April 2012

Learning, in all its incarnations, had always been my source of strength; and my curative. Photography, poetry, painting, skiing, yoga; learning something new, whether that learning was mental or physical in nature, made me feel vital and stimulated my sense of engagement with life. Learning was more than a pastime, it was a spiritual path, the gift that turned suffering into grace. If I could learn the lesson I was meant to learn from a painful experience, the pain wasn’t wasted, it was heat used to clarify meaning, to transform, and to evolve. Someone or something unwelcome may write a chapter, but unless I fold in on myself and collapse, I get to write what happens after.

Yet in wanting to learn from my babies’ pain, in hoping to take anything positive from the experience, I felt would be benefiting from their suffering and my failure to protect them. Therefore, I didn’t deserve to learn. It was my self-inflicted punishment for letting the monster into our lives. I refused the gift. I didn’t deserve to heal. I didn’t deserve to move forward. I didn’t deserve to transform the suffering into growth, let alone grace. Instead, I lived under adark cloud of guilt with the twin companions of anger and shame. Anger was the searing stone in my chest. Shame was the shadowy void that followed me always, clawing and clutching anytime I made an attempt to step into the light, move forward, or learn. Together, they turned my inner experience into an intricate and convoluted web of players:

Me: My babies are safe. They are so beautiful.

Anger: She hurt hem. Why the fuck would a person do that? She should be shot.

Me: Look how Grace’s nose crinkles when she smiles and how Kalvin always wants to look for the light.

Shame: How could you not have known Aubrey was hurting them? It’s your fault.

Me: But how could I have known? There must be something I missed, there must be something I’m supposed to be learning.

Shame:You don’t deserve to learn, that’s benefitting from their pain, the pain that you caused.

Me: But if I don’t learn, if I don’t find my own way back to the light, the babies will suffer. If I become someone locked in darkness, that will be the impact of the crime on them. I’m so grateful they are okay.

Anger: No thanks to you.

At times I wondered what could possibly have happened to Aubrey, what traumatic circumstances from her past had caused her to want to hurt helpless voiceless babies. But just as quickly came the answer: What did it matter? If you can’t help but break tiny babies’ bones, don’t get a job at a children’s hospital and don’t seek out opportunities to be alone with newborns. The questions of why always dead-ended at anger which was okay because anger was the only thread of emotion I could follow to escape the web. I was angry that three months post-incident and even given the awareness of the case in Belgium, Aubrey still hadn’t been arrested. I was angry we could get no answers as to when she would be arrested. I was angry we were still being told we were suspects. I was angry at agendas and procedures that seemed to create a headwind against which we were always pushing, and for what reason? The legal system was already heavily skewed toward protecting the accused. Why the additional hindrance? When we asked why there was so much resistance, we were told, “This is a hard case to win,” as if that’s a reason not to arrest or press charges against a serial infant abuser. And when we asked one too many questions, the County Attorney got in Dan’s face, pointing his finger at Dan, calling us suspects, as if trying to get the father of abused babies to take a swing.

“Stop pointing your finger at my husband,” was all I could muster in my stunned surprise. “That’s enough, really.”

I was red-hot angry that Aubrey was still working at the children’s hospital. I was angry she was still free, walking around, living her life with no repercussions for the harm she’d inflicted on so many people. But I was indignant, irate, and completely terrified that she was still in a position to hurt sick and vulnerable kids when she’d already injured at least four infants, of that we were certain, and possibly more.

Anger poisoned my friendships, my dreams, and my writing. Friends have a finite reservoir of patience and compassion for someone stuck in her own singular myopic reality. There is only so much relationships can take when conversations are shackled by anger. There is only so often a person wants to be confronted with the sad, dark, depraved aspects of humanity at a dinner party with the clink of ice in cocktails and jovial conversation humming in the background. There is only so much I could allow myself to pollute others with the same stories and the same feelings of disempowerment, disenfranchisement, and utter confused chaotic anger. And so I turned to writing. But even there, between the page and me, the angry filter remained. Short choppy sentences and fragmented thoughts conveyed inner turmoil instead of wisdom. No matter where I turned, anger remained. Because above all, I was angry at myself. How could I not have known? I missed the signs. Not such a good judge of people after all. No, that self-identifier was shattered and splintered into a million pieces. And who could I trust if I couldn’t trust myself to discern good from evil in the world? The anger was strangling me from the inside out.

