Original subtitles

He said he had to go out into the forest.

She told me her family got killed.

At first it was cute when she was telling us

about wagons in California, but then it

started taking a dark turn.

I wasn't so concerned about his stories

until he had to have a knife.

There was more going on with my daughter

than I had realized.

And he looks over at me,

says, you know, you weren't always my mother.

I had another family before you.

How was I going to help my youngin' get past this?

Because I wanted to help my daughter.

Trying to be strong about it.

Could all his stories be true?

Is this actually happening?

Was he remembering another life?

My name's Annette.

I live in Brooklyn, New York.

I'm a writer and the author of a novel.

Brooklyn is a wonderful place to raise a family because there

are so many opportunities, and so many places to see.

So many things to do.

There's lots of culture.

There's a very low boredom factor here for children,

so it's been a great experience raising the boys here.

My boys are Auguste and Hayward.

Hayward is the first-born.

He's 22, and Auguste is 17.

When Auguste was born, I was completely shocked.

I thought that I was going to have a girl.

And I remember just staring at him for several minutes,

because I just couldn't believe it.

That was probably the only time in my life

where I've ever been completely surprised by something.

Auguste, he was very quiet.

He's a boy of few words because he sucked his thumb.

And he wouldn't take his thumb out

unless he had something important to say.

My name is Carlyle.

And Auguste is my son.

Auguste was always very affectionate,

and I think the biggest thing that I always

remember is that he was always very physical.

He always threw the ball well.

He was always very strong.

We had him in a gymnastics class,

and he was the only kid who could, like, really

hold himself up.

He had that real strong, intestinal strength and sort

of like a warrior mentality.

He has this very strong sense of honor.

And he was always a very, very good and loyal friend.

One time, I was reading a story to him

early one morning about a bird who falls out of his nest,

and doesn't know where his mother is.

And he's not sure who his mother is.

He goes around asking a bunch of animals, are you my mother?

Are you my mother?

I get to the end of the book, where the little bird does find

his mother, and he's very happy.

And the mother is so glad he's safe.

And he looks at me, and he says, well, I know who my mother is.

I know that you're my mother.

Because I saw you from up above the clouds.

I look at him and I said, really?

You saw me from way above?

He says, yeah, before--

before I came here.

So I said, well, how did you get to me, then, if you saw me?

He says, I had to jump.

And I had to slide down on a string.

And he says, it was a little scary, but I held on,

and I came all the way down to you.

And I said, where?

How did you get into me?

And he says, well, I came through the top of your head,

the crown of your head, all the way down.

And he traced his little hand down to my stomach.

And he didn't break his sentences at all.

Like, he-- he didn't break his thought the entire time

that he told me.

He says, I saw you.

I can see everything.

And I chose you.

He's not somebody who fabricates.

He's not somebody who repeats things,

and he doesn't believe in it.

He'll say things, and he'll say it

looking at you dead in the eye, and say, Dad, X, Y, Z.

He was so factual about everything.

That's why when he told me the story about how he chose me,

it stopped me and made me pay attention.

Because he would only talk about things meant something to him.

It was strange.

Auguste was a different type of learner.

When we started reading to him,

and he was learning his ABCs, and colors,

and things like that, he was completely

oblivious to that kind of understanding.

He didn't care about it at all.

As a toddler, it was like, what color is this?

He'd say yellow, and it was actually green.

And he'd just kind of go--

OK.

That's OK.

So he didn't stress over what he viewed to be kind of irrelevant

to him and to his peace center, his happiness.

Actually, the way that we got him to understand math

was to play blackjack with him.

So he really got the whole concept of math,

and adding things up by playing blackjack.

And that speaks to his competitive nature.

Auguste is very quietly competitive,

and he still is today.

Same thing with days of the week,

and months of the year.

They didn't have any context to him.

That wasn't interesting to him.

He was more fascinated with being outdoors.

He was just very different than other children.

I wasn't so concerned until he told me something that really

surprised me.

