A/N: So, you know how I said this was going to be the last chapter? I lied. In my defense, when I told you that, I believed it to be true. It was only very recently—and after a boatload of heartsickness—that I realized there was too much to wrap up in a single update. I didn't want to cheat the story, or its lovely readers, out of a satisfying conclusion. Thus, this is the penultimate chapter; the final one is half written and I have a detailed outline of the epilogue, so hopefully everything will be out in timely fashion (for once).
Thanks in advance for your understanding. And special thanks to Allison, for being my "Salam crisis" counselor. Love you all. ~T
Chapter 28: Relapse
The signs were unmistakable—puffed-out bottom lip, hooded eyes, and overall stormy disposition—but Ziva had been suffering her own brand of discombobulated since the hotel incident and did not piece the clues together until Sana was having a full-out temper tantrum in the middle of Safeway.
It began with the defiant toss of a box of crackers, escalated over the subsequent admonishment from Ziva, and dissolved into a meltdown like the girl hadn't exhibited since perhaps the desert.
"My want the other one!" Sana cried in Arabic. Her face was blotchy, eyes red. She stabbed, hard, at the shelves that were filled with too many options. "The bunny ones!"
The soon-to-be-mother sighed, her patience with this merry-go-round of attempts to satisfy the child waning fast. Nothing seemed to please her, even when given what she supposedly wanted most.
"I already offered these to you," Ziva snapped, handing over the box of rabbit-shaped crackers again. "And I already told you we can get them."
Sana's pert mouth morphed into an upside-down 'U' shape, as if fishing hooks had sunk in and dragged down the corners. A few seconds of moping, then she tipped her chin toward the ceiling, and wailed.
This could not be about crackers alone.
As the first wave died off, Sana shoved away her guardian's efforts to soothe the fit—lashing out at any part of her in reach. "Go away! Go! My want Om! Where Om?" And more tears.
Such simple requests cut through Ziva swifter than the sharpest blade, puncturing her heart and embedding in the special garden where all her love for this child had taken root and bloomed over the past five months. Through it all, every arduous step of care and rescue, this…this was all she'd ever feared.
"Um, excuse me, ma'am?"
Robotically, Ziva turned toward the inquiring voice. The name tag on his starched-white shirt read Manager Don, but the employee couldn't have even been her age, not with his floppy hair and pale, wary expression.
"Yeah, we're getting complaints about the noise coming from…" His eyes darted to the still-screaming Sana and back. "Your cart. Is everything alright?"
What a question! Of course it is not alright, she longed to argue. Since when is it alright for a child to watch her parents murdered and then not be able to choose the type of crackers she wants?
Ziva wisely chose against the rant, instead narrowing her gaze at the insensitive employee. A potent look was worth many, many words.
Surprisingly, Manager Don wasn't dissuaded, cocking an eyebrow. "Are you sure there isn't a problem?"
Was he really insinuating… "I am not hurting her," Ziva stated sternly. "She is upset. Surely you have seen other—"
"Is this even your child, ma'am?" His tunnel vision scanned them over, documenting skin tone and hair color alone.
It took every ounce of restraint for her not to scoff, to yell, to list all the ways she was, in fact, everything for this child. However, an outburst to match Sana's would not solve anything. Calling on her old training, she channeled her frustration into the tight curling of fists at her sides.
"I am her…guardian," she seethed out, as much unsatisfied with the ambiguous definition as the employee.
But Sana's incessant cries demanded notice.
"And we are fine," she added, deftly unbuckling the belt around Sana's middle; once free, she hoisted her little girl out of the contraption and onto her hip. "We were just leaving, thank you."
Abandoning the cart of groceries with Manager Dan, she walked swiftly out of the aisle; and ignoring her racing pulse and the judging stares of other shoppers along the way, continued right out of the store and into the parking lot. Natural murmurs of comfort escaped her lips all the way to the SUV, but she wasn't actively calming Sana anymore. It would do no good.
This was no ordinary temper tantrum. It was something far worse.
And Ziva knew all too intimately how difficult this particular demon was to abate.
