Would like to point out that adoption is frequently placed in an unfavorable light in this chapter, but it's because of the circumstances Tony is facing. It's not meant as a personal affront to anyone who adopts or is adopted; in fact, I love adoption and plan to do it myself someday.
Five months
Tony stood in the middle of Ziva's guest bedroom, admiring his handiwork. The bed had been pushed against the wall to make room for the brand new Graco crib with dark cherry finish. He had even stretched brown and pink polka-dotted sheets over the mattress and spent half an hour trying to figure out how to attach the pink dust ruffler to the bottom.
Eventually, he got it on correctly, and now he was trying to wrap his mind around what he had just done: assembled and decorated a crib for his little girl.
Last week, he and Ziva had gone in for a check-up, and Ziva had wanted to find out the baby's gender. This surprised Tony, because if she was hell-bent on giving up the baby, why would she care if it was a boy or a girl? And then, he realized that it might mean she was reconsidering. No such admission had been made to him, but then again, this was Ziva. Pregnant Ziva. Her moods were swinging all over the place and she was making twice as many threats as usual; it was to be expected that if she didn't want to discuss something, she sure as hell wouldn't.
So today, he had taken off work (by sending Gibbs a nervous e-mail reminding him that he did have comp time so, really, he couldn't be fired for not coming for one day), bought a crib and bedding, and headed to Ziva's apartment to assemble it. His hope was that seeing it there, in her home, would prompt her to fully embrace the idea of keeping their daughter where she belonged: with them.
It was just after six. The sun was setting outside. Unless there was a case, Ziva would be home soon, so Tony sauntered into the living room, plopped down on the couch, and turned on the TV. As he flipped through the channels, he couldn't completely focus on what he was watching- his mind kept wandering to the crib, to the child, to Ziva. To what she would say when he showed her his handiwork.
At a quarter past seven, he heard the key in the lock and sat up, turning off the TV as he went. Ziva stepped into the apartment, caught sight of her boyfriend sprawled across her couch, and jumped, one hand landing on her swollen stomach.
"What are you doing here?" she asked him, starting to take off her coat. Tony hurried to help her. "Have you been running up my cable bill all day?"
"Only for about an hour," he said with a smug smile. Ziva rolled her eyes, and he took her hand. "Listen. I have something to show you."
"Some food? I'm starving."
"Not yet, but if you hang with me for two minutes, I'll make you whatever you want." With that, Tony dragged her down the hallway, past the bathroom, past her bedroom, and to the guest room. They stood side by side in front of its closed door, and he, feeling excited and proud and scared, pushed it open.
For several seconds, Ziva took in the crib with no expression on her face. Tony watched her, waiting for a reaction. Finally, she looked over at him and said, "We will not be needing that."
"What?" He jogged over to the crib and draped his arm over it. "Ziva. Look at this. It's your favorite kind of wood. I would know; I've gone furniture shopping with you. I got this color on purpose, because I knew you'd love it." There was no change on her face. "And the dust ruffler? I didn't even know what it was called until I talked to the saleslady. But I knew you had one on your bed, so maybe you would like it on your baby's crib, too."
Tony watched her, the look on his face resembling desperation, but Ziva didn't smile or laugh or seem impressed with his taste in cribs and bedding. Instead, she shook her head slowly and started to turn away.
"Wait." He took three huge steps toward her, stood in front of her and clasped her hands, ready to try one last time. "Ziva, I know some part of you wants this baby. You asked for the gender. You know you're at least curious about her. Maybe you should think about keeping her."
"Tony," Ziva said in a very measured, controlled tone of voice, "I just wanted to have that information so we could give it to the adoption agency." She turned around and strode down the hallway without looking back. He felt like he'd just been punched in the stomach.
Six months
A woman named Melinda sat in Ziva's living room. She was about Tony's age and had blonde hair cut in a perfect bob. In her lap were lots of folders, each containing lots of papers, probably pertaining to the process they would take to give up their baby. Since arriving at the apartment, Melinda had been extremely chipper and pleasant.
Tony couldn't stand her.
She turned her wide, too-friendly eyes on Ziva. "You would like me to place the child as soon as possible, correct, Ms. David?"
"Yes."
Tony silently seethed as Melinda continued to look at Ziva, not bothering to ask his opinion on the matter. "I can begin an active search now, then. Hopefully we will be able to get the screening process done with by the birth."
