Chapter 29: Peace
For the next week, Ziva put renewed vigor and haste into the adoption.
Her daytime hours were divided between caring for Sana and doing paperwork; her evenings were at the dining room table with McGee, the former author editing and polishing her answers to the often absurd, probing questions included with the autobiographical statement, the last piece of her home study to complete before submission. Delilah joined them each night, dressing dolls and drawing pictures with Sana, an arrangement that brought delight to both parties.
Soon, Delilah was not the only one tagging along.
"Please, please, please," Abby wheedled, her hands clutched together in prayer. "Please, she'll love it! You know she will!"
Ziva heaved a sigh as she slid out of the wooden chair; before she could delay responding with the excuse of her dinner dishes, Gibbs swiped them up. She pouted at his retreat into the kitchen, wherein Tony was crooning New York, New York while drying the dishes McGee scrubbed clean in the sink of steaming, soapy water.
Abby was practically bouncing on her toes, pigtails bobbing out of control. "I promise it won't be a huge deal of a party. Just family. We can do streamers and balloons to brighten this place up. Or—ooo!—maybe we could have it outside! Sana is such a nature girl."
"I have not even said yes yet," Ziva pointed out, "and you are already decorating?"
"But you will—say yes, I mean." The Goth smiled slyly. "I know it'll be a little late, but half-birthdays are important, especially when you've gone through as much as Sana in the past few months. She deserves to celebrate that—and so do you."
Again, the brunette sighed, but this time it was out of surrender, for she knew this battle would be fought until victory was secured for the offensive side. Did Gibbs consider stubbornness a requisite trait for all his team members?
"Just family," she qualified.
Approval received, Abby cheered her thank you's while teetering off to tell Sana the good news. Ziva could not contain her own smile when the little girl's excited squeals echoed through the house a moment later.
This is how it will be, she thought, truly at ease with the prospect. This is how it will go.
And so it did, each night ushering in the same faces, the tight-knit circle occasionally stretching to accommodate for Ducky or a brief stop-in from Jimmy on his evening diaper and/or formula runs for the new foster baby. It was not lost on Ziva how fortunate she was to have them, this group who loved Sana almost as much as she did.
"Don't forget, we love you, too," Tony reminded late one evening, after the house had quieted: those with their own homes had left for them; Sana had gone down with relativity no fuss, worn out as she was from being the center of everyone's attention; and Gibbs had retired to the basement, more to give the couple space, she suspected, than to tinker.
"Hmm," she replied, distracted with rereading the words she and McGee had crafted over the past few hours. Without warning, the laptop lid shut under her avid stare, and before she could protest, he was tugging her back into the couch cushions with him. "Tony!"
"Hmm?" Now he was the one distracted, all his focus funneled into peppering her neck with soft, deliberate kisses and surprising but undeniably pleasurable appearances of his hot tongue.
"Hmm." Ziva hummed endorsement of his chosen tactics, her eyelids fluttering shut to better savor the sensation over her skin. "Nothing," she mumbled, having forgotten herself why this was unacceptable.
It wasn't until her hand grazed over his lap that he pulled away with a hiss. "Remind me again how long you plan on staying with Dad?"
Her eyes rolled grandly. This was not the first time they'd had this discussion. "I have told you before—"
"You like it here," he recited.
"Yes. So does Sana. We need the stability right now."
Tony nodded, though his eyes betrayed the gesture of understanding. To someone who'd never had the opportunity to raise a child, it was hard to explain how consuming the job was on a daily basis, especially with Sana's extra needs. Gibbs brought wisdom and experience to her care, modeling for Ziva how to be a better parent, and the child's adoration of her honorary grandfather only seemed to swell more and more by the day. They were where they needed to be…for now.
"Well then," Tony reasoned, "that means more dates for us, huh?"
With the subtle clench of her jaw, Ziva's withdraw from the suggestion was visible.
That was surely why his broad hand began rhythmic strokes up and down her back, aiming to soothe. They hadn't talked about what happened at the hotel, and they hadn't been out alone together in the almost two weeks since. Yet, it did happen. Sana's struggles and the adoption proved a diversion for awhile, but her nightmare—and everything it represented about her own untied emotional threads—could not be ignored forever.
Clearly, there were still battles to be waged in the war with her burdened conscience.
She didn't doubt that Tony had her back, but she did not feel comfortable dumping her woes on him. This, she had trouble expressing—or even trying to express.
Tony placed a chaste, loving kiss to her rounded shoulder. "I'm here, if you want to talk."
"Thank you, but…" She shifted so their gazes locked; she did not need to hide this from him. "I do not think I can talk about it with you."