(/)(/)(/)
They'd had plans to lunch on the Navy Yard with Tony and an appointment that afternoon to tour the international preschool that Amira had attended, but Ziva made quick calls to cancel both engagements. Consciously or subconsciously, she'd put this off again and again, and Sana's meltdown was proof the delays had gone on too long.
It was time.
When they arrived at the impromptu destination, Sana had long since run out of tears, her silence born of exhaustion, rather than resolve of the root problem. That would take longer than the twenty-five minute drive from the grocery store to the Muslim cemetery in Alexandria. After all, Ziva was still grieving her parents in many ways, and it had been over a decade for her mother, a year and a half for her father.
It seemed Sana was still confused as to where hers had gone. Ziva certainly hadn't said the exact words to her.
This was the whole reason she'd fought to recover the Ganims from the desert and transport them Stateside. While Sana and Tony were still in hospital, the Israeli had spared no expense for traditional Muslim washing, shrouding, and burial to bring the bodies to a final rest. But, amidst the bustle of settling into their new life, she had failed to follow through and provide the orphan with the closure she obviously needed.
"Where we going?" Sana wondered as Ziva guided her out of the backseat and shut the car door behind them.
"There is something I want you to see, neshomeleh."
Side-by-side, hand-in-hand, the pair set out across the manicured grounds. For the déjà vu Ziva was experiencing, it might as well have been the sandy outskirts of Domiz on that bright afternoon when she cushioned the news of her departure for the States with promises to return. This blow would come with no such silver lining.
Despite all the death Ziva had seen in Israel and during her time with Mossad, the only practice she'd had with delivering news of loved ones' passing was as an investigator, and that, when faced with doing the same for someone she loved, was no practice at all. That she had not consulted Ducky on how to do this with a preschooler, she was regretting now.
Short legs blurred to keep pace, but Sana didn't question further their trek to an open, sunny area of the cemetery. Before they reached the fresh plots, Ziva brought them to a stop and lowered to one knee; the earth was damp from the overnight drizzle and muddy residue seeped into the weave of her jeans. She hardly noticed.
"Sana," she began, switching her tongue fully to Arabic. "Do you remember when we first met? In the mountain?"
Concentration knit a stitch between Sana's brows. "Na'am."
"Your Om and Baba—they were hurt that night. Ow." Ziva mimed an injury on her arm, altering her features to convey pain.
Dark eyes clouded over; tiny lips parted, slack.
The former agent rubbed her hands up and down Sana's arms, forcing warmth into her limbs. This was the emotional equivalent of walking a tightrope several stories in the air. She didn't want to accidentally trigger memories too distressing for Sana to cope with—and yet, she wanted to give her resolution to that bloody, fateful night.
"But I saved you, remember? Gray saved you, too. You are okay now." Ziva took the spark of recognition across her features as a good sign and continued: "We tried to save your parents as well, but their bodies were not working anymore. They could not walk or talk, like me and you. They could not see; they could not feel any pain…"
Sana was a statue on her feet, her furrowed brow evidence that confusion had a firm hold. Her gaze floated over Ziva's shoulder—to the graves. She'd always been…an intuitive child. Empathic, especially when it came to her guardian. She was not psychic, though. This had to be plain.
"When people's bodies stop working as your Om's and Baba's did," she explained deliberately, as if threading a mine field, "we bury them to keep them safe. Your parents are here."
Ziva led her toward the parallel plots. In accordance with al-Dafin practices, the graves were aligned perpendicular to Mecca and nothing was allowed on or around the graves. Not even flowers of remembrance were permitted and only simple headstones permissible. Nothing but Sana could have keep her gaze anyway; she watched in anticipation of whatever reaction would seize her, be it sadness, rage, bewilderment. Or, as would happen, none of the above.
Confronted with her parents' resting place, the orphan was perfectly stoic—while her guardian scrambled. Perhaps this was too difficult for the young girl to grasp.