My name is Jeannie, and we live in Starr, South

Carolina, and we have six kids.

The oldest is our son, and the youngest is five.

And that's Olivia.

She's the baby.

There's only one red light in Starr,

and the population's right at 190 people.

Everybody knows everybody.

And we're just, like, a family.

You will definitely feel like you're in the country

because it's real quiet, and the only time you'll hear any noise

is usually when the roosters are crowing,

or a hen laid an egg, or something like that.

We live in an old peach orchard plantation.

We have horses, chickens, cats, dogs.

We have a creek in the back.

And I love it here.

You couldn't pay me to live in the city.

My husband's family is pretty much the dominant resident

on this road.

Our family, as far back as I can remember,

has been Southern Baptist.

We stick with our religion.

Being a stay-at-home mom is a nonstop job.

You don't get paid for it, but it's well worth the time.

I couldn't ask for more.

I told my husband, Douglas, that I was not

gonna have no more children after age 30,

because I wanted to be able to enjoy my children.

But apparently, God had other plans.

I had Olivia at the age 30.

I had no trouble with that pregnancy.

She was like a perfect pregnancy.

But when she came out, she came out with a bang.

Because she was here in 13 minutes.

Olivia has always been very motherly.

She takes care of the other children.

Out of all my sisters, I'm closest to Olivia.

She likes to help when nobody's asking her.

And if she can't do it, she'll do it, anyways.

Her teachers even told me Olivia was so motherly--

I mean, she would run to the child if they fall or get hurt,

and she'll try to help them up, or she'll run to the teacher,

and she'll say, such and such just got hurt.

We need to take care of them.

I see her trying to take care of me.

I can be crying.

She'll come up to me and pat me on the back and hug me.

And she'll tell me, it's OK, Mama.

Even though she was motherly, she's still a Mama's girl,

no matter what.

I mean, she wouldn't cling to nobody else.

There was this tight bond.

She didn't want to stay with nobody else.

Like, if I go to town or something,

she would run and get in the car before I could.

No!

No.

Can I go?

When Olivia hears keys rattling, or Mama,

she hears her pick up her pocketbook, she flips out.

She starts screaming, and she starts

running towards the door.

She runs to the car, and tries to get in.

No!

No!

It's really extreme, as far as I seen.

No!

I think Olivia thinks Mama's never gonna come back for her.

None of my other children ever did anything like that.

It's very hard for me to see her, or hear her pitching a fit

to go with me.

I feel like I'm abandoning my daughter.

No!

- All right, come on. - No!

But I'm not.

I'm just going to the store to get some food,

so I can feed he.

Or, you know, get gas, or something.

I ain't going nowhere.

It's-- it's just not easy.

As Olivia got older, the fear of abandonment escalated.

I felt like I was at a dead-end road.

I didn't know where I was going, what

I was doing, how was I gonna help my youngin' get past this.

I soon recognized there was more going on with my daughter

than I had realized.

My five-year-old daughter, she's normally a mature child.

But whenever I'd try to leave, she would go hysterical.

It made me sad.

But that was only the beginning.

One day, my husband brought home a guitar from where he worked.

And Olivia just picked it up, and just started playing.

Olivia has never, ever played a guitar before in her life--

never.

I was surprised she even knew how to hold a guitar.

She's never played one before.

She adjusts the knobs, and she just started singing,

maturely.

And the song she was singing wasn't, like, "Old McDonald,"

or "B-I-N-G-O."

She knew what she was singing.

She was in rhythm with the guitar.

And I've never actually seen her sing before.

But when she did it, it was like she was a natural.

And I looked at her, and I said, where'd

you learn how to sing like that?

She said, Mama, I used to be a singer.

I used to live in California.

Then I moved to New York.

I had a family before I came to y'all.

And I said, who was in your family?

She said, I lived with Indians.

I said, was you an Indian?

She said, no.

I was a white girl.