So in late April, I made an appointment with Marques, a sixty-year-old energy healer from Peru with a grey beard and smooth brown skin. My friend, Babbie had worked with Marques for fifteen years. A few years prior, she introduced us during one of his bi-yearly trips to the United States. Since then I had been taking baby steps into the field of shamanic medicine: reading a little, burning a little palo santo, practicing a few meditations. I relied heavily on raw experience, and so far, all I knew for sure was I always felt peaceful after spending an hour with Marques.

I knocked on the door. Marques treated people in an upstairs room of my friends house overlooking the Uinta mountains. After Marques’ usual warm hug greeting, I followed him upstairs, kicked off my shoes, and sat on the treatment table. I glanced at his altar table, which was covered by a colorful mesa cloth made of wool. On the mesa was a drum, a wood rattle, a palo santo stick, a long black and white feather of some kind, most likely from an eagle, and a bottle of rose water.

“How are you? How have you been?” Marques’ voice was soft and soothing.

“Mm, just okay.”

Marques’ eyes softened. He placed his hand on my shoulder in an act of such pure compassion, I immediately felt the tears coming. “Tell me,” he said.

Marques was like that, he had a way of being withpeople that felt warm, the diametric opposite of lonely. He seemed to hone in on something beyond the words, to the feeling, the energy, and spirit of what was and wasn’t being said.

“I’m just so angry. It feels like I’m angry all the time. Not when I’m with the kids, but most of the rest of the time.” I then gave the Cliff note’s version of what happened to the babies and the three months in-between. Marques listened patiently, looking out from his calm brown eyes, until tears rolled down my cheeks and the story petered out. “I’m so fucking angry. And I don’t understand evil, I don’t want to understand evil, and I don’t want to believehumans can be evil. I’m just mad.”

Marques shook his head and gazed at me with pure empathy. “Of course humans can be evil. People say when something bad happens, ‘Oh, that’s so inhuman.’ But of course, it is not. It isonlyhuman. No other species acts the way we act. Lions and tigers don’t get together to say, let’s decimate the elephants. Species don’t murder within species for no reason. Of course humans can be evil.”

I was stunned into silence. The stark frankness of the pronouncement of human evil coming from Marques scared me. He seemed to understand my fear and put a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Let’s get started.”

I laid back on the table, closed my eyes, and began taking deep breaths. Marques lifted my left arm, shaking it back and forth, and I felt myself relax and release muscle tension in that arm. He pulled my hand away from my shoulder in a gentle stretch and placed my arm back on table. Then he did the same with my right arm and both legs. I felt him place a small stone on my chest. Then the rattle shaking began, and I sensed Marques walking around the table, varying the speed and intensity of the rattle. He spent extra time shaking the rattle near my right ribs and as he shook, the area warmed. The feather was next. I felt as much as heard him waving it over my body in short motions, as if shooing away a fly. Then I let go. In a rare moment, I allowed myself to rest and be still such that I was only vaguely aware of the smell of incense, the sprinkling of rose water, the distant sound of chanting, and a sense of hands hovering over areas of my body. Gently, he pressed on the bottom of my feet as if sealing in his work. I sat up, trying to return to reality and regain my equilibrium.

“You have to let go of the anger,” Marques said gently. “I can feel what the anger is doing to your body. I can feel the blockages and the stuckness.” I dropped by head and Marques placed his hand on my knee. “It’s okay, you are okay. But holding the anger for too long can lead to dis-ease, disease. You’ve got to find a way to move the anger. Let it go, let it move through you. Just don’t let it get stuck.”