And then a gentle breeze came in from the west as Sana crouched, knees folding up to her shoulders; with an open palm face down, she grazed the blades of freshly laid grass over the foot of one plot. Six feet of dirt and yards of shrouding, intricately tied for eternity around a cold body, separated mother and daughter.
"Om and Baba not hurting." The three-and-a-half-year-old spoke so authoritatively, it could not be considered a question. It was almost as if…she knew.
An ache erupted at the side of Ziva's jaw, but she pushed her emotions and puzzlement aside. Sana needed her right now. Needed her strength and support.
"That is right. No one will ever hurt them again," she agreed, adding humbly, "This also means they cannot take care of you anymore." Her throat tensed, but she forced it to remain open, to let the words flow like water down a riverbank. "That is why you have me now."
Sana was still in a ball when she turned a suddenly cross expression upwards. "You go away."
There it was—the same feeling from the grocery store. Drawing in a steadying breath, Ziva got low again, raking her fingernails through the girl's hair, catching a knot. (Sana winced.) "I did," she admitted, untangling the silky strands free of the snare. "I went away once. And sometimes, I go on errands, but I have come back to you, every time, and I always will."
The rationale hung in the tepid air like a bubble—that Sana burst when she popped up, her eyes coming level with her guardian's; both pairs were brown, but the younger set was wild and fearful.
"You stay with me, Zee-va!" Sana exploded, tears like bullets, shooting in tandem with her ferocious pleas. "My don't want you to go! You stay here! You—"
"Shh, sh." Ziva wrapped her small, shaking body to her chest. "I will stay with you, my love. Sh-sh. I am here."
Sana's howling entreats were continuous, echoes bouncing around the cemetery, shrill waves of mourning. It was long, agonizing minutes before the noise ebbed to whimpers, her blazing mouth dropping, open, to Ziva's shoulder. Saliva was a dark, oval-shaped stain on her jacket.
Through it all, Ziva clutched her tight, rubbed her back, whispered comforts in her ear—ceasing only once Sana herself straightened up. Her toffee skin was dappled crimson, puffy from the exertion, as if she'd been stung by a bee. Darkened eyelids sagged, ringed red. The occasional sob wrinkled her breathing.
Ziva brushed her thumbs over the girl's tear-streaked cheeks. "I am sorry, Sana."
The apology was for many things out of her control: for making it to the clearing that night in time to save only one life, instead of three; for taking Sana out of the only place she knew (even if it was for her safety); for waiting this long to tell her the truth. For her loss.
With a sniffle, Sana shuddered out a final plea. "Stay."
"Always," Ziva promised instantly, her lungs swelling with too much air. "That is why I brought you home with me, Little One. So you would be mine, and I would yours, forever."
It struck her then that she'd never asked Sana if she wanted to be adopted. Not that she hadn't made her preference apparent in other ways; her crying fits in the desert at the mere insinuation of Ziva leaving her side, let alone her life again, spoke loud and clear. Yet, there was no denying that words were a strange comfort. In any language.
Ziva tucked stray hairs behind Sana's elfin ears and offered a cautious smile, even as pinpricks stabbed the back of her eyeballs and her throat tapered again. "We will be a family, just as Amira has her Mama, yes? I would be your…Mama; you, my daughter. Would you like that?"
For the briefest of seconds, Sana swayed with the persuasion of another breeze, and then she collapsed, surrendering her feather-light body and burdened soul into Ziva's surprised, yet ever-ready, embrace.
"You my Mama," she whispered possessively into her guardian's ear. This time, she was no mimicking parrot. This was her choice.
And it was then that Ziva's own tears came, streaming salt of relief into the child's curls. "Yes," was all that she had. "Yes."
On and on, they held each other, their hearts pressed together, fluttering a harmonious percussion of closure, and acceptance, and love.
No more words were necessary.
(/)(/)(/)
"I feel like I am on a sawhorse with her."
The hallway was dark, and Ziva and Gibbs had been mutually silent for so long that her sudden exclamation was thunder, rattling them both.
His burly shoulder shoved further into his bedroom doorjamb. His voice rose, but not above a rough sigh. "See-saw."
