Olivia's Trek (1) by DM Sharp Read Free Book Online

screeching sound of metal twisting and tearing rips through my head. Ava is screaming and screaming. My heart lurches up into my throat. My hands are all wet, my body shaking. I cover my ears with my hands, trying to stop the noisy assault, and then we begin to slide. We slide forever, like we are on an infinite skating rink. The speed of the car seems to be picking up, forcing all of us to slam against one side as the car whips around the corner. Tyler’s skull cracks against the window.
    The car veers off the road, starting to roll over and over in one of the fields.
    Ava’s head hits the seat in front of her and a growing crack appears in the windscreen. Plastic pieces from the dash are flying everywhere, until it all slows down somehow. As my eyes close that’s the last thing I remember.

Chapter Eight
    Olivia Carter
    An etherealsymphony of notes floats into my ears, enchanting my every sense. It is quite unlike any music I have ever heard before. My eyes are closed but somehow I know that there is a magnificent brightness in the distance. My body whooshes through a tunnel towards the light. As I pass through the dark vortex, my whole life’s events play out for me like my very own home movie.
    I’m being born and my dad is crying as he lifts me up, smelling and kissing my newborn skin. Everyone in the room looks so happy. My mother is talking to me, telling me softly that they named me Olivia because it meant peace—from the olive tree and that she hoped that my addition to the family would bring about peace between my father and his estranged family.
    Scenes of my father shouting with people on the telephone play out in front of me as I watch on. I’m sitting on my daddy Henry’s knee as he explains to the bewildered toddler how he is the black sheep of his family.
    It’s bath time and as he washes my hair he tells the five-year-old, who asks why she doesn’t have any family like everyone else, that her grandparents have cut them off because they wouldn’t accept the Cherokee Indian girl he decided to runaway with and marry.
    “Who was that girl?” I ask.
    “That girl is your mom,” he says.
    I’m six now, Mom works two jobs and I’m waiting for her to come home because we always roll sugary dough together late at night and it tastes so good and takes away my tummy ache. My dad’s eyes look sad a lot, even though he always tries to be happy for me. He starts to hang out with some of the local men that my mom doesn’t like. Daddy is the odd one out with his blonde hair and pale skin, the rest of the men with their matching high cheekbones and long jet black hair. They all look like my mom.
    I’m eight now and Daddy drinks a lot of the stuff that has a bad smell, but he loves to tell me stories about the past and his family and I love hearing about this strange, rich world that only exists in my imagination. I always ask the same question: Why is it so bad that he fell in love with my mom? Depending on his mood, he either says that his brother was also in love with my mother but didn’t have the spine to stand up to his family or I would get an absorbing history lesson.
    Daddy is patting the dried mud on the ground signaling me to sit there as he brings the white container to his mouth. “Little Olive, in the late nineteenth century, the U.S. government put new restrictions on marriage between a Cherokee and non-Cherokee, although it was still relatively common. A European-American man could legally marry a Cherokee woman by petitioning the federal court, after gaining approval of ten of her blood relatives.” He takes a large swig of the plastic container.
    “Ten of her relatives?” I question in wonder, my huge brown eyes and mouth both wide open at the prospect of such a huge number.
    “Oh yes, ten indeed. Once married, the man had status as an ‘Intermarried White,’ a member of the Cherokee tribe with restricted rights. For instance, he could not hold any tribal office. He also remained a