“Is that what you were doing here?” I asked, placing my hands on my ribs. He nodded slightly.

“Just remember,” he said squeezing my arm. “Contraction.” Then, releasing his grip he said, “Expansion.” Again Marques squeezed. “Contraction.” Again he released. “Expansion.” Relax and release, it was a reminder from one of my favorite books, The Untethered Soul. Marques was asking for me to put it into practice. Relax and release.

And I tried. After my meeting with Marques, for the first time in three months, I allowed some physical separation from the twins. Relax. I went for a hike, leaving the babies with Mary. I called twice in one hour to make sure everything was okay. Release. I went to our barn, less than a hundred feet from the house to write, where I texted Mary to make sure everything was okay. Expand. I went to lunch with friends, but excused myself to call Mary, to make sure everything was okay. Contract.And then one day, I skied for two hours without once checking in. Expand. My heart was full of anxiety as I ran up the stairs to the nursery. Contract.What if something happened? But my babies were okay. Relax and release.

*

Yet even as I ventured out into the world again, the anger followed. Week by week, it remained by insistent and incessant companion, demanding action. Week after week, it urged some primal warrior essence within me to mobilize, step forward, and pick up the fight.

I simply could no longer abide the fact summer was upon us, and Aubrey still had not been arrested. I’d had enough. If the county attorneys weren’t going to press charges, I wanted to raise awareness of what had happened, of what was still happening, so Aubrey couldn’t fool other unsuspecting parents and injure more infants. Already, we had received a reference call from parents expecting twins inquiring about Aubrey. Obviously, she had listed us pre-incident, but the horrid reminder that she was still out there pursuing work with kids was too much. I called Tom McCarthy, my hockey agent for his guidance in launching a PR campaign. Dan and I drafted a letter we could send to the newspapers about what was happening, or rather, what was not happening. I contacted a friend and asked for her lawyer’s information. I called another friend, a former Los Angeles prosecutor to ask his advice. I called Marsha, the victim advocate who had been assigned to our case. Then we called the county attorney’s office and asked for a meeting.

Dan and I arrived to the courthouse that day with Marsha expecting to meet with one person, namely, the county attorney, David Brickey. Instead we walked in to a small conference room full of new faces. Sherriff Edmunds, Captain Martinez, and Detective Towline from the Sherriff’s Department; an investigator for the county attorney’s office named Christina, and Matt Bates the lead prosecutor, also from the ocunty attorney’s office. All reinforcements for Brickey, I supposed. After introductions, Dan spoke first.

“It’s been three months, and we asked for this meeting to try to understand why no arrest has been made in our case. Understandably, Sarah and I have been through a lot, and we’re very upset by this entire process. We’ve cooperated every step of the way. We agreed to be interviewed. We agreed to and took polygraphs. We’ve answered every question we possibly could to help the investigation, and we’re still being treated as suspects. We never hired lawyers though it was recommended to us more than once. We did that because we figured it was the best way to get justice for Kalvin and Grace. But what has become intolerable, in additional to unconscionable, is the fact that this woman hasn’t been arrested. We’d just like to understand why, when you’ve had probable cause since day two, Aubrey is still walking around free.” There were a few glances around the table Brickey spoke.

“Well, we want to thank you for taking the time to meet with us. We understand it’s an upsetting experience for you. Perhaps it would help if I explained a bit about how the justice system works. In our justice system, people have a right to a speedy trial. In fact, technically, they have a right to a trial within ten days of an arrest.”

Brickey’s tone was patronizing. He was the one who had belligerently pointed his finger in Dan’s face. He was the one who didn’t want to press charges. I felt blood surging in my chest. Dan squeezed my leg.

“We want to have all the evidence we can gather ready to go before we arrest her.”

“Well, you can always have more evidence, right?” I responded. “I mean, you could investigate for ten years and have more evidence than you have now. So that doesn’t really give us an answer. More evidence isn’t an answer.” Dan squeezed my leg harder. “Could you possible give us something more specific?”

