by Sarah Monzon
Chapter 10
This couldn’t be right. For the third time Olivia scanned the papers in her hand, her mind not making sense of what she was seeing. Had Lily gotten her results mixed up with someone else? Lifting her gaze, she read her information. Name. Age. Blood type. Everything was correct, except… these couldn’t be her results.
Then she remembered. The weird texts from Lily. They made sense now.
She felt the car slow, then stop, the gear shift to park, but she couldn’t lift her eyes. They tracked over the words, the pie chart, the bar graph. Empirical data but…it couldn’t be right.
Her hair was lifted away from the side of her face and brushed back over her shoulder. Her brain registered a vague awareness that Adam touched her, but she knew it like she’d known her mother’s voice calling her from sleep to get ready for school—something against her consciousness that pulled and tugged her away from a dream.
Warmth seeped into her cheek, and slight pressure on her chin forced her focus away from the papers, with its words and charts that had begun to blur, and into eyes that peered back into her own unwaveringly. Her throat worked to swallow, and her gaze, which leaped back and forth between his eyes, tried to break free from the hold they had on her. Somehow his steady regard, so immovable, filled her with the strength to manage a full breath.
Adam’s hand moved from her cheek and smoothed down her hair in long, rhythmic strokes. Slowly she felt her fingers uncurl, and the paper within her grasp crinkled as it was released. Heat spread throughout her body, and she shook her head against the embarrassment. Most likely Lily had just mixed up Olivia’s results and she was going all drama-queen crazy for no reason. The girl from The Price Is Right hadn’t really lifted the curtain behind door number three and revealed that everything Olivia knew about herself was a lie.
She let her chin fall to her shoulder as she leaned against the headrest. Lifting her lashes, she reencountered Adam’s fixed stare. Whereas her fidgety forefinger had begun running back and forth over the seat belt fastened against her waist, he sat in stillness. Like a dependable rock wall she could lean against without fear of falling.
His head cocked, one brow rising. “You aren’t going to make me guess again, are you?”
Her lids slid shut as nervous laughter bounced around her chest. Looking back up, she felt a genuine smile tilting her lips. “I should, just to see what you come up with.”
His gaze scanned her face—her forehead, eyes, nose, chin, back to her eyes. He’d been pushy to get her to open the letter, but that had been in playfulness. Now he watched her with infinite patience. His eyes coaxed in a soft way, offering her the strength and comfort of his presence and friendship.
With a sigh she handed over the papers. “My mom has been slightly obsessed with genealogies ever since her friend got those Mayflower results.”
“I noticed.”
“Anyway, I usually wait until the last minute to get my parents their Christmas gifts, but when she was so excited about this ancestry thing, I thought it would be a fun surprise to make a family tree and watch her unwrap it on Christmas.”
He lifted his head from inspecting the paper in his hands. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem,” she said, slipping the results from between his fingers, “is that this says I’m eighteen percent West African, sixty-nine percent Native American, and a smattering of percentage of places I’d thought I was from. My mom always said she believed her ancestors were Vikings, but Scandinavia isn’t even on the report.”
“Okay, that is a little strange, but maybe the stories passed down on your mom’s side were just family folklore.”
She flipped to the last page and pointed to another graph. “Most DNA ancestry tests say Native American to include any indigenous people groups residing in both North and South America so the person would never know if that meant the Inuits in the Arctic Circle or the Incas of Peru.”
“Your dad is from Guatemala, right? So, Mayan? That would explain the high percentage of Native American in you.”
She pushed her finger harder on the graph. “Except this DNA test isn’t like most of them. I don’t really have the money to send away for one of those popular ones, but I have a friend at the university who works in the genetics department. They’re on the cutting edge of science and have been collecting more samples from different people groups to get more accurate results.”
His eyes lowered from her face to where she pointed. “Southeast region of the United States. Muskogee/Creek, Apalachicola, Pensacola, Seminole…” His voice faded out as he continued to read a list of the indigenous tribes of the southeastern woodlands. He lifted his head. “Do you think it’s a mistake?”
