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THE DRIVE TO Mount Sinai was as terrifying as anything I’d ever faced. Even in my life as a cop. I gripped the wheel of my Chevy Impala tightly so my hands wouldn’t shake. Saturday evening traffic was somehow manageable. But I still didn’t feel like I was driving fast enough.

Mary Catherine had come into semiconsciousness as we rode down in the elevator. She’d wanted to walk, but I’d insisted on carrying her to the parking garage across the street. Images of Mary Catherine with a baby and a smile on her beautiful face gave me near superhuman stamina as I’d raced to the car with her in my arms. The panic I felt affected my judgment. If I’d been thinking clearly, I would’ve called for her to be transported in an ambulance. Then again, I would’ve paced the rug down to threads if we’d had to wait for an ambulance to arrive. Who knew how long that would’ve taken on a Saturday night. It was pointless to wonder about that now.

Once at Mount Sinai, I felt nothing but frustration. Despite making world-class time to get here, we were then shoved into an exam room and told to wait. A young man in scrubs took some blood and tried to soothe our anxiety by saying someone would be along shortly. Finally, a technician took Mary Catherine for some scans, but half an hour later we were back in the same room, still alone and scared.

Mary Catherine lay sprawled on a narrow examination bed, above the sheets and coarse blanket. I held her hand as she put on a brave face, turning to me and asking, “Michael, what if this isn’t meant to be? What if the baby doesn’t make it?”

“Let’s see what the doctor has to say.” It was lame but all I could think of.

“But what …” Mary Catherine started to sob. A truck plowing through the window couldn’t have hit me any harder. I felt helpless. One of the worst feelings in the world; one of the reasons I became a cop. I wanted to help people. Now I couldn’t even help my wife.

I was worried about the baby, but I was more worried about if Mary Catherine was in any kind of danger. At least I was smart enough not to blurt out my concerns. Of course, the whole episode also made me think of my late wife, Maeve. The early days of her cancer diagnosis, the fear, the anger, the feelings of unfairness. Why us? I was reliving every one of those agonizing minutes as we waited for a doctor to walk through the door and deliver news. I had to take a breath.

Mary Catherine clutched my hand, and I pulled hers to my lips and kissed it. I said in a soft voice, “I love you. Whatever happens, we’ll get through it together.”

“I love you too, Michael.” She let out a couple of sobs and managed to add, “I already love this baby, whoever he or she is. I don’t care if it’s Seamus Bennett or Rose Bennett.”

“I’m not sure what’s more surprising,” I said. “That you’ve already come up with baby names or that you’d want to name a boy after my grandfather.”

“You don’t agree?”

“No, I love it. It’s just unexpected.” I kissed her hand again. “Where did Rose come from?”

She had a hint of a smile as she admitted, “Titanic.”

That made me smile too. That was all I needed. A moment of relief. A step away from worry.

A young doctor stepped into the room.

I heard Mary Catherine’s intake of breath.

The doctor did not have a smile on her face.