She's got quite an imagination--

a little more advanced than a typical five-year-old.

I asked Olivia, I said, well, how did

you get from place to place?

Did you drive a car or ride a motorcycle, airplane?

She said, no, Mama, we had wagons, and we had horses.

That's how we got around.

It blew my mind.

She has only been on this Earth for five years.

How would she know anything about the 1800s, 1700s?

I know I never taught it to her.

First, it was cute when she was telling us

about wagons in California.

But then, it started taking a dark turn.

She told me her family got killed.

My 3-year-old son, Auguste,

told me that he chose me to be his mother before he was born.

Not too long after he told me about how he chose me, and slid

down on a string into me, it was another night--

this was when I was putting him to bed--

and he looks over at me and says,

you know, you weren't always my mother.

I had another family before you, and you weren't with me.

I thought that was kind of strange.

He said that my family sent us out.

We had to go.

I remember him saying over and over again, we had to go.

We had to go out into the forest.

And I just listened to him.

And he said, in the forest, we had to look for,

and I had to get my animal.

When he'd start looking back and forth as if he was walking back

and forth, or pacing, it seemed like he was acting it

out a little bit right in front of me.

I was concerned that it could have been frightening for him.

I remember him saying, I was a boy.

He said, I wasn't a man.

Auguste told her that he went out into the woods.

And they had a specific task that they had to complete,

that all boys had to go through.

There was danger involved.

There was skill that you had to use in order

to complete your task.

And he went out and did it.

That would be a rites of passage.

We knew that we'd never talked about a rites of passage,

a quest, or something-- going out into the jungle,

into the wild, and completing a task.

We didn't have that conversation.

And as far as I knew, he didn't see things like that on TV,

and definitely not in the movies.

Because we were at every movie they had gone to at that point.

So it was just something that did come from--

from nowhere.

When he was about four and a half, one evening,

just before bed, again, he jumps up on top of the bed,

and he says, this is the dance that we used to do.

And he jumped forward and back, step forward and then step

back.

I think it just came upon him sometimes.

And then, that was it.

It just, like, blew through him, and he would stop.

Auguste loved to collect things, whether it's

at the beach, he would pick up rocks,

whether it was in the park, he would pick up a little piece

of glass, string, anything-- whatever he thought

had some sort of significance.

We had to spend a lot of time waiting for Auguste,

who had to inspect everything.

He would test out sticks.

We'd have to go deeper into the park.

He didn't really want to just stay in the meadow.

He'd want to walk and stomp on stuff.

And then he would pick up these sticks,

and he'd drag them back with him.

He was displaying this sort of hunter-gatherer kind

of behavior.

And we would always have to dump out his pockets every night.

It was, like, you know, with the sticks and the feathers

and the stones.

And they were important to him.

In the beginning, they seemed like just a kid's rambling,

just I'm picking up stuff.

But it was consistent.

And it was consistently the same things.

I didn't know what was going on.

I wasn't so concerned until he had to have a knife.

My son, Auguste, remembers choosing me to be his mother.

And he remembers saying that he had another family

and that he had to go out into the forest to find his animal.

First he collected all those sticks, and that was fine.

It was like, OK, fine.

You can collect the sticks.

But then, there was another level to it after a while.

He says, well, I need to sharpen them.

He kept going on and on.

And he says, I used to have knives.

He says, I know how to use a knife.

We don't own guns.

We don't own knives.

We don't go hunting on the weekend.

We'd say, you know, obviously, you're too young.

And what are you going to do with a knife?

What are you going to do with it now?

You're just going to be able to look at it.

Because we're not going to let you use it.

And he says, no, I won't use it.

I'll just hold on to it.

I just want to look at it.

You know, he'd try every angle he could,

just to get the knife.

So we said, OK, well, if you're just

going to get it just to look at it-- it's decorative-- then

we'll just get you some little knives.

OK, we'll get it, only if-- only if you never take it out.

You never show it to anybody.

