“Dinner’s ready if you are,” I tell her, forcing a smile. “And it sure looks good tonight.”
“Of course,” my mom says, hustling away from the couch and joining me to walk to the table.
Her dark hair is up in a loose bun, which I’m certain Lovie prompted this morning, and she’s dressed in a very put-together outfit—probably also through Lovie’s encouragement—of nice pants and a pretty pink sweater, which I have fond memories of her wearing when I was a teenager.
My mom can still do a lot of things for herself, but she has to be reminded to do them.
“We’ve got a big stakeout tonight, and I don’t want to be hungry later,” she says as she sits down in front of one of the plates of food. Then she starts to dig in.
I sneak behind her to grab the remote and pause her streaming binge before taking my place across from her and agreeing, “You’re right. Bound to be a long night.”
I’m in no more control of our conversations than she is of her memory, and these days swimming with the stream of her consciousness is the only way to avoid a major meltdown.
“What do you think the killer’s doing right now?” she asks.
To a third-party listener, that question would feel like it comes out of left field. But, somewhere in her mind, I know it makes sense. And I don’t question it or try to redirect her to reality—not only does it not help, but it genuinely upsets her.
“Probably hiding evidence,” I say with a shrug, wrapping spaghetti around my fork and taking a hearty bite as my stomach growls. With the chaos of sex calls I wasn’t expecting to take today, I completely forgot to eat.
Tomorrow, I’ll be sure to pack a lunch—butnotgrapes. After talking to a guy named Hugo today about using them to find his P-spot—whatever the fuck that even is—I’ll never be able to look at grapes the same again.
My mom scarfs down food, too, though her napkin use is demurer than mine. It reminds me of the composed woman she used to be, and I have to look down at my plate to keep myself from saying something that would confuse her.
“I bet you’re right, Ziva,” she says around a bite. “They’re probably trying to hide evidence in a safe-deposit box. Or maybe in an old barn.”
I nod. “They really like to use floorboards too.”
“Oh! Floorboards. We should look under these!” my mom says excitedly, jumping up from her seat. Her eyes are already fixated on the hardwood floor beneath her feet.
“No, no.” I put a gentle hand on her wrist and guide her back to her chair. “We checked them yesterday, remember? There was nothing there.”
“Oh, right. Right.” She nods. “But what if they’ve come back since then?”
I shake my head. “We’ve had a patrol car out front. No chance.”
Her shoulders sink, her anxiety about the floorboards officially at ease. “Good, good. That was smart. Was that Gibbs’s idea?”
“Yep,” I agree. “It usually is, isn’t it?”
She laughs. “You’re so right. That gut of his always gets the good hunches.”
“It sure does.” I play with my food a little before taking another bite and then try out something personal, just to see how it goes over. “I had a job interview today.”
“Really?” my mom asks, swallowing her bite of spaghetti quickly and wiping her mouth. “Why? You’ll never find a better team than Jethro’s.”
“Yeah.” I laugh lightly. “You’re right. Leroy Jethro Gibbs is definitely the best naval special agent out there. I was just ... wondering if I maybe wanted to go in a different direction.”
Sex work isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but you know ... po-tay-to, po-tah-to.
My mom shakes her head. “You gotta stick it out where you are, Ziva. If you don’t, you and Tony will never figure out how good you are together, and the whole thing will fall apart. Okay?”
“Okay,” I agree. “You’re right.”
“Good. I’m glad we got that settled.”
Me too, Mom. Me too.
Now, if I can just get her settled back in front ofNCISfor a little bit, maybe I can take a shower and we’ll really be in business.