“Yes, well, we’re really waiting on two things: we’re waiting for the computer forensics to come back.”

“Okay, how long with that take?” I interrupted. “They’ve had it for months, right, since the search warrant was executed?”

“Yes, but there’s a backlog.”

“A backlog. Okay, how much of a backlog, or specifically, when will the computer information be back?”

“I called them this morning, and they said we should get it any day.”

“Any day, that’s good.”

“And we want to see the evidence from Belgium.”

“You’ve been in touch with the parents, though, right?”

“Yes, but their system is different,” one of the new faces chimed in. It was Matt Bates, the lead prosecutor on our case. Matt was tall with dark sandy hair and blue eyes. He was also the graduate of Brigham Young University and Brigham Young Law School, the bishop in the Mormon church, with the wife at home with his kids. “The parents don’t have access to their twin’s medical records.”

“So how do we go about getting whatever you need from Belgium?”

“There are treaties governing exchange of information between the U.S. and other countries.”

“Okay, is that State Department, or Department of Justice?”

“It’s the Department of Justice.”

“And you’re in contact with them?”

“Not yet.” I got the sense not only was Bates arrogant, he definitely didn’t like being questioned, especially by a woman.

Not yet. Really.

“You need to understand,” the county attorney continued, “this is a difficult case to win. It’s all circumstantial evidence. There is no confession, no videotape of the babies being injured. It may seem obvious to you, but the legal system is different. I have been trying to explain that to you.”

Right, Dan and I, us mere civilians with four advanced degrees between us, one with a father who is a lawyer, couldn’t possibly understand the legal system and what it takes to bring a case to trial. Right.

“We have to investigate everyone and every possibility.” I shook my head and Brickey paused. Then his eyes narrowed and he continued. “Well, someone will be arrested, I can guarantee that; but you know, we haven’t named a sole suspect yet.”

I looked at Dan. To me, it seemed the intent of the comment was a veiled threat, but perhaps I was just being sensitive. The fact that we, the parents of abused infants, were still being treated as suspects was itself a trigger point for my normally unflappable husband, the same trigger point that had previously led to the altercation between Dan and the county attorney. “Just ignore that, baby,” I said to him loud enough for everyone to hear. As in, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.I saw Marsha shake her head and the corners of Bates’ mouth curl up in a smirk.

“I mean, we’re not unsympathetic,” was the response. “In fact, just last week, when I knew we were going to have this meeting, I called the attorney handling the Susan Powell case. I wanted to get his perspective on how he dealt with Susan’s parents throughout the investigation…”

Susan Powell was the twenty-eight year-old Utahn mother of two boys, Charlie, four, and Braden, two, when she’d disappeared during the night of December 6, 2009. Her husband, Josh, was the lead suspect throughout the investigation. In 2011, after losing custody of Charlie and Braden to Susan’s parents, Josh grabbed the kids during a supervised visit, refusing to let the social worker into his house. Soon thereafter, the house exploded killing Josh, Charlie, and Braden. Though the boys died of carbon monoxide poisoning, they both had significant chopping injuries on the head and neck, and a hatchet was recovered near Josh’s body.

“Susan Powell? Why would that set my mind at ease?” I said. “She was murdered, was she not? Not far from here? And this guy you called, he got her parents to calm down. And if my recollection is correct, their grandkids, Susan’s kids, ended up axed to death and set on fire? They lost their daughter and grandkids. Why would you, talking to the person who got them to calm down, why on earth would that comparison bring me any sense of peace?” My voice quavered in anger and fear. Were they really going to do nothing? Was their sole goal in this case to manage Dan and me, to keep us calm? It wasn’t working. I was irate.

“We don’t want to go to trial unprepared, and we don’t want to arrest her until we can go to trial.” It was a new voice and a new approach. I guess that’s why the room was full. If it doesn’t work from one angle, try from another. But I was a goalie and good at playing angles.