We keep it where you can't get access to it all the time.

So we got him several little knives, all different

kinds.

And he would look at it, be excited about it.

And I felt that he was appreciating the workmanship.

After about the fourth or fifth night,

he came home from school.

And he said, Mom, I really want to go out in the yard

and sharpen one of my sticks.

We'd never let him do that before.

Maybe if I let him do it one time,

he'll get it out of his system, and he'll leave me alone.

He won't ask me anymore.

So I said, OK.

You have to go outside, and I have

to stand right next to you, and I'll see how it's going.

And then, we'll stop, and you'll come inside and have a snack.

So he said, OK.

And we go outside, and I sit down with him,

and he just stripped the whole thing down

to a point in, like, no time.

So then, he just looks at me.

I'm not bleeding.

I'm fine.

And I know how to use these knives.

But he was only, like, six.

I was surprised that he even knew what to do with it.

And I was impressed, as well, that he knew that this was

a tool, and not a weapon.

He was very proud of himself.

And he held on to that stick for a long, long time.

Some of the things he told me might point to a vision quest,

the way I understood it.

So I started to do a little research about that.

Because I didn't know anything about native rituals,

and what were some of the things that boys or men did.

And I did find some records of some tribes

on the border between Panama and Costa Rica that had what I felt

were some similarities to the story that Auguste was telling.

Something that was a bit more mystical than just a ritual.

I kept thinking of this thing very logically,

but I still had a lot of questions.

Just before his eighth birthday, we were out in Long Island

at a small beach, and he was playing with his brother.

It was a bay beach, so there were lots of shells,

and lots of different kinds of polished stones.

He picks this one stone out, and he runs over to me,

holds it up, and says, this is an arrowhead.

I look at it.

It looked like a rock to me.

And I said, really?

And he says, no, this is an arrowhead.

He was positive.

So we all gather around him, and everybody's looking down

at this stone.

He turns it over, and he says, something's wrong with it.

This is not the kind that I used to use.

This one's different.

I didn't know what was going on.

My five-year-old daughter was very different

from my other children.

She had an attachment to me that I did not feel was normal.

No!

But at the same time, she had a maternal side of her

beyond her years.

And what was more surprising is when she started singing

and playing a guitar, and she's never, ever had a lesson.

That's when I became worried.

She said, I had brothers and sisters.

They got killed.

And me and my sister would live with the Indians.

I said, were the Indians nice?

She said, some were nice, and some were mean.

Well, which ones did you live with, mostly?

She said, the nice ones.

She said, I didn't like the mean ones.

They're the ones that killed my family.

When she told me her family was killed,

I was like, your family's here.

We didn't die.

Was this a dream, or it's real?

She would look like she had a burden on her shoulder.

And she'd look down, and then she'd look back up

at me, real sad-like.

Her face got real long.

It was like a replay in her mind, I reckon.

It made her sad.

Me and Olivia, we're, like, really close.

And she'd let me play with her hair, rub her face, you know,

stroke her little nose.

But when I get to her chin, she would draw back, like,

don't touch my chin.

I have never seen my daughter like this, never.

She was always, you know, smiling, happy.

But now, she was starting to get more emotional.

It made me feel emotional for her.

I do remember asking her, I said, did you

have any children?

She said, yes.

I had a bunch of 'em.

How many did you have?

She said, Mama, it will go from 13 to 100.

I said, how is that?

She said, I cared for all the children.

So I'm assuming she helped take care

of the children in the tribe.

But then, I asked her, I said, specifically,

how many did you have?

I had three.

She said I had two Indian boys, but I couldn't take them

with me.

But I had a little girl.

I would have never believed it, or had any interest

in trying to learn anything about it until I realized

that my daughter, she knows too much for a five-year-old.

But then, again, I had another thought in my head--

is this actually happening?

Was my daughter a part of a reincarnated life?

Reincarnation is something me and my husband never talked

about.

Because we wasn't brought up around it.