Hurt flashed over his handsome face, but he reined it in almost as fast.
"Not because I do not tru—"
A hand in the air stopped her rationale. "You don't have to explain." Tony took her cheek in his palm, brushing his thumb over the lofty apple. "I just hope that, whenever you're ready, you talk to someone. I want you to be…" He shrugged, unable to contain a closed-lip smile, as if simply the act of looking upon her stirred in him the urge of happiness, despite such a serious moment. "Free, I guess."
Ziva faltered, overwhelmed with his sincerity. Perhaps she did not want to trouble him, but Tony had already seen enough to know. He saw her at her lowest breaking point last October in Be'er Sheva, when she'd written her updated I Will list and buried it in the orange groves, a seed she was still hoping would blossom; he saw her all too recently in the throes of a nightmare he couldn't fight for her, just as she'd never been able to fight off the terrors that haunted Sana; and he saw her now—better than she could herself.
So she made her decision right then. Her goal, promised seven months earlier, stood: I will find peace. If doing so for herself was still too daunting a task—and it was—she would do it for Sana, to be the best mother possible; for Tony, because he'd never given up on her; for Gibbs, in gratitude; and for her family—the one of choice surrounding her now, as well as the one of blood that she had lost, but would never cease honoring.
With a new plan of action, the tightness that'd been loosening, loosening in her chest for over a year loosened an indiscernible amount further. There was still much to resolve, but it was a step forward nonetheless.
Exhaling slowly, she eased down beside her partner, her friend, her lover, nestling into the warmth and support he offered without expiration.
"I want that, too," she whispered, as much to him as to herself, adding her wish for hope and healing to the reverent hush of this second chance already in motion.
(/)(/)(/)
Following Eli David's assassination, Tony brought Schmeil Pinkhas to her. This time, it was her Abba's estate that provided pretext for a stateside visit from her oldest and dearest friend. They sat in the deck chairs in Gibbs' backyard, sweating glasses of lemonade at their sides. Refueled from lunch, Sana could not be contained to a seat, instead making full use of her personal playground while the adults conversed.
Schmeil passed the folder of documents and deeds over to his niece-of-choice, officially putting in her possession a substantial inheritance meant to be split between three children, not left entirely to one.
He asked, "What will you do with it?"
"Good," Ziva replied simply, setting the paperwork aside and trying not to think about how soon Schmeil would leave her again. He could not even stay for Sabbath dinner; his flight for a conference in Germany took off prior to sunset. For that reason, she shouldn't have used the short time they had together to seek his counsel, but for a man who'd worn many hats in his long life, among them philosopher, historian, and professor, the role of spiritual advisor fit him like an old yarmulke.
That he knew her family and her history spared time; she focused on her decision to quit NCIS, the summer spent in Israel, her time at Domiz—and all the spider veins of consequences sprouting from those actions. It was nevertheless a winding monologue.
"I have been waiting for a sign," she stated precisely in conclusion, "that I have made amends. A sign that I can start over."
"Well, look no further than this precious bubbala of yours!" He waved to Sana as she skipped by on her way to the swings.
Ziva waited until young ears were safely out of hearing range before adding adamantly, "But I have taken lives, Schmeil. Countless lives—and not all of them on orders."
For fifteen years, pain radiated around her—death begetting vengeance, death begetting running, death begetting more death. As she took life, life was taken from her: Abba, Ima, Tali, Ari. And the only way she saw fit to stop the pattern—before more of those she treasured were lost—was to remove herself. That was why she walked away from her NCIS family. So there would be no more pain. But her plan had not worked, for there was still an ache, and rather than around her, it now centered inside of her.
"For that, you have done your penitence—by helping countless lives." Schmeil's assertion grounded her, as if she was a tumble weed and him a stone; as if his wrinkled hands were on either side of her face, directing her gaze—No, motek, look here. "You have walked your desert," he persisted, kindness speared through with steel, "and quite literally at that. Thankfully it was not for 40 years!"
The noon sun was high, shining brilliant rays down into the square patch of lawn. Slipping on her sunglasses, Ziva blamed the glare for the stinging moisture gathered at the corners of her eyes. After months of hard labor and isolation in the refugee camp, she yearned for nothing more than to bury her past and its sins, once and for all. To be free—Tony's wish for her. The problem was: repenting had been a self-appointed sentence. Only she could rule it rendered.
"But have I done enough?"
"What is enough?" Schmeil's hands flew emphatically in the air. "We may never know. But this cycle of pain and punishment? It must end, Zivaleh. You have a child now—I tell you, she is your sign!"
