*****004:

The grief counselors at ABCSC, my mother's adoption agency/ alternate birthing center in Huntington Beach, California were all very competent. And the kids and I were well-known there. We met with them at least twice a week. I allowed Aidan and Keeva to accompany us, Keeva driving. This gave Abbie some time to herself to get some errands done.

Florence George met us at the door to the psych wing of ABC. Her short, short hair was dyed red and tan and gold and gray, and styled very hip cute. She smelled heavenly of some kind of vanilla scent that didn't nauseate me. And she had a fun play room for the kids, while we all visited.

The routine was well known. She greeted us, and the kids went and got the memory scrapbooks I'd started for them. These had pictures of their biological families and now that we'd been coming for about two months and at least sixteen visits, the pages contained pictures of us as a family. There was a little card table set up in one corner, and the kids gravitated to it to work on their books. Coloring, stickers, all kinds of stuff. Florence's assistant, Kerrie Rye, a youngish college gal with bright blonde hair and a perfect teeth smile started helping them, encouraging them.

"How's it going today?" Florence asked me, sitting not behind a desk, but in a little couch setting with decorative pillows that she pulled over on top of herself, to clasp her tanned arms around. I joined her on the opposite end of the same couch so I could see the kids. Another assistant came in and quietly started helping Rein, I knew her name was Abigail.

I watched as Abigail hugged Rein and he smiled up at her, perfectly at home with the conditions of our visit now, although when we'd first started, since this building had been the initial site of his and Virgil's rough adoption—he'd protested coming here.

I breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn't about to have a meltdown, and turned to Florence. My smile was genuine. "Great."

She knew by now that my early conversation didn't really reveal much of anything going on inside. It would take some chit chat and this she did easily. Asking me simple questions about our daily routine, the kids sleeping and eating habits and if there had been any major deviations, crying fits, or anything unusual.

Then she dug in. "How did the concert go? Did Rafe and the guys do okay?"

"They didn't report any unusual feelings. I wanted to go with them, but as you can see, I'm not always up to it." I looked and felt huge today.

"Have you spoken to Chris?"

Rafe's sister Chris was a huge concern for me. Her mother's death a week and a half ago and subsequent funeral a few days later had sent her reeling into a very angry and dark place. Her depression was formidable and unhinged. I might have expected Rafe to come unglued as well, but he and Lance stuck together like glue, and the guys were all super supportive. Chris didn't have that amazing support system, nor did she share our religious beliefs.

"I haven't, but Lance has. He says she is very angry still, to the point of needing meds. Doug took her to the hospital last week right after the funeral let down, and got her on some anti-depressants. I would reach out, but you know she blames me for her mother's death. She blames me for just about everything wrong in their lives."

"It's possible that blaming you is a deflection of the resentment she still feels at herself for not being able to cope with her mother's mental state following her parents' divorce." Florence shrugged. "Perfectly understandable. We often blame ourselves and then pin it on others."

She pulled out of a file box beside the couch a lovely little bound book she'd given me recently. She handed it over and I smiled, knowing I was being counseled now. I opened to the first page and found there a picture of a baby. It represented the myriad babies who had died last year while I was a practicing neonatologist and multiples specialist. Before I'd met Rafe I was a very successful doctor doing what I felt I loved most--- trying to save baby's lives. But subsequent to meeting him I'd lost more children than I cared to dwell on, which had somewhat prompted my leave of absence from the practice, I was grieving all those things and this picture of a generic baby represented it.

I swallowed, letting my mind rest calmly on the memories as they started to flow. On the cover of the book was a plastic slip where I'd placed a picture of driftwood bobbing on the waves in front of our home. It was sunset, it was lovely, and calm. I stared at it and inside I said to myself, Let it go. Let it drift out of sight out to sea, to sink peacefully beneath the waves. You can't do anything about this, Aubrey, this isn't your fault, your choices are the best you can make them And. You. Are. At. Peace.

I felt a letting go, I closed my eyes and concentrated on that feeling. I let my heart be still.

Tears came, as they often did. I recalled each and every baby I'd held, breathing or not, the ways I'd used all my skill, all my knowledge to fight for their lives. Some of the mothers as well. No matter what, I told myself calmly, I put my all into it, I did the best I could, and now I needed to give the pain and anger and hurt to God.

I turned the pages again. This time the pain cut like a knife. There on the page, a page I was still coloring like the children over at their little table, was a picture of my niece, Angelee. A little under a year ago she'd been riding her bike on her street and been hit by a car. Her injuries required special surgeries, and being one of the top in the area who could handle these things, I'd been asked, not just by my medical team, but by my brother and sister-in-law to come and save her. It might have been a little unorthodox to have asked me---she not being an infant-- but a ten year old. But I'd actually served in several capacities since becoming a surgeon, and this particular very difficult and demanding surgery was one I had previously handled.

It did not save her life.

