, you kick off your heels and sit down in the plush armchair in the corner of the room. Quietly, you start to tell her about your pregnancy with Gail, how even as a fetus that girl was infuriating. How she'd sleep all day-you wouldn't feel a single kick-but the moment you climbed into bed she'd get busy testing the limits of her small, temporary home. Without fail.
Eventually, Holly's eyes drift closed and she slips into sleep.
You could go, you know, but you have a vigil to keep.
You still haven't heard from Gail, but your husband texted you an hour or so ago. He'd been to the impound lot-the car was completely totaled-and was in contact with the insurance company already.
It's dark out when you finally hear the front door open and you leave the bedroom to meet your daughter.
She almost collides with you in the hall.
"She's okay," you say before Gail can even regain her balance. "Sprained wrist, a few cuts, some bruises, but she and the baby are fine."
Your daughter wraps you up in tight, desperate hug.
"Thank you," she says, "thank you for being there for her today. When I got back to the station and Frank pulled me aside, I was sure that something-"
"Shhh," you cut her off. "Don't even think about it. She's okay, your baby's okay, and I was glad that I could be there for her, and for you."
The two of you enter the bedroom quietly, and in the quiet light from the lamp over the chair in the corner, you can see Holly sleeping soundly in the bed. The tension in Gail's body melts away. You give her a quick rundown of what the doctor said, and Holly's aftercare instructions, and then you turn to leave and let your daughter join her wife in bed, hold her close.
You're putting your shoes back on in the living room when Gail comes back out.
"Mom," she says, "you should have this," handing you a small square of paper.
It's an ultrasound photo, folded and creased and well-loved.
You look up at your daughter, a little confused, and even in the dim light you can see her blush.
"It's the first ultrasound photo. It's silly, but, well, I keep it in my pocket, right behind my badge. It makes me feel like they're with me all the time, like they're watching over me. And today, when they needed me, you were with them because I couldn't be. So I want you to have this."
You thank her and give her a quick hug before sending her back to her wife and baby.
When you get to your office the next morning, you'd swear to the fact that yesterday's mound of paperwork has doubled.
But, you think, looking over at the little slip of paper propped up against an old family photo on the corner of your desk, you've got someone to keep you company while you get it done.