Unable to remain silent any longer, Tony blurted out, "Are you gonna take her right after she's born?"
Melinda turned her wide, too-friendly eyes on Tony. "That's the goal, Mr. DiNozzo. It would be ideal if we had already found a home for her by then."
He looked to Ziva, but she wouldn't meet his gaze. Her eyes remained trained downward, focused on her belly. Why was she doing this to herself? To them? They had- or so he'd thought- a mutual desire for a family. Maybe it was easier said than done. Maybe her doubts hadn't come into play until she stood staring at a positive pregnancy test.
"If the two of you could sign this form for me," Melinda said, positioning a clipboard in front of them, "I can start working on it this week."
Ziva picked up a pen and signed her name, then slid the form over to Tony. He sat, frozen, remembering what she had told him months ago: he could take the baby. He didn't have to give her up.
"We can change our mind, right?" he asked, looking at Melinda.
"We are not-"
"I'm not asking for you," Tony interrupted Ziva. "I'm asking for me."
With only a slight crease in her smooth brow, Melinda said, "The biological parents do have the right to change their mind upon birth."
If he did decide to raise their daughter, he would be a single parent; Ziva was making it very clear that she had no intention of being a parent. Could he do it alone?
With a loud sigh, Tony lifted the pen and signed his name.
Seven months
It was past midnight and the lights in the bedroom were out, but Tony was wide awake. He was stretched out on his back, hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. Thoughts chased each other in circles through his mind.
Ziva lay on her side, her back to him, asleep and snoring. They had planned to go out to dinner earlier, but she had been tired and wanted to stay in, so he picked her up and brought her to his apartment, where they ordered pizza and had a Pirates of the Caribbean marathon. (No, that wouldn't have been his first movie choice, but pregnant, hormonal Ziva usually got her way.) And then, because it was late, they had both gone into Tony's bedroom and collapsed in the bed. Ziva was out the second her head hit the pillow, but he had been lying awake for half an hour now, contemplating the state of… everything.
Two months. There were only two more months until they would meet their baby for the first, and probably the last, time. His reservoir of hope was nearly depleted now. On the off chance it could still affect her, he had left the crib up in the guest room, but all she had said about it was that he had better return it soon if he wanted his money back.
Maybe, he told himself, it's time to give it up. If he began to accept the situation now, it might not be so hard to give the baby away when she was born.
Just as he had resolved to do so, though, Tony glanced over at Ziva and saw her shifting from her side to her back. Her large stomach rose like a mountain from the rest of her body. Before thinking it through and considering the fact that, again, he was dealing with a pregnant Ziva, Tony found himself leaning over and whispering her name. She groaned low in her throat. "Ziva, wake up."
Her eyes opened and her hand instinctively shot out; luckily, Tony had enough foresight to quickly duck out of the way. When she registered who had awakened her, Ziva gritted her teeth. "Tony. What do you want?"
"I have to ask you something."
"Is it so important that you had to wake me in the middle of the night?"
"Yes."
She remained lying down, but looked at him; he was sitting up and staring at her. They held each other's gaze for several long seconds before Ziva snapped impatiently, "Well, what is it?"
"Oh." Note to self: Don't ever disturb Ziva's sleep again. "I was just wondering… do you really not want the baby?"
That obviously wasn't the kind of question she was expecting, and it was at least a full thirty seconds before she answered. Tony waited, heart pounding so hard he thought it would jump out of his chest. And then, when she softly said, "Of course I want her, Tony," it skipped a beat. In a good way.
"Then we should keep her," he said eagerly.
"It is not that simple," Ziva said, her voice breaking, and he felt the excitement leave his body as disappointment sank in. He lifted his hand and lay it on her face, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb. As his index finger fell across the corner of her eye, he felt a drop of moisture hovering there. He wondered what she would do if he cried, too. "Tony, it is not a matter of me wanting her. I always have, from the moment I found out I was pregnant."
"Well, see, that makes more sense. You used to say you wanted children, so I don't… what changed?" His hand stayed pressed against her skin.
"Nothing. Except that I realized… I realized how wrong it is for someone like me to have something as wonderful and innocent as a child."