"One minute she is ordering me to go away and calling for her deceased mother," she ranted over his correction, "and then the next, she is begging for me to stay with her forever." Her body was half in, half out of the bathroom doorway, her spine the dividing line along the craftsman molding.
Icy blues glowed through the dusky curtain, offering no solace.
"I just worry…" Ziva lolled her head to the side, planting her gaze on the closed bedroom door across the short width of hardwood. The fears that'd been clawing up her insides all morning, afternoon, and evening arrived on her tongue then, too bitter for her to tolerate. She had to get them out. "What if I am not enough? What if I cannot be all that she needs?"
To that, he had no trouble replying. "Not a parent in the world who hasn't asked themselves that, Ziver."
"That is not an answer, Gibbs."
"If she needs more than you've got," he countered gently, as if she was his daughter seeking advice for his only grandchild, "then you find a way to grow."
The door under Ziva's intense stare creaked open and out slipped Ducky. The hallway dwellers lurched from their haunts, descending on the doctor.
"Darling Sana is fine, if a bit dehydrated from all those tears," he assured in anticipation of the predictable questions. "And she's fatigued, naturally. She went right back to sleep after my examination."
"So she is alright now?"
Ducky hesitated—and Ziva felt her heart shrivel at the edges. "Physically, yes. However, I warned of attachment issues before you brought her here. She's acting out to test you, to see if you will abandon her again—"
"I am not," Ziva gritted out through her teeth, a hand tearing into her frazzled locks, tears suddenly burning and brimming but remaining unshed. "I will not. I have told her that over and over."
"Easy," Gibbs cautioned, tilting his head at the thin slab of wood separating them from the subject of their pow-wow.
"Oh, my dear." The medical examiner, her old friend, placed his weathered hands around her forearm, warming the chilled skin. "Do not despair. An incident like the one at the grocer this morning is in no way a reflection of your ability to rear this child, and neither does it speak to any shortage of love for her on your part."
"Ducky," she tried, her pulse fast and jutting in her throat.
"Relapses happen, Ziva," he persisted. "She was doing extraordinarily well here; it is understandable that her trauma, grief, and chronic doubts of care would resurface at some point. Think of this as ripping off a scab. The first time you do it, it traumatizes the wound. But once it's done, and if you prevent another eschar from forming, healing is accelerated."
"In English, Doc?" Gibbs. Maybe he sensed his former agent couldn't find the breath to ask for the clarification herself.
But Ducky knew all too well to whom to direct his answer. "It means what you did for her today at the cemetery, Ziva dear, was a gift. You afforded her an opportunity to heal—and by extension, a chance to bond with you." Despite the dark, he caught her eye. "It was a brave thing to do."
The hallway fell under another hush. Were they all listening for Sana's soft snores, or was it just Ziva? She could not stop herself from thinking about the hotel and her own 'relapse' of sorts. It was as if both she and Sana had returned from the desert to a brief honeymoon, but now they'd settled into just enough of a routine for their ugly pasts to rear up, a cruel reminder that scars clung to bodies, not landscape.
They were home, but they were not out of their individual woods just yet.
Ducky served her arm a final pat and released her to stand on her own again. "Do you still have the pamphlets for the child psychiatrists that I gave you?"
"I will make the appointment tomorrow," Ziva relented, nodding tiredly. If it would help Sana heal, she would do anything.
"I'll walk you out, Duck." Gibbs hustled his colleague down the stairs, sparing no glance for Ziva left at the top.
He would have missed her anyway.
Soundlessly, she slipped into the bedroom and under the covers, her day clothes still on. Sana stirred at the gust of cool air kicked up by the raised comforter, but was returned to slumber with shh-shh-ing from Ziva, who gingerly rolled her close, fitting her small frame to the curve of her own body; she inhaled the scent of lilac and sandalwood off the girl's freshly-washed head, enfolding her in a cocoon of warmth and comfort against her chest.
Downstairs, the front door closed. Footsteps trailed off toward the kitchen.
Sana sighed in her sleep; Ziva allowed her heavy eyelids to shut; and together, they rested.