She shrugged, but the slight movement only brought with it a sense of dread as the truth settled around her. “It has to be, right?” She gripped onto that reason even as it slipped through her fingers. “Except…”
His hand covered her shoulder, the pad of his thumb stroking her collarbone. “Except?”
“Lily ran my DNA as a favor. As far as I know, they aren’t doing any tests like these right now. In fact, that’s why she sent it through the post instead of just emailing me the results—no electronic trail. She’s been working on this in her own time, and honestly, she didn’t even get permission to use the lab’s equipment.”
“Must be a good friend.”
She stilled her stroking movement on the seat belt and looked down at her fingertip. The groves of her prints stood out against the red, angry skin. With a light touch, she caressed the line she’d worn into herself, memories of her and Lily as little girls playing Barbies filtering into her thoughts like confectioner’s sugar on lemon bars. “The best. We haven’t gotten to hang out much since she’s working on her doctorate and crazy busy studying and writing her dissertation and everything, but she used to practically live at my house.”
Olivia chuckled as she leaned her head back. “On the weekends we’d beg both of our parents to let her sleep over. Friday night turned to Saturday night turned to Sunday, and then we’d have to ride our bikes to her house and pick up school clothes for the next day. We were in the same class four years in a row, so my mom always assured hers it wasn’t any trouble to drop Lily off since she’d be in the long line of cars anyway. Mom always said Lily was like her other daughter.” Her other adopted daughter? Memories played like scenes from a movie in her mind. Had either of her parents ever hinted she was adopted?
Of course she’d remember a sit-down conversation starting with Sweetie, we need to tell you something, but other than the time they’d broken the news that her dog had managed to open the hamster ball and Squibbles had gone on to hamster heaven, neither of her parents had even hinted that she wasn’t their biological child.
Too many emotions swarmed her, like a scourge of mosquitos buzzing in her ear, threatening to land and suck her blood. But whose blood flowed through her veins? David and Eileen Arroyo’s? Who was she if she wasn’t their daughter?
The buzzing moved to her chest, intensified until she thought she’d combust if she didn’t move. Unbuckling her seat belt, she threw her door open and nearly fell in her haste to get out of the car. Scrambling upright, she stormed away as if the truth might catch up with her and rip away the comforting blanket of denial.
They’d lied to her. For twenty-eight years they’d perpetuated and lived a lie. Her entire life was one big deceit. Unless the test results were wrong somehow. That was still a possibility, right? Lily might have made a mistake. The samples she’d used to run the test against—or however genetics people figured this stuff out—might have been wrong. That could have happened. Couldn’t it?
She walked in circles, a palm pressed to her forehead. She felt like someone had just made her swallow the red pill from The Matrix, depriving her of her blissful, ignorant security. Reality was too brutal to swallow and came crashing down around her feet. What was she supposed to believe? Who was she supposed to trust? What else about
her life was really just a euphoric mirage, a hologram that would disappear as soon as she worked up enough courage to step through it? Was her name really Olivia? If the test results were right and her parents weren’t her parents, then had they named her or had her birth mother?
Her birth mother…
Who was she? What was her name? What did she look like? Why didn’t she want her baby girl?
Olivia’s knees wobbled as her breath grew shallower and more frequent. She shook her head, the pressure building against her ribs needing an outlet. She turned, thinking this time she’d run. Literally run until her legs gave out and the buzzing inside her head subsided enough so she could actually think.
She did run. Straight into Adam’s broad chest. His arms wrapped around her back, loose enough that she didn’t feel suffocated but tight enough that she knew he held her. Not held her like I’m hugging you but held her like I’ve got you while you work through this. His chest rumbled beneath her ear in a deep, soothing sound as his hand covered the back of her head. She stood motionless for a moment, still feeling the need to move, and then he began to sway. Back and forth with her in his arms, he held her and swayed and cooed words her buzzing brain didn’t register.