"That's still what this is all about? Look, I didn't buy that the first time you mentioned it, and I don't buy it now. What you've done doesn't matter. You deserve everything you want, and that includes a family." Repositioning himself, he leaned his forehead against hers. Her breath was hot on his lips. "You'll be a great mother."
For a moment, Ziva didn't say anything, and he allowed himself to hope that he had gotten through to her. But then she swiftly maneuvered her face away from his and turned back onto her side, facing the opposite wall. He sighed inwardly, but went back to his side of the bed. As he settled in, pulling the blanket up under his chin, she began to speak softly. "I will not keep you from your own daughter, Tony. You are much more worthy of raising her than I am."
Tony racked his brain for a response, but came up empty. Before he could sputter something out- even something simple but true, such as you're wrong- she was snoring again.
Eight months
For the past several months, Tony had been taking strange routes whenever he went to Wal-Mart. The goal was to avoid the baby section, which, he realized after Ziva got pregnant, took up a pretty large chunk of the store. From the main entrance, he took a left, walked all the way to the back, cut across the electronics (and, in the process, picked up a few movies), and then reached the grocery aisles. The fact that he went to all this trouble was probably some OCD thing he should be in counseling for; however, it was a well-known fact that he avoided shrinks at all times.
This had become Tony's automatic path to the groceries, but one day, when he was there to pick up some Little Debbie cakes (Ziva's pregnancy craving, of all things), he found his feet taking him to the baby section. Inside, he knew he shouldn't go over there, knew he should force himself to turn around, but before he knew it, he was standing it front of a bibs display. The one at his eye level was pink and had a bright purple flower on it. An image flashed through his mind, an image of a laughing baby girl wearing that bib while she was fed.
Shaking his head, Tony tore his eyes away from the bib and walked slowly down the aisle. Everything he saw was pink and purple, and they kept bringing more pictures of the little girl to mind. Where the heck was the boys' stuff?
At the end of the aisle, he turned the corner and ran right into a stray rack of onesies.
"Lovely place for that," he muttered, rubbing his arm, and his eyes happened to land on a onesie that read Daddy did my hair. For a moment, he just looked at it. Then he grinned and his hand- why couldn't he control his own body today?- grabbed it. He threw it over his arm, pushing to the back of his mind the fact that he had already spent money on a crib that would go unused.
He didn't care.
He also didn't hurry to get out of the baby section. Half an hour later, he bought a box of spaghetti, a jar of sauce, string cheese, three boxes of Little Debbies, and two onesies.
Nine months
"How you doing?" Tony asked for the eighth time since they arrived at the hospital a couple hours ago. He stood up from his chair and walked to Ziva's bed so he could grasp her hand. When she didn't answer, he said, "Hey. Ziva."
She turned toward him, and he saw that her face was pale, her eyes fearful. "What?"
"It's okay."
"I cannot do it, Tony." Ziva's voice was bordering on panicky, and he tried not to show it for her sake, but her being rattled was really freaking him out. "I just, I… I can't."
He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. Surrounded by machines and sheets, swimming in the hospital gown, Ziva looked especially small. He tried to calm himself down so he could, in turn, calm her down, but he was having difficulties. Eventually, he just leaned over and kissed her forehead. "I'll be here the whole time."
She started to sit up, then winced and placed a hand on her stomach as she lowered herself back down on the pillows. "Will you call Melinda?"
Oh, jeez. Was that woman coming to see the birth of their child, too? "Why?"
"To tell her I'm in labor. Use my cell phone. I have her number in my contacts."
Tony did as she said and went out in the hallway to make the call. When Melinda answered, she told him that she (still?!) had not placed the child. She said that she would be at the hospital the next day to discuss options, and at that point, he gave a terse "'bye" and flipped the phone shut.
0000000000
The evening became the night, and the night became dawn. Tony and Ziva both slept off and on, she in the hospital bed, he in a chair. Around six in the morning, Tony woke up from his current slumber to find his girlfriend's eyes drilling into the side of his face.
"What?" he asked, rubbing his chin self-consciously. "Do I need to shave? I didn't bring my razor."
To his horror, Ziva began to cry.
"Ziva, I'm sorry. I know, it was a stupid thing to forget; makes me wanna cry, too." Tony grinned uneasily, but Ziva just put her hands over her eyes. It looked like he wasn't going to be able to deflect his way out of this one. "What's wrong?"
