Author's Note: I apologize for having taken this long to update! Well, thanks to the following for leaving such lovely reviews last chapter! Oh, and a reply to their reviews, too!
lvcfhg: Thank you! Well, I only had this idea from Jay Asher's Th1rteen R3asons Why. Even though this is different, I still can't take credit (because I'll be more than likely sued if I did :P ).
Anony: Sure thing! And I'm glad you like it so far! =D
mollygibbs101: Sorry if I gave you a mini heart attack there, Molz. :P Hopefully you'd like this update, but. . . well, I don't want to spoil it. ;)
Fullmetal Embers: Okey dokey!
CSI-GSR-BILLY-LOVER: Well, for right now it is. ;) Can't give away much, though! Thanks for the nice reviews!
SpeicalAgentCrissyT: You got it!
Disclaimer: NCIS and the idea of this story do not belong to me. They belong to their owners.
"Timothy McGee, you said?"
Ziva nodded. She found it hard to be inside that funeral home, holding a bouquet of flowers and a white rose, knowing that McGee was dead. "Yes," she answered. "I know I am too late for it, but I would still like to pay my respects."
The director of the funeral home, a warm old woman with her white hair tied into a bun, only gave her a smile. Her dry red lipstick seemed to crack at the end of her lips, revealing its weariness. Her eyes sympathetically focused on Ziva. "I understand," she said, and then turned to the stringy man standing behind her guest. "You may go, Allan. As for you, Miss David, follow me."
It felt awkward as they walked along the corridor. Ziva fought back the lump forming in her throat. The chandeliers, aligned on the ceiling above the carpeted hallway, shed little light on them. They were weak, as if they were mourning themselves. There was nothing but silence in the building, too: no whispers, no conversations, no chuckles. Only the unspoken dirge that the walls cried to those who could hear. The flowers, although bright and colorful, seemed to have ridden of their scents. They have torn those away from themselves. They only serve as a memory now, soon to wither away from the strangers' minds like those people who have died.
"I'm Mrs. Freya Alyosha, by the way," the elder woman said as she held the door open for Ziva. "Like I said, I am the director of this funeral home."
Ziva reluctantly came in to the small office. "Ziva David," she introduced herself, looking around. The darkness swelled more after Freya closed the door. It made the tall shelves and the oak drawers and tables ghastly and melancholic.
Freya sat behind her desk, gesturing for the younger woman to take a seat opposite her. "You said you were here because of Timothy, correct?" she asked.
"Yes. Actually, I am here for Margaret Lowell," she said, and then slid the ribbon towards Freya.
"I see," she solemnly nodded after checking it. "Now he did tell me that you might be here one day. In fact, he left something for you." She bent down a bit after pulling out one of the drawers, and then fished for the item. "Tsk. Where is it? I just saw it here yesterday."
"Um, if I may, Mrs. Alyosha—"
"Please," she chuckled, "I prefer Miss Freya. Mrs. Alyosha just. . ." she sat up momentarily, pensive. "It just reminds me of my age. Not a nice subject when it comes to mind, you know?" she grinned weakly at Ziva, and then went back to her search.
Ziva couldn't help but smile. "Well, Miss Freya," she corrected, "I want to ask you about Tim. When did you last see him?"
"He was here a few months back," came Freya's muffled response. "All throughout Mrs. Lowell's wake. It lasted about three, four days."
"Was someone else with him? Like the family of the deceased?"
"As far as I know, he was Mrs. Lowell's only family. He was the only one here. Oh, I really felt pity for the boy. He used to sit there in the room alone. Sometimes I join him, talk to him. I'd ask him if he was alright, and he would just smile. He would say he needed to be there for her. I ventured on the last day, though, before she was cremated, to ask him if she was his relative. He said she was like his mother. And then before he left, he gave me this," she answered, hauling a large photo album to the top of the table. She sighed. "He said one day Ziva would come to take a look at it. True enough, you are here."
Ziva pulled the album closer to her. The hardbound covers were anything but tattered. They were stained and faded. She allowed her fingers to touch the front flap, and then she lifted it up. Under the desk lamp, she watched as the gold ink that read Margaret Lowell glimmer on the first page. Already, she was filled with questions. Tim hadn't mention her to them before. But why not, considering that he regarded her as a mother?
"I'll be outside if you need anything, Miss David," Freya stood up. She glanced at her once more before stepping out, closing the door shut behind her.
Immediately, Ziva saw a picture of a tall woman, perhaps in her thirties, wearing a flower print dress. She beamed at the camera while she held an apparently squirming little baby boy in her arms.
Ziva smiled. That must be Tim.
She turned another page, and she saw a note beside a cut-out paper leaf. Tim-Tim's allergic with poison ivy. Very allergic. Make sure you tell Jenny about her little boy's problem, indicated the scribble. Then, another one with baby Timmy on a high-chair, captured in the middle of a sneeze, with what looked like a tail on the lower left corner. Put Fanny in a cage when Tim-Tim's visiting! He's allergic to cats.
As she flipped through pages after pages of the album, it was then that Ziva recognized Margaret's role in Tim's life. She was always there in every important event, even when his parents weren't. At any given time, both always appeared happy. Especially her. From Tim's first steps to his years of being a boy scout to his first day of high school, she was present.