Growing up Baptist, you have one life, and when you pass,

you either go to heaven, or you go to Hades.

But our daughter is trying to tell us something,

and we need to help her with it.

I called my friend that is very familiar because she

is a member of a Indian tribe.

They do believe in reincarnation.

And she was explaining to me how I could help Olivia.

She told me how important it was to help her identify who she

was to get past the trauma of her past life,

so she could move on and enjoy this life.

It started seeming more real.

More and more of the puzzles were being put together.

It was important for me to do the research,

because I wanted to help my daughter.

But the more research I did, the more frightened I got.

And what I learned about brought tears to my eyes.

My son, Auguste, was obsessed with knives

and had the skills to use them, even though he hadn't been

taught.

He believed he had found an arrowhead,

and I had no idea what to make of that.

He turns it over in his palm of his hands, and he says,

something's wrong with it.

This is not the kind that I used to use.

This one's different.

And I said, well, what's different about it?

And he didn't even say a word.

He gets a piece of paper, and he draws me a little sketch.

He says, this is the kind that I used to use.

His arrowhead had more of a notch at the bottom.

He said to me that night, we have to go to the museum.

And I'm going to ask them about this arrowhead.

So I said, OK, fine.

We'll do that when we get back to New York.

When we get back to the city.

But every single day, he would sit and stare at the stone.

Every night, he's staring at it.

He's feeling it.

He's turning it over and over.

He's talking about it.

He says, I know what this is.

I need to know who used to use it.

Where did it come from?

And who was around here?

I had no idea.

I had no concept of the indigenous groups

out in Long Island.

And still, I was a little skeptical.

And I, actually, was wondering how

he would feel if they said it wasn't an arrowhead, that it

was just a rock.

Then I didn't want him to be brokenhearted about it,

so I was like, OK, we're going to have to go through this.

So I took him one day after school.

I walk up to the librarian.

I said, is there anyone here who could look at this rock

that my son found and perhaps tell us something about it?

He takes it out of his pocket, and he hands it to the man.

And he takes it over to a desk, and he looks at it.

And we're all wondering what he's going to say.

Auguste was right.

This really is an arrowhead.

Looking back on many things that happened,

I know that there's no mistaking what he said to me.

This was the physical proof for him and also a way

to bring it full circle, that it wasn't just his imagination,

that he was just dreaming, or making up a story.

He's a little boy from Brooklyn.

And he was also an Indian boy.

Now that I've got this piece of information,

there's no doubt in my mind that he lived another life.

One day, my five-year-old daughter

came to me and told me her family was killed.

She said it like she was recalling the memory.

A friend of mine brought it to my attention

that my daughter was talking about a past life.

And it stopped me in my tracks.

It woke me up.

Olivia had a lot more to tell me.

But her family being massacred was just the beginning.

Olivia told me that her sister was in her arms, and she died.

And she was telling her, stay with me, stay with me.

And she didn't stay with her.

My name is Olivia, and I'm five years old.

It's just heartbreaking to know that my daughter

remembered-- sorry--

that my daughter remembered that her sister passed away

in her arms.

It was so detailed, and it is very emotional.

At first, I didn't know how to help her.

But the more research I did, I didn't have nothing to lose.

I just wanted to help her.

I was trying to find the pioneer teenager that

was taken by Indians.

I looked at, like, over 60 females.

And the only pioneer female I could

find that matched all the details that she had given

me was Olive Oatman.

I was able to find this book about Olive Oatman's life.

In 1851, Olive Oatman--

and her family was of a Mormon religion--

they joined a wagon train, and headed out west

towards California.

And they came to a river, and they

decided that they was gonna settle there for the night.

And a group of Indians came up.

They raided their wagon and killed Olive's family,

except for her and her little sister, Mary Ann.

She told me her sister's name was Mary Ann,

and that did match.

They took Olive and Mary Ann to their tribe.

They tortured them, mimicked them, spat on them,

and treated them like slaves.

