Rifiuto: Non Mirena

Thanks to MusicWithinMe for reviewing 3, and Reader aka Sun Samurai for reviewing 1, 2, and 3.

Be'er Sheva,

Israel

1989

Laughter filled the small house and Rivka looked up from her baking to see Timothy and Ziva dash through the house, out towards the olive groves. "Tizahehr, Timothy!" She sighed. "Tizahari! Zivaleh!" But the two children were gone, racing through the olive fields barefoot. In the year that the McGee children had been with them, both Timothy and Sarah had slowly worked their way out of their shells; he and Ziva had become fast friends, and Sarah and Tali- a mere few months apart- spent time together as much as their siblings did.

Rivka and Eli spoke to the children's parents often, and Timothy and Sarah delighted in phone calls from their parents, telling them what they learned in school and the things they'd done. Of course, it always broke Rivka's heart whenever Timothy asked when he and Sarah could return home to Ireland, to which their mother always replied,

"Not yet, love. But soon."

The first time he'd received that answer, the boy had slipped off to his room, breaking down in tears- he'd quickly turned to Rivka, making the association of maternal love- the closest he would get before he and Sarah could be back with their own parents. Oftentimes, the mere sound of Rivka's heartbeat was enough to calm the boy down.

However, it hadn't gotten any easier for the siblings when they started school. Instantly, rumors had circulated about the primary school that they were orphans from Europe, sent down to Israel for child labor, or perhaps they were runaways- rumors that had only served to isolate the McGee siblings even further in an already- to them- strange world. They were ridiculed for their red hair, their pale skin and green eyes, accused of being ghosts in bodily form or some strange fairies incarnated human, and their accents, their Irish language the Davids found so beautiful- was thought to be some strange form of witchcraft, for children didn't understand.

So when people discovered the truth behind the McGee children, of their flight from Ireland due to the danger, they turned sympathetic- something the children didn't need. Both children also seemed reluctant- and even resisted- making friends at school; it ended up with her girls growing close to the McGee siblings. They were playmates, partners-in-crime, best friends-

And maybe one day, Timothy and my Zivaleh will be lovers.

Rivka could only hope.

In the short year they'd been in Israel, she had grown to look on Timothy and Sarah as hers, and so had- to a lesser extent- Eli, though he would never admit it. Both were brilliant children, with beautiful, sharp minds that never lacked for curiosity. Yes, the McGee siblings were like a week-long thunderstorm to the Israeli family- refreshing, long-awaited, accepted.

Footsteps soon sounded and she looked up to see Sarah and Tali come into the kitchen. "Can we help, Ima?"

"May we help, Talia."

"May we?" Her mother chuckled.

"Ken, you may."

The girls quickly and eagerly set to helping her with the bread, and it wasn't long before Sarah broke her silence.

"I 'elp Mams." Rivka looked up at the now-six-year-old, surprised; neither Timothy nor Sarah spoke of their parents, keeping their memories to themselves.

"Do you?" The child nodded. "I bet you are a big help to her."

"... le's me lick the 'poon."

"When we 'ake cookies, Sarah." The child turned to her brother as Timothy came into the kitchen. "May I 'ave a glass o' wa'er, please?"

"Of course you may, Timothy. You do not have to ask every time you want something. This is your home for the time being as well." The boy remained quiet as he accepted the glass Rivka handed him and quickly filled it.

"Go raibh maith agat."

Rivka chuckled; the family had quickly learned the few Irish words the kids were willing to use around them. "Al lo davar." She watched as the boy made a beeline for the sofa in the living room; he curled up in the corner, watching Ari and Eli engaged in a chess match. A soft sigh escaped her throat, and she slowly turned back to her baking.

At ten-years-old, Timothy was a brilliant little boy, kind, generous, helpful, but on occasion, he'd slip into these "blue funks" as Rivka's friend Yael called them. Having gotten her psychology degree from Brown University, Yael later returned to Israel- Italian Catholic by birth, she'd met her husband, James Bashan- his mother's maiden name over his father's- while at college, and the two had traveled the world for years before returning to Israel to settle down. Both had later converted to Judaism, not long after their daughter Deena was born, in eighty.

"He needs time. You have to give him time, Rivka. Don't force it. To Timothy, this is like losing a loved one to death; let him mourn the separation. Eventually, he will understand why it had to be this way."

And while she understood, it was so hard.

"Timmy?" Rivka watched as Ziva came back into the house; she'd celebrated her eighth birthday two weeks earlier, though she hadn't lost that streak within her. "Do you not want to play anymore?" He met her gaze, before getting off the sofa and slipping back to his bedroom. As she went to follow, Eli grabbed his daughter's wrist.

"Leave him be, Zivaleh."

"But Abba-"

"He will be okay. Just give him time." Ziva glanced back at her father, before sighing and taking a seat on the sofa, watching her brother and father play, though she kept glancing at the hallway, wanting desperately to pull the boy from his room and take him olive picking. But all she could do was follow her Abba's instructions and leave him alone.