Like an unplugged drain, her emotions siphoned away from her, leaving her empty and depleted. She felt his kiss on the top of her head, knew it for the gesture of support it was, and allowed herself to be filled with the strength he offered.
Fists trapped between their chests, she exerted slight pressure to push him back. His arms fell away, but instead of feeling bereft of his touch, she felt buoyed by his confidence in her. Warmth seeped into her numb limbs at his belief in her resilience. Too bad she felt as if a feather on a slight breeze could knock her over.
Working her tongue around a dry mouth, she looked up at him and found the courage to voice the question repeating in her mind more times than a toddler asking why. “Who am I, Adam? If I’m not—” She paused and looked down at herself. Same leather strappy sandals, same pinstriped shorts and navy tank top she’d been wearing all day. Same—and yet she felt so completely different. Looking back up into his steady gaze, she blinked several times. “If I’m not me, who am I?”
He lifted his hand and settled it against her neck, dipping his head to look into her eyes. “You’re still you. You’re the same audacious person who stormed into my food truck with her beautiful chaos. You’re still the crazy-talented cook who’s about to take the pedestrian dining scene by storm. You’re still the quick-witted woman who can make anyone laugh with a horrible pun.” He paused for her chuckle. “And no matter what, I know you are and always will be loved by your parents, David and Eileen Arroyo, whom I just met but would swear on a Bible in a court of law adore you to the moon and back.”
She swallowed, her throat working against his thumb. “But what if they aren’t my parents?” She whispered the question, afraid saying it any louder would somehow make it irrevocably true.
“Sweetheart…” His voice was a soothing caress. “Whether your parents gave you life or not, they will always be your parents.”
“But—”
“Do you want me to take you home so you can talk to them about it?”
Did she? Part of her wanted to hear what they had to say, even imagined them laughing at her fears and pulling out a never-before-seen picture of her being held in the arms of her mother, who had without a doubt spent hours in agonizing labor. Disquiet clenched Olivia’s abdomen, and she squeezed her eyes against what was more likely to happen—her mom and dad admitting she wasn’t a product of their love. Because now that she thought about it, there was an alarming gap in both photos and stories surrounding her mother’s pregnancy and Olivia’s birth. She remembered a specific mother/daughter event at church where all the moms had huddled around and shared stories of their labor and delivery while their daughters crafted hairbows with hot glue guns. Instead of participating in the conversation, Eileen had shimmied next to Olivia and folded a ribbon into a flower and glued it onto a headband. Olivia had thought how lucky she was that her mom would rather spend time with her at the craft table than with the other moms talking about disgusting mom stuff, but now she felt stupid. Of course her mom couldn’t stand around with the other moms and compare her hours of painful labor…because she had never been pregnant, had never experienced giving birth. How could Olivia have missed it?
“I don’t—” She hugged her arms around her middle. “Is it okay if I’m not ready to face them yet?”
The hand on her neck slid across her shoulder and tugged her to his side. After a kiss to her temple, he said, “It’s more than okay.”
Chapter 11
Florida, 1817
Winnie lifted her hand to shadow her eyes against the sun’s glare off the lake’s sparkling surface. She should be with the rest of the women and men bringing in the corn harvest, but she’d snuck away, hoping to cool her heated skin by wading in the water. She’d return to the work soon enough, and no one would be the wiser.
Settling along the bank, she hiked up the hem of her skirt and worked the leather moccasins off her feet. She wiggled her toes and smiled at the fresh air caressing her damp skin. Almost everyone working in the rows of green corn stalks had shed their shirts. The heat of the summer sun oppressive and the labor strenuous, they’d stripped themselves from the waist up, men and women alike, their upper bodies bare to the elements and each other.