That's exactly how Olivia said it.

She said they were very hateful, and very mean to her.

I mean, I just couldn't believe all the stuff

that Olivia had told me was pretty much the same thing.

When I read about Olive Oatman's family being killed,

I realized that was the part where Olivia's

having the abandonment issue.

It made me angry, but that was the past.

Now that's what I'm dealing with,

is I'm trying to help my daughter with her past,

and move forward.

After a year, Olive and her sister, Mary Ann,

were traded to a group of Indians called the Mojave

Indians, which, they were very nice,

and treated them with love and care.

Olivia did say she lived with some good Indians, as well.

And that did match.

The Mojave Indians gave Olive and her sister, Mary Ann,

a tattoo on their chins.

That's their sign of representing that they

are a part of their tribe.

They're a part of their group.

It made the complete connection why Olivia is very sensitive.

She does not like nobody touching her chin, because she

will literally draw back.

The more and more I did on the research of Olive Oatman,

I was excited.

I wanted to know more.

It was like I was feeding off of it.

I want to know more.

I want to know more.

But I have never been more afraid.

My son, Auguste, believed

he had found an arrowhead, and I had

no idea what to make of that.

We went to the museum, and he hands the arrowhead to the man.

And he says, you're right, young man.

This is an arrowhead.

In this case, I was happy to be proved wrong.

Because it just confirmed all of the stories

that he had been telling me for years.

Auguste was very, very proud of the fact

that he recognized something that no one else could

recognize.

And it was because it was something that he used to use,

something that he used to make.

So he kept that arrowhead, which he still has to this day,

in a little pouch on his bed.

He never goes to sleep without it.

He checks to make sure it's there every night.

I'm Auguste.

I'm 17.

and I just finished my senior year of high school.

Getting the arrowhead authenticated

was one of the last moments of me remembering past memories.

And in a way, I feel the arrowhead really

represented my memories.

My mother's mother, I found out very late in life,

was adopted.

I felt that there was so much I didn't know

about my grandmother, so I did some research

and went into this whole genealogical thing.

I discovered that Grandma, my grandmother,

was part of a tribe in either Costa Rica or Panama.

I think it's very interesting that my family is

connected to a Central America tribe.

I'm not sure if that directly correlates

to my personal experience.

Maybe it does.

I think the context of the research

that I was doing that I was presenting to him,

he wasn't sure if this was what he lived,

or if it was this particular group, or not.

It's just an area of mystery.

Through my mom accepting my past experiences,

it allowed me to accept it, in a way.

Because I knew I wasn't alone.

And I guess that made me feel safe--

that it was OK to say these types of things.

It was just a feeling of acceptance.

My mother used to say to me all the time--

she said, there are no mistakes, and there are no coincidences.

And when I was younger, I didn't think that that was true.

But looking back on many things that happened,

and the stories that Auguste has told me,

I know that there's no mistaking what he said to me,

and what it should mean to me.

I've discovered that Auguste has transferred

his tribal mentality to baseball.

And he brings that same warrior-type mentality

to his teammates.

Auguste is, absolutely, still the warrior.

I use tribe and family interchangeably.

We're a family, and we always have each other's backs.

The way that I understand it, I think he's now invested

in this life, so he doesn't need to remember that anymore.

I think he's brought from the past with him

the positive aspects of whatever he lived before.

And I feel that he's moving upward with beauty and grace,

and I couldn't be more proud of him.

My future-- it's another life.

There's pain.

There's beauty.

And through all of it, it's still life.

I've always been confused about time, especially when I was

younger.

It seemed like just a few blinks,

and everything can be over.

Life has already passed by.

And it's what you do in between the blinks that really defines

you.

And remembering that maybe there is another chance

for another life really makes me want to do the best I can now.

And just the main thing is just love, I guess.

Well, my five-year-old daughter, she said, Mama,

I used to be a singer.

I used to live in California.

Then I moved to New York.

I had a family before I came to y'all.