Nausea threatened as I stared at her living picture. I closed my eyes and told myself to breathe, easy, in and out.

"Open your eyes, Aubrey. See her smiling face. She's smiling where she is right now, smiling at you, busy in her work on the other side of the veil. She is at peace, Aubrey." This was Florence, and I felt her calm, but I did not feel peace.

I closed the book and stared hard at my driftwood. To this day, I was not able to hold eye contact with Anglee's picture for more than a few seconds. I choked up, and felt the raw burning of searing remorse flood me. Bury the pain, Aubrey, bury it deep in the sea where it can't come back, it can't return, it will never overcome the sea----

But it wouldn't coalesce in my mind. I bit my lips and finally closed my eyes again.

"Dear Heavenly Father, I can't seem to give her up, or my complicity in her death, I know she's yours, but she's still mine too. I still feel pain and sorrow the likes of which I am struggling to bear." I said these words inside, not asking that he take my pain away, just asking that he acknowledge it.

Then I turned the page. I trembled. There were a myriad of pictures on this page. Jake, our family's main head of security for thirty years. Tim, his replacement who had been acting as head for about five years. Lavon, and Manuel, Mack, Gomez, Carlos, and Ariana. Some were tour bus drivers, and bodyguards, and three were Felicity's parents and her uncle. I trembled again.

Last summer we'd been on tour in Mexico, and there'd been an attack on us as we toured Teotihuacan. The attack was aimed at Felicity's biological father, Gomez Nemesio and his wife, Ariana, carrying their second child. He was the leader of an original Sonora Cartel, and he'd been hit by a younger and newer cartel, unfortunately they'd been working with the Mexican Military and there had been three factions in the cross fire.

I looked over at Felicity, remembering her that fateful day. Tim had saved her from falling off the Pyramid of the Sun. Rafe had carried her on his shoulders up the 242 steps. Her mother had been my walking and climbing companion, her father a witty and warm, solicitous gentleman. All of them shot--- all of them gone.

I closed my eyes and pictured the driftwood. It may be many times of doing this until I finally was able to let go, to forgive and bury the past. I felt the rush of anger. It usually came due to the futility of their deaths and their lives. The absolute lack of honor in Gomez and his crew, the insensitivity of their callous greed. And the beauty of their strange and wonderful reality; that of family man, father and husband. I didn't understand, I suppose I never would. Drug dealers, arms dealers, gangs, that mentality--I was still trying to come to terms with it. Rafe, having grown up in Los Angeles felt he knew a little more than I did, but not much. It was a huge cultural gap. I did not get why people wanted to kill each other.

But this wasn't the first time I didn't understand cultural differences. I had been raised in a very sheltered lifestyle, in a family that could afford to shelter me absolutely and completely. Meeting Rafe and his family had been a fluke, and a godsend. His personal culture opened my eyes and made me examine things I may never have done otherwise. I was grateful for that, but again I didn't always get it, and I often found myself being quite judgy.

I silently grieved for my friends, for my daughter's parents, and for my naïveté.

I opened my eyes and stared at the driftwood and let out my held breath. Florence was still there, looking at me steadily.

"How do you feel about that one today?"

I nodded. "It's still there."

"Probably for a long time. Sometimes time and the gospel are the only things that give us any peace. What you are experiencing is normal. Do you feel depressed?"

I examined my feelings. In the days following the incident in Mexico I had felt overwhelmed, dizzy, overwrought and defeated. I felt sick to my stomach, not in a pregnant way, but in a terrified way. The things we'd witnessed, the things we'd been a part of were horrendous. It was a terrorist attack, it was murder. Normal people didn't experience these things. Rafe and I both needed counseling.

But slowly that kind of counseling had given way to hard work on our home in Montana, and our busy lives and schedules. Rafe's outlet was his music. Mine was normally my work, but I'd gotten pregnant.

I couldn't answer that. I didn't know.

I turned the page. There in the page was a picture of a little boy baby suit, the one Rafe had picked out the day we'd found out we were expecting. It had been a giddy, exuberant moment full of freshness and hope. Only to lose that baby at 14 weeks. I was devastated. Not that I should have been, I have a lot of experience with prenatal care, mother and fetus, I know these things often happen and usually always for a reason. But they hadn't yet happened to me, and I finally understood what the real hype was about. Loss is loss. Grief is grief--you can actually grieve for things you haven't seen, for experiences you'll never have, for words you'll never say.

Little baby I'll never see, I grieve for you.

I bit my lips again, wanting to get through it now. I initialized the driftwood, imagined it floating under the waves away... away.... Away....

And turned the page. This would be the first time I'd looked at this page since I registered the picture two days ago. I'd not met and developed a good working relationship with this woman, a woman who had spurned me, maybe even hated me. But she was Rafe's mother. My husband's mother.

I had a picture of her with Rafe, Lance and Chris, her children. To remind me why I grieved. I grieved with them for their loss, and then for the loss of a potential friend and a potential mother. She had not been those things yet for me, she died nearly estranged from Rafe. I did not cry.

