I really cannot explain exactly what this is, because I'm not exactly sure. But it's not quite like the first chapter.
There are times when she hates her own name. Wants to change it. Wants it gone.
She thinks of all the reports she's written and documents she's filed since she was just a teenager—Armed suspect did not respond to commands. He rushed us, lifting his weapon. I fired twice through his heart in self-defense. Signed Z. David…Special Agent Ziva David issued service weapon #284869…I, Ziva David, being of sound mind, hereby join the Kidon Unit, and will not divulge either by words or by signs any information revealed to me…Attempted bombing today near the West Bank. Officer Ziva David responded quickly to minimize casualties by shooting bombing suspect in the head after ascertaining lack of a dead man's switch—and she can't stand that her name is signed on all of them.
It's so very difficult to restart your life as a new person while carrying around the knowledge that your name is plastered across many dozens of death certificates.
It also means people can find her. If she uses her name, she is trackable. She is known. She is well-known, and at one time she loved that, but now she hates that she's known as who she was. She craves burn phones and aliases and fresh, clean slates.
That craving is hard for her. Because some memories are dear to her, and her name is branded across so many of them. Her grandmother—Zivaleh, come here—her sister—Smile, Zizi! Yiyeh B'seder!—her father—Oh, my Ziva—Gibbs—Hey, Ziver. She remembers the way Tony used to stretch out the first half of her name and pop off the second half with relish, and she remembers loving it, and she hates that she can't just let it all go the way she let go of the badge and the home and the strength.
She wants to.
Relearning to love it takes time. But she knows that when her father gave her her name, along with his, he wasn't thinking of the killer or the soldier, but the radiant daughter, the future, the hope. It helps. And she's stubborn, so she digs her nails into the task and pushes past the hatred and the broken bits of herself and she activates a cell phone under her own name.
And that's a step.
From South America, she writes Abby a letter on a yellow sheet removed from a legal pad, and although she says nothing valuable—it's all surface, all hope-you're-doing-well, nothing to indicate when they might hear from her again, she signs her name firmly. Nothing implied. No "—Z." A firm, dark hand, reading, "Love, Ziva."
And that's a step, too.
Two steps is not very far, but it's in the right direction, and she celebrates each as much as she once celebrated winning awards for her excellent marksmanship.
Abby writes her back, and even though Ziva is not sure how exactly she got the correct address and sent the letter so quickly, and even though she is not sure it is a good idea to read something she is sure will be full of "WE MISS YOU, PLEASE COME HOME," she feels warmth bloom in her chest when she opens the envelope.
Abby wants to know if they can email.
Ziva is not ready for that. Yet.
But the following week, she sends a postcard to Dr. Donald Mallard. And she signs her name and tells him she misses him.
And it's one more tiny step.
yiyeh b'seder = it'll be okay