But then it started taking a dark turn.

She told me her family got killed.

When Olivia kept telling me she used

to be a singer, I didn't really understand it until I read

the book about Olive Oatman's life,

where her and her sister, Mary Ann,

would sing for the Mojave Indians.

They would sing hymns, and stuff.

And the Mojave Indians gave them beads and stuff

as rewards, or as thank yous.

And they indulged in it.

They loved it.

And then it just made sense when my daughter said, Mom,

I used to be a singer.

Another thing that matched up, you get further

on into the book, it did speak where Olive did take care

of all the children in the tribe,

where Olivia kept telling me she had between 13 to 100 kids

she'd take care of.

And it was blowing my mind.

But we got further into the book, it made sense.

She did take care of all these other children in the tribe.

Five years after Olive Oatman was captured,

the Army had got word that there was a white woman living

with the Indians.

And they met up with the Indian chief,

and negotiated to get her back.

I asked Olivia, did she want to leave the tribe?

She said, no.

But she had no choice.

When the Army made the trade, Olive Oatman moved to New York,

like Olivia says.

She lived in California and moved to New York.

It did scare me, I mean, because it was so true.

I mean, it was like a five-year-old's story

becoming reality.

I can't say I'm 100% certain that my daughter, Olivia, is

Olive Oatman, but everything is fitting in like a piece

of puzzle.

The research was a little aggravating.

But I eventually found track of where I needed to be,

and I wanted to go more into depth

of what I was looking for.

And it all added up, especially when I got looking.

And I thought, well, let's see if this Olive Oatman looks

anything like my daughter.

When I showed her the first picture of Olive Oatman ever,

I filmed it.

I wanted to see her expression.

I did shed some tears.

Because she was looking--

I said, Olivia, does this woman look familiar to you?

Does this lady you look familiar to you?

Her face looks like me.

Her face looks like you?

Mm-hmm.

See that and that?

I looked at her.

I said, does she?

She said, Mama, she's got my face.

When you look at her, their bone structures are almost the same.

I think that's when it dawned on Olivia,

I think we found her match.

I feel like I'm better equipped to helping her now

that we've made that connection.

Olive Oatman had many different names

that the Indians called her.

Some was not very nice.

But the one that Olivia remembers,

they called her Leaf Feather.

That's the name she remembers.

Leaf Feather.

In order to help Olivia, I would like to memorialize

Olive Oatman's life by throwing some feathers into the creek

and releasing this torment of memories,

so she can move forward in this life.

The feathers would represent Olivia's life with the Indians.

Olivia has memories of losing two families, in this lifetime,

at the age of five--

the Oatman family, and the Indian family

that she became a member of.

But I want her to realize, in this life,

nobody is gonna take her family away from her.

We are here.

We are there.

And we are very close to her, and we love her very much.

And we want her to realize the tragedy is over.

The heartbreak is over.

Enjoy what you have now.

And I'm hoping that she will be able to separate herself

from her past life in this life, so she'll

know it's OK to be away from me, as her mother.

And then, she could just be Olivia.

Just be a regular child, and enjoy her childhood.

She ain't got to worry about all the torment, and all

the responsibilities she had to deal with back then.

Well, Olive Oatman having such a great spirit to persevere,

and I know my daughter.

I know she'll have the same great spirit, as well.

And I am very excited for her future.

Separation anxiety disorder can be pretty severe.

I mean, you can get to the point where it can cause a heart

attack.

So yes, she needs to be treated.

She's doing real good.

Everything's out in the open, out on the table.

Everybody understands where she's coming from,

what she's experiencing.

And now, I feel that we are secure,

and that we're going to be on the right track.

It's a slow process.

Each time, I can extend my time away from her,

where I can actually be able to be gone, like a normal mother

would be, to go grocery shopping,

and her know that I will be back.

I'm looking forward for Olivia having closure

in her past life, so she can be the Olivia that I'm supposed

to have in this life.