Florence took the book from my unresisting fingers and replaced it with some play-doh. Yes, silly as it sounds, some blue play-doh. I noticed that the assistants had taken the kids' books also and now they all squeezed the play-doh. That was my cue. We had chosen a Primary song from church that we had learned in preparation for going to the temple to have our adopted children sealed to us. While we squeezed we sang:

"I have a family here on earth, they are so good to me, I want to share my life with them through all eternity. Families can be together forever, through Heavenly Father's plan, I always want to be with my own family, and the Lord has shown me how I can. The Lord has shown me how I can." (Primary Children's Songbook pg. 188 Gardner and Watkins)

When we were done, we all stood and did some exercises, some brain gym stretches, similar to our yoga, and then we went to the special carpet and sat on the floor--me too--I don't know how much longer I'll be able to do it, but yes, I sat on the floor with my children, Rein cuddled close to my side, Virgil on my other side. Felicity had refused to give up the play-doh.

Now Florence spoke to us all quietly, she acknowledged our grief, she spoke of death openly and honestly, answered and asked questions and gave us time to process. Virgil asked the same questions every week: Was his other mother, his bio mom, was she in jail for beating him and Rein and putting them in a room and locking the door. He was very clear. This loss of freedom was part of what he was grieving. The loss of a parent's awareness. He usually wanted to know if all the foster moms were also in the jail. To everyone's knowledge no one had actually hurt them besides their mom and her sister who were both incarcerated.

This didn't last long, then we all turned and crawled over to the giant colorful pillows on the floor and leaned against the wall. We chose ones we hadn't had before and on the signal from Abigail we started to hit them, and fall on them and kick them, however we wanted to take out aggression, this is where we did it. We could yell at them, even be mean if we had to. The kids had similar pillows on the floors in each of their bedrooms.

After a few minutes, the assistants took each child separately, and Florence took me, another gal had come in for Virgil. Florence used the time to explain that the kids were being given star charts for adjustment behaviors such as using the toilet in Rein's case, and not running off in Felicity's, using our words, waiting our turns, and for Virgil, expressing himself in correct language, no mumbling, or cussing.

They held the treasured star charts as we all filed out with hugs.

On our way down the hall they each showed me their chart and I told them we'd put them on their bedrooms doors and there would be prizes for landmark number of stars, like five, ten and twenty! Virgil filed this knowledge away solemnly, and I could see Felicity gearing up for a negotiation.

We waited at the elevators that would take us to the family parking attached to the building, while I debated walking on the beach and getting a hot dog at the snack bar, or finding a more healthy alternative. We could go see Grandma at Rocks (her studio wasn't all that far), but it was warm out today and I didn't feel like walking.

The elevator door opened and a little boy came running out at full speed.

"Junior! Come back here!" The dad, a young, good looking clean cut Latin-American man leaped out after his son to catch him by the collar and yank him back. He squealed, and I saw Felicity's hands cover her mouth as if to stop her own squeals.

When he caught the boy he looked up at me in surprise. "Hello, I'm Eliseo Vasquez, this is my son, Juan, he's three. You're Aubrey Mann!"

Surprise etched my face as I held onto Rein's hand so he couldn't run off. He was looking at Juan with real interest. "I'm sorry, I-- do I know you?"

He grabbed Juan and then stuck out his hand as we exited the elevator and stood near the garage door. His dark Latino eyes bored into mine in unfeigned and far too familiar interest. How did he know me? I saw Keeva coming down the hall ready to escort me to the van.

I shook his hand and it was warm and friendly. I put on my professional smile.

"I know your family of course." He eyed the Latino children I was with. "Are these your children?" He seemed skeptical, restraining the jumping, leaping, out of control Juan.

"Of course." I thought that was still weird, it would be hard to know all of my family obviously, too many of us, and I was not really in the music business like so many of them. "Thanks for---listening." Wasn't that what one said to one's family's fans?

He grinned. "No, you delivered my wife a few years back. I thought you'd remember. We had triplets four years ago, they all died at twenty-five weeks."

"I'm so sorry." I guess he did look a little familiar. "It seems like you've been successful in your family endeavors though since then. Congratulations."

He grinned again. "We're going up for grief counseling. Maybe we can meet up afterward and have lunch with you and the kids. My son is dying for a few playmates."

There was a play land in the basement of ABCSC along with a cafeteria. The kids had all been there, and suddenly, hearing this plan, they got noticeably excited. I wasn't in the habit of playing with acquaintances, but his eyes were so innocently hopeful I thought what the heck?

"Why not?" I agreed, "We'll go play while you have your session and then we can have lunch together and play a little longer.

He looked relieved and excited at the same time, and we parted ways. The kids were overwhelmed at the thought of the play-land and some free time, and we took off barreling around the corners.

*****