The tinted lenses of her sunglasses fogged with reemerging tears. This path of healing was not an easy one to tread, she was finding. When she spoke, it was a child's plea: "A sign that I am done repenting?"
"No," he returned softly, his gravelly voice a scrap of the old country. "A sign to start living again."
The words rattled around her head as she watched Sana work her legs the way Amira and Gibbs and Tony had all taught her to pump, so she would always be able to swing for herself when they were not around to help her themselves. A few more moments, and then her friend shooed away the silence.
"I have my flight to catch, so I will leave you with this: there is an old Arab proverb, coincidentally, that when translated, says, 'Forgive others, not because they deserve forgiveness, but because you deserve peace.'" Schmeil reached for her; coal eyes implored. "The only person you have not forgiven in all this is yourself, Ziva. And it is time. Out of everyone I know—and I know thousands of people all over the world, mind you—it is you, my child, who most deserves peace."
After dwelling in the cool shadow of guilt, it was strange to admit that she…believed him. The garment of mercy and self-love was awkward now, disproportionate in size to her long-battered frame. But as sure as Sana would grow into an artist, or a doctor, or whatever her heart desired, Ziva had to believe she, too, would thrive. Or for what had been her struggle?
Out of her pain had come her greatest gift—a daughter, a light in total darkness. She had to trust that goodness would follow that beacon; and that she herself would expand with time, and the nurture of loved ones, and her own acceptance, so that one day, she would fill herself out and begin anew, fully and without fear or shame. And, like thunder after a bolt of lightning or a sandstorm in the desert, she sensed it coming.
Her redemption. Her faith restored. Her fresh start.
Peace was on its way, at last.
(/)(/)(/)
There was something off with the picture, but Ziva couldn't put her finger on it. Gibbs and Sana were seated across from each other at the table, morning sunlight streaking through the bay window; the former with his coffee, black, and newspaper unfolded to World Affairs; the latter in her booster seat, happily munching a breakfast of Cheerios and diced-up banana in whole milk.
Then the discrepancy dawned on her, and she managed to slide into the chair next to Sana's before asking him—"Should you not be at work?"
Gibbs peered over his reading glasses. They stared at each for a long moment, and then, unbelievable as it was, the pieces fit together—why he was home on a Monday at 8 a.m. having breakfast with a preschooler, rather than leading his team.
"You quit."
"At my age, Ziver," he said through a burgeoning smirk, "they call it retirement."
"But, you are—"
"It's done. DiNozzo's got his work cut out for him."
Such an unexpected promotion guaranteed Tony was having a very good morning, and she anticipated his call to deliver the good news momentarily, though she was still recovering from the bombshell herself. From years of working with him, she knew when Gibbs made a decision, right or wrong, it was final. She had a few lingering curiosities.
"Why now?"
The newspaper lowered to the table, revealing the former team leader's blue gaze sparkling like fresh river water in the sun—and he only had eyes for Sana, who beamed a milky smile back at him and gave a bunny wave with tiny, curled fingers.
"Want my cereal, Grandpa?" It was Arabic except for the title, the most recent English word they'd taught her.
"Nope, sweet pea, you keep eating. We need you big and strong." Then to Ziva: "Got more important things besides that job to care about now."
"That is worthy, but what are you planning to do with your time?" He'd been his work for so long; it was hard imaging him without it.
"Thinking of building you and Sana a house," Gibbs replied instantly.
She breathed a laugh. "I am serious."
"So am I."
"Then you are insane," Ziva declared, eyeing him for a crack in sincerity that was unlikely to appear. "Why would you do that?"
"Never built a house before. Might take a good year, but—"
"Gibbs."
"Hell, Ziva," he scoffed. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."
That was one idiom she understood, and she took heed. If he was serious, as she was inclined to believe he was—as she would be to pay for it all—it would certainly solve the issue of her future housing. Tony's good day was getting better and better.
Ziva ran a hand through her shortened mane, the wavy ends skating across her shoulder blades. She and Sana had recently splurged for trims. "Since you will be home, would you watch her for me? It will be for an hour or two this afternoon. I need to drop off the completed adoption papers, and then I have…therapy," she revealed.
Loathe as she was to submit herself to conventional psychotherapy, she was running out of options. Her talk with Schmeil confirmed there was still work to be done to soothe her soul—and she honestly needed help doing it. And, if she was subjecting Sana to therapy, she felt it only fair to do the same to herself. Their wounds were in similar locations on their psyches; perhaps this way, they would mend alongside each other, too.
Gibbs' mouth twitched subtly. "Proud of you."