"I can't do it," she sobbed. Did hormones reach all-time highs during labor? She had been moody for the past nine months, and she had cried a few times, but not like this. Tony watched helplessly as she made awkward, stunted movements, as if she wanted to hug her knees to her chest but then realized she couldn't because of the belly and baby in the way. "I can't give birth to her and then let somebody take her away."
Oh.
Every time Ziva had declared that she couldn't "do it," Tony assumed she meant labor, but that wasn't it. Of course not. Compared to some of her life experiences, giving birth to a child would probably be a piece of cake. It was giving up the baby.
She really, seriously didn't want to give up the baby.
"You don't have to, Ziva," Tony said, trying not to get his hopes up as he rubbed her back. "I can call Melinda right now and tell her she doesn't need to come."
"How do you still not understand?" Ziva shrieked, her head snapping up so she could glare at him. "I have to. It is my duty to my daughter, to let her be raised by somebody who is not a murderer, an ex-assassin." Just as quickly as it had come, the anger seemed to melt from her body, and she simply looked defeated. "I feel that I cannot give her up, yet I must."
How can she feel this way about herself? Tony wondered, looking at Ziva, his partner and world. With a deep breath and the feeling that if he was going to save his family, it was now or never, he leaned down so that they were eye to eye. "Do you really feel that you haven't changed at all since coming to NCIS?" he whispered urgently. "Because I don't. I have watched from the desk across from yours as you broke out of that Mossad mold and became you. That's the person I know will be raising our daughter. You. The real you, who is loving and gentle and good with kids and perfectly capable of raising one."
Ziva just looked at him. Her face wasn't showing any response to his little speech. One last idea popped into his head, and he darted over to the chair where he had thrown his duffel bag. He unzipped it and reached inside, then pulled out one of the baby outfits he had purchased. Hiding it behind his back, he walked back to the bed and said, "I have something for you."
"Tony," she said exasperatedly, but then he pulled it out and lay it in her lap. She looked at it, lifted a finger to stroke an embroidered flower… and then started crying all over again. Tony wasn't exactly sure what these tears meant, but judging from the way she reached out and wound her arms around his middle, he thought they might be good.
0000000000
Three hours later, a cluster of nurses and doctors stood around the foot of Ziva's hospital bed, two of them standing to the sides to hold her legs. Tony stayed by her head, stroking the hair off her face. After every push, she stared up at him with wide, hurt doe eyes, and he wanted to make it go away. He wanted to make all of her pain go away.
"One more, Ziva!" a nurse yelled. "One more should get her out!"
"Come on," Tony murmured, using his shirt to wipe sweat from her forehead. "You can do it, Ziva."
With a deep breath, Ziva gritted her teeth and pushed. A second later, the nurses cheered and a shrill cry filled the air. Tony craned his neck to see his little girl as they went to clean her off, and when he looked down at Ziva, she, too, was completely transfixed with the baby.
A nurse soon brought her over, bundled in a pink blanket. As Ziva took her, Tony noticed that her arms were shaking, and he reached out to hold them steady. That was how he ended up sitting behind her, arms around mother and child, chin resting on Ziva's shoulder.
"She has your face," he murmured.
"Your eyes," she replied in the soft, maternal voice he had known all along that she possessed. And then her lower lip began to quiver and she whispered, "Precious."
Tony loudly kissed her on the cheek, encouraging her but forcing himself not to become excited. She had spent months insisting that she would not take the baby home; her changing her mind today was too good to be true. Ziva cradled the baby, stroking her soft skin and tufts of hair, and he just watched her. Them. It was a sight he would love to see every day.
Another nurse came into the room, one who had not assisted in the delivery, and smiled at the new parents. "A woman named Melinda Anderson is here to see you. Would you like me to send her on back, or ask her to wait?"
Ziva's grip on the baby tightened, and she looked at Tony, almost as if she were asking for permission. "Do you think I can do it?" she asked quietly.
Can keep her. Can be a mother. That's what she meant. He dared to let his heart lift a little bit. "I've been telling you the whole time that you can."
"I really… do not think I can hand her over."
And even though this was a musing more than anything, Ziva didn't protest when Tony took a mile from the inch he'd been granted by instructing the nurse, "Tell her to scram."