“But how much is prepared? That’s another indefinite answer. It’s been three months. Are we talking three weeks, three months, or three years to feel prepared?”

“We need to get the computer back, and we need to talk to Belgium.”

“So the computer, I understand…”

“And I’ll work on contacting the Department of Justice this week.”

“You haven’t been in contact with them yet?”
Glaring eyes looked back at me. “No.”

I felt deflated. It was the best I was going to get and still, there was no end point, nothing definitive. I understood that the county attorney’s office didn’t want to make a premature arrest that could hamper available evidence at trial. But I didn’t understand the lack of urgency around gathering that evidence.

It was then that Sheriff Edmunds spoke. He was sitting to my left and despite the fact that he had had been quiet throughout the meeting, I was acutely aware of his solid presence. “You have my word,” he said, turning to look me directly in the eye. “There will be justice for Kalvin and Grace.” He paused and I could see an internal dialogue was taking place. “I see a lot in my job. I’ve got kids too, and this makes me angry. I’m giving you my word,” he reached out his hand, “she will be arrested.” I took it and we shook.

Despite Sheriff Edmund’s promise, walking out of the meeting I felt about as disempowered as I’d felt walking in, incapable of rationalizing or reconciling the resistance to pressing charges. I understood there existed a vast gulf between knowing someone was guilty and obtaining a jury conviction at trial based on admissible evidence. I understood that in a legal system created to protect innocent people from being convicted of a crime, guilty people often walked free under the high bar of “beyond a reasonable doubt.” But I didn’t think that was a reason not to try. I couldn’t fathom an offender more worthy of the risk of a trial than a repetitive abuser who preyed on innocent, incommunicative, defenseless victims.

The frustration I felt after the meeting thwarted any attempt to relaxreleaseexpand. Instead, I became hyper aware of the uphill battle with faced with two inexplicably resistant prosecutors while everything else faded into the background. I struggled not to roll my eyes at the insignificant dramas that seemed pervasive. I simply did not care if a friend’s boyfriend didn’t call at nine p.m., but called at eleven p.m. instead. I didn’t care about a few pounds gained or lost. I simply did not care. Could not care.

And what was most surprising was I didn’t feel badly about my lack of interest. I felt no sense of cognitive dissonance when literally walking away from people inquiring about the case. If questions dripped in voyeurism or some hunger for clingy drama, I simply left. I didn’t feel badly paring back friendships and commitments.

Instead, my empathy was reserved for abused kids and adult survivors of child abuse. Every time I heard a story in the news of a child being hurt, a deep compassionate ache in my chest made it hard to breathe. I thought about my own childhood, how safety was a basic assumption never questioned, how my parent’s love, adoration and attention were, and remain, freely given. I thought about other kids from my childhood, those I hadn’t thought about in years, those whose home-lives I just knew something were off kilter. Thirty years later, I was so sad for those kids.

And then there were the friends and acquaintances who approached me in solidarity and empathy to tell me their stories of how they had, in some way, inadvertently put their children in danger: the mother who didn’t know the babysitter was driving her kids around drunk; the father who left the hot water too close to the edge of the stove; the mother who narrowly avoided sending her daughter to a sleepover because she was a sick, a sleepover where the friends’ father drugged the girls’ soda with Ambien and molested one; the father who thought the car seat was attached; the mother who left her baby on the bed thinking he couldn’t yet roll; the father who dropped his daughter at her friend’s house for a play date and picked her up a few hours later with wet hair, because her friend’s father had given them both a bath, in the middle of the day; the mother who took her eye off her son for ten seconds near the stairs; the father who didn’t know his son’s coach would later be arrested for sexually abusing his players.

I felt fierce devotion and compassion for these people and their stories. I wanted, in all my faulted glory, to tell them I understood. My capacity for nurturance and empathy hadn’t narrowed, it had exploded with raw ferocity, tempered only by a bit more wisdom.