"It is only the first session. I doubt much will come of it right away, but—"
"Ziva." The frames, too, were set aside as he leaned forward, the wooden edge of the table cutting the USMC appliqués on his hoodie in half. "Said I'm proud of you. I'll watch your girl. Go do what you have to do…"
"Then come home," she finished, mirroring a phone conversation they'd had not quite a year earlier. That was at the beginning of a journey she was still traveling, but with the final destination in sight. She held his gaze and nodded. And when she said, "I will," it sounded almost like thank you.
"All done!" Sana announced and pushed her bowl away, nearly tipping it over if not for Gibbs' quick reflexes. She shoved her hands, palms up, at her guardian. "Wash, min fadhlik?"
Ziva bounced onto her feet, rolling the sleeves of Sana's sleeping shirt up over her elbows, pausing to drop a kiss to her smooth forehead. "Come along, neshomeleh. Let us make you clean."
(/)(/)(/)
Sana was in an anxious tizzy on Saturday morning, clutching to her chest the plush puppy from the Palmers that she'd aptly named Kalb and asking repeatedly when her party would start. Ziva lost count of how many times she provided the same answer ("Soon…after lunch") before Abby and Tony arrived early to set up.
The ever-happy Goth was barely two steps into the foyer when she dropped her armloads of bags and caught a leaping Sana into a hug. "Munchkin pie! Are you ready to party?"
As if no language barrier existed, Sana squealed and dove into the sacks of sparkly adornments. There were so many decorations; Ziva wasn't sure where it would all go. And then Tony walked through the doorway carrying even more.
"Where's my warm Sana welcome?" His beam flipped to a pout when shiny streamers and an assortment of noise-makers held greater sway over the little girl.
"You will have to settle for me instead." Ziva wove around the spread, delivering a peck to his lips.
"Even better," he murmured, his arm about her waist keeping her close after the excuse of a greeting was gone. "You got a minute?" He gave her hip a tug in the direction of the front door.
She balked. "What about—"
"Abby's got her."
Sure enough, Sana was waist-deep in decorations and did not notice Ziva and Tony slip away.
(/)(/)(/)
There had never been any design, but ever since their reunion almost eight weeks earlier, Gibbs' porch—and more specifically, the handcrafted swing—had become theirs. It was there that Tony had returned her Star of David necklace as their true longing for one another came out; it was where they'd gone to reconnect in the days leading up to their mission to retrieve Sana; and it was where they'd retreated for privacy in the weeks afterwards.
And even after Gibbs would build a swing of her own for the new house, Ziva would always look fondly on the place where she and Tony had taken so many steps forward—particularly the one that occurred on the day of Sana's half-birthday party, when their lives officially melded together, joined by a single dream.
"Oh, Tony," she breathed, sitting up straight from her snuggle beside him on the bench seat. Wary brown eyes trained on the item he'd produced from the back pocket of his jeans. "I do not think this is a good idea. I am still working on the last one."
Despite her apprehension, Tony unfolded the slip of paper, ironing it flat over his thigh. "I know; I was there when you wrote it." It being the I Will list that reshaped her destiny. "This one's gonna blow it out of the water," he promised, imparting the signature DiNozzo dazzler and a wink.
Ziva could not help but be amused. You are an idiot, she thought, and I love you. Wherever this led, she trusted him, implicitly. Scooting close again, she rested her head down on his shoulder and indulged his whim. "How is that, my darling?"
"'Cause, Sweet Cheeks, you're not gonna do it alone this time."
"I have a preschooler, Tony. I am never alone anymore." And wasn't that everything?
"Touché, but just wait." In scratchy ballpoint scrawl, the new team leader penned two words across the top of the paper: one she expected, one she did not.
"We Will?" Ziva read curiously. "Do you mean—"
"Yeah." He sought out her eyes, imparting nothing short of full adoration from his own. "You change, I change. Remember?"
All he poured into her glowed out from beneath olive skin. "You have not let me forget," she recalled fondly. Not only had her companion bound himself to her any want or need in the orange groves behind her family estate, but he'd done it again when she came home, renewing his vow in Gibbs' front room. The third time, as the saying went, was the charm.
Tony was all elation as he poised the pen to write under the heading. "We don't have to put down a bunch of things just yet. For now, I've got this one…" Checking her expression and apparently finding nothing to deter him, he inked the first goal.
Be a family.
Ziva felt the familiar weight of his gaze awaiting her reaction, and like a cascade, it arrived. The delicate crumple of her features, the mist over her eyes, for joy was often as heart-crushing as disappointment.