And then came the part where Margaret and her husband had to move. Ziva knew because of that shot where Margaret and Tim stood behind a fully-loaded truck, the latter's eyes puffed up. My little boy. I told Roger that if we could have, we would have taken Tim-Tim with us. Things would have been a lot easier.
After that, she only had pictures of her and her husband. No children. Her grins and beams have waned into mere smiles.
Before the last pages, Ziva saw Tim's pictures again, but he's already grown up. There were only few pictures of him with his family. Mostly there would only be him and Margaret and, at one point, Roger. Back with our baby again! I can't believe that through all those years, he'd still look for us, she jotted on yet another piece of paper.
A farewell to my dear husband. I will always love you, Roger. Tim-Tim and I will always love you, said a note stuck on the side of what seemed like a withered red rose.
Ziva reached the final page and there, she saw Tim's picture with them—with the team—and one where he held a small baby boy while a young woman stood beside him with a smile.
To my dear Tim-Tim:
You know how much I love you. You're like the son Roger and I didn't dare to have. You're a handful as a baby! And you were enough for us anyways. We're just happy when you're with us.
I know you've wanted me to meet your friends at NCIS for so long, but I always seem to fall ill every time I try to visit. I'm really sorry. I feel bad, because you've told me a lot about your boss and Abby and Tony (who I owe a nagging at since he always play those tricks on you) and Ziva. If only I can come. I know how big of a decision taking that job was for you. Your eyes told me so when you talked to me about it. You said your mom and your dad didn't really want you there. Knowing Jenny, I know she became assertive. But they meant well, I'm sure. After all, you'd be putting your life on the line everyday.
And I would have said the same thing if I was your mom!
But Tim-Tim, I saw how content you are with your team. Plus, you've always enjoyed helping other people. If it is, then you should stay with the job that would make you glad.
I also received this picture of you and baby Joshua. Your baby's really cute, I tell you. The mother's beautiful, too, I should say. All three of you look perfect.
You're happy with your new families now, and they're also happy with you, I could tell. This will be a nice memory for me to remember before I go.
Sweetheart, I know you'll be sad. You shouldn't. Life's too beautiful for you to be. Your Daddy Roger and I wouldn't be so pleased to think of you as sad. I know other things had been getting in your way and bothering you, but you're a fighter. I know you can do it. You're not the type to back down. You had two moms and two dads that raised you as a great man. You know that.
Well, Tim-Tim, that's it for me. All I could do now is wish you well, both for your new baby and the girl you said you love.
Always your mom,
Mommy Margie
Ziva struggled to tear her eyes away from the letter. Another person lost, another reason why. Tim grieved for the death of the woman who had been like his mother. She has always been a part of the puzzle that was him and because she's gone, he was grappling to maintain all balance.
But it seemed to Ziva that the letter and one of the photos did the same to her. The woman and the baby. Tim's. He had a son now and a wife that he loved.
Right when she was already. . . already. . .
The door creaked open, and Freya stepped in cautiously. "Everything's alright, I hope?" she asked.
"Yeah. Yeah," Ziva nodded, masquerading the fact that her heart was being reduced into a frozen red puddle inside her chest. She stood up, the album in her hand. "I am alright," she said. "This album. You do not mind if I take it, do you?"
"Oh, no," Freya answered. "Actually, Timothy told me that that's yours to take." She chuckled. "He even called yesterday to check if he gave me the book."
Ziva froze. "He called yesterday?" she asked apprehensively. Yesterday. The same day Tony told him that Tim's gone.
Freya nodded. "Yes, he did," she said. "Only briefly, although. I think he was just making sure that he didn't leave it somewhere else."
"Okay," Ziva said, stunned. Absent-mindedly, she proceeded out of the door. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, Miss David," Freya said. "He even identified himself. And it had only been a while since he have gone. Even if I'm old I can still remember his voice."
Ziva took out her car keys and then her phone to call Ducky. "Thanks, Mrs. Alyosha—Oh, uh, Freya," she bid farewell before hurrying to her car.
She didn't wait for any response. Immediately, she unlocked the unperturbed vehicle, and then got in. After placing the album down to the passenger's seat, she dialed the medical examiner's number then waited until he answered his phone.
Glancing back at the album, she noticed that Tim's picture with baby Joshua and the woman had fallen to the floor. She stared at it. She was glad that Tim was alive. He was still out there, somewhere. However, it made her wince to think that he could be with his family. Maybe soon she would find him, but by then she couldn't tell her how she felt about him anymore. No. That privilege already belonged to someone else.
He already belonged to someone else.
"You called, Ziva?" Ducky answered his phone, breaking Ziva out of her trance.
"Ducky, it isn't Tim," she said, unable to hide her exhaustion anymore. "The person on the autopsy table; it is not him. I do not know why he had Tim's belongings, but it's not him."
I know it's not very nice of me to relieve you guys from Tim's death, only to replace it with the heavier load of him having a family. And the chapter's too dang short! But I'll be nice next chapter, don't worry. :)
It'll be longer! =D
Reviews greatly appreciated!