A year among the Indians and Winnie still felt the slowness at which she embraced her new life. No matter how stifling the trade-cloth poncho that hung about her shoulders may be, she could not bring herself to remove the article of clothing and uncover parts of her body she’d rather remain hidden.
Rolling the bottom of her skirt until it reached her knees, she gathered the hem in her hands and stood. Instead of splashing into the water, she quietly tiptoed to the edge and let the liquid lap at her toes. She closed her eyes, savoring the instant relief, and shuffled farther into the lake until the water encased her calves.
A year in her new home, among her new extended family, and she’d grown used to the unusual style of house in which she resided with her father and brother. A chickee, the people called it. Not so much a house as a shelter. Four solid cypress posts, a raised floor, and a palmetto-thatched roof. No walls. At first she’d been embarrassed by the lack of privacy, but when a cool breeze drifted over her at night like a sweet lullaby, she’d been thankful for the practicality of the structure.
She’d also become accustomed to the food, though that was an easy thing when hunger had so long clawed at her stomach that she would be thankful for any tiny morsel. But the supply of fresh game and fish the men brought in coupled with the abundance of squash, corn, beans, and other produce the women cultivated had been easy to not only accept but take an active part in. For the first few days after their arrival, Isaac had loitered around the pot of soup, or sofkee, a delicious dish of hominy and meat, which was constantly cooking over a fire. He seemed particularly agreeable to the people’s belief a person should eat when they were hungry and not at three specific times throughout the day.
Other things, though, were not so easy to accept.
Winnie closed her eyes and tilted her head back, the sun’s warmth not nearly as harsh with her legs in the refreshing water. Times like this, when she was alone and surrounded by the peaceful sounds of nature, she could almost convince herself she had finally, truly forgiven Master Rowlings and the white men for all they’d done—forgiveness being an important part of the Seminole way, as they increasingly reminded her, with the Green Corn ceremony only days away.
But then she’d get a glimpse of Asa’s back, scars raising his skin in long, grotesque puckers. Or the ache of missing Temperance would unearth such pain she feared she wouldn’t be able to draw her next breath.
And the anger that had been planted in the fertile soil of this wild land would grow, robbing her again, stealing her calm and forcing her back into a place of swi
rling chaos and internal upheaval.
Her friend Martha, a house slave who’d managed to escape her master after years of being used for his and his friends’ enjoyment, clung to the passages in the Bible that claimed revenge was the Lord’s. God forgive her, but the rage within Winnie would not allow her to turn the other cheek if she ever came upon Master Rowlings again. Instead she envisioned herself more like the warriors she’d seen slipping between needle-nose pines and hiding behind giant ferns. If given the chance, she’d nock an arrow and let it fly right into the man’s cold heart.
Martha had warned that Winnie’s anger would only serve to further cheat her of peace, that the only way to receive a quietness of spirit was to forgive. But to forgive the white men for the things they’d done felt like excusing their actions. Which was entirely unthinkable. And so the air of tension that permeated their settlement whenever news of General Andrew Jackson or the movement of the army reached them found a permanent residence within her. While her heart still sought rest, her mind nibbled on the pain of her past and the men responsible for it.
If only she could forget like Asa or move on like Isaac. They’d had no problem leaving their former life behind and embracing the new. Her brother, no longer holding on to survival with slipping fingers, thrived in the untamed landscape, under the instruction of Nokosi.
Nokosi, a man of mystery even after all this time. Though at one point she’d thought he’d scorned Isaac, she’d been surprised when he’d offered to teach her brother the ways of the warrior and mold him into a man Winnie was proud of. In a few days’ time, he would experience the ceremonies of manhood during the Green Corn festival.
“There are many dangers for you, Pakse.”
Winnie spun, water sloshing with her quick movement, and curled her toes around the sand at her feet to stay upright.
Nokosi stood at the bank, his tan skin glistening as the sun reflected off the sweat beading across his broad, naked chest. His turban was missing from his head, revealing thick black hair that framed his face and grazed his shoulders.