"Tell me those are happy tears," Tony begged, exhaling a nervous laugh. Her silence and emotions did not dampen his conviction, but rather triggered water-falling professions of his love and devotion for her and Sana, how they'd become his home and happiness—all of which were truths she'd felt in her bones for weeks. "And I know it won't happen immediately…I think we can get there, though. Someday."
She nodded, attempting to ease his worry. It was not his vision for them that stole her voice; she was overwhelmed by his ability to choose, without consulting her in the least, the single dream she would have written on their list herself. There was no doubt in her heart that this was the next chapter of her story, but it was one she'd once thought would never be. Motherhood, a family of her own. A life to live, not endure.
And Tony was right. Schmeil, too. For this, she had to be free. Free to exist without guilt or the urge to repent for where she'd been, what she'd lost, and how she'd survived. Free to love and be loved in return; to trust again. Free to move on. Ziva didn't know of any better way to accomplish that than with her partner by her side, with the final list of hope she'd ever need as their guide.
Tony had placed his initials in superscript following the goal; taking the pen from him then, she added her own. Clear, dry eyes and a confident heart rose.
"I want that, too," she confessed, an echoed from nights earlier. "I want it so very much, Tony. With you."
His relief came in a whoosh—he didn't even seem to notice her hands sliding over his cheeks, framing his face and guiding their foreheads to touch. Amidst his exclamations, her eyelids shut, images she'd long forbidden dancing, so real and possible, in front of her eyes. And there were words flowing passed his lips, but they didn't detour her from making up the difference of space keeping them apart and capturing his mouth entire.
By now, they had kissed many times, mundane and otherwise: to say hello and goodnight, following deep confessions, in the dark and in front of family, while making love. But she knew it would never be enough; she would always want more. More of this world with him, and them, and Sana, and peace. So she kissed him, and finally allowed the magnets that'd been on their souls for nine years to bind them together. Forever.
Hands in her hair, Tony took over, slowing their pace to long and lingering so he could intone sweet affections into the gasps between each kiss—and then a mournful cry pierced the outside air.
"Maaa-maaaa!"
They peeled apart just as Sana staggered out of the house, followed closely by Abby.
"I'm so sorry!" The impromptu babysitter was no fool to the scene she'd allowed a wailing child to interrupt. "I think she got kinda overwhelmed with the party stuff, and then she started asking for you, and—"
"It is alright, Abby," Ziva reassured, holding her arms open wide in offering of the special comfort only she could administer to the little girl. That was the way of mothers and daughters.
The gesture set Sana's sock-clad feet pattering across the porch. Within a blink, she was up on the swing, the couple making room to cuddle her between them.
Ziva brushed back her curls, cooing sympathetically. "What is all this? So many tears…"
"It's her party," Tony reasoned, sneaking a tickle to her tummy, "and you'll cry if you want to, won't you, Sana?"
It was clear she wished to stay upset, but a giggle slipped out, and then another and another as he continued the playful assault. Laughing with abandon, she made for escape in a huddle against Ziva's side.
"Mama, hide me!"
The title was now in permanent use, but it hadn't yet lost its wonder for Ziva. She doubted it ever would. It was fitting, too: Sana once had an Om, and now she had a Mama; she once had a Baba, and perhaps one day, she would also have a Dad.
"Aww, you guys are so cute!"
Ziva had admittedly forgotten about Abby, who whipped out her smartphone and snapped a photo before any pose could be struck. She left them with the device and retreated into the house. The captured image was candid and accurate, the way Tony was looking at Ziva, and Ziva looking down at Sana. A chain of love.
Tony caught her eye over Sana's head, everything about his gaze and mellow smile content. It matched the feeling in her heart.
"Hashtag," he said, "family."
Never mind that she didn't know what a 'hashtag' was, Ziva hummed her agreement with the sentiment and relaxed, enfolding Sana to her chest and again dropping her head to Tony's shoulder. Beyond the overhang of the porch was an overcast sky, but the few visible strands of sunlight shone around them as all three gently rocked in the wooden embrace of the swing, its steady metronome plotting the rhythm for their future as one.
A/N: And so it ends. (Almost. The epilogue will be along in a day or two.) I want to take this moment to say that this has been an amazing endeavor of writing over the past year. I know I've grown as an author and researcher because of this story. I've gained friends because of this story. And because of this story, I made it through student teaching, college graduation, moving, the start of my career, and all the good and bad days in between. I hope that Ziva, Sana, and the world of Salam have left as lasting an impression on all of you as they have on me. It's been an honor to write for them—and for you. Shukran. Thank you.
