Note: So much for weekly updates, right? Well, okay, so it is a week later, just not Wednesday. (sigh) I don't know if I want to be specific with update days, but I would like to say that I'll keep up with this ficcy at a relatively quick pace.

Chapter Four:

Celia

The first time I left home, I was fourteen years old, and Vesta's farm seemed as far away and frightening as the city's distant lights. I'd tucked all my meager belongings into a suitcase, kept my chin up, and arrived at the farmhouse with my knees buckling and my lips forced into a smile. Truth be told, I was terrified when Vesta first opened that door, and I think my poor heart stopped beating when she embraced me in her eager arms, shouting a welcome and somehow ordering Marlin around at the same time.

Today, as I hold that same battered suitcase, I realize that my smile is just as fake as the one I wore four years ago. The journey is shorter, and the destination no longer foreign, but that fake smile—that smile—has somehow sneaked along with my old suitcase, and I can't help but wonder just how little things have changed if I can't arrive here with a genuine grin.

Though that's why I'm here, isn't it? Because everything has changed.

"Vesta?"

My voice squeaks despite myself, and as the woman appraises me from the doorway, I can see the way she's fighting to keep from attacking me in a full-blown bearhug. To my surprise, she suppresses it and simply murmurs, "It's mighty nice to see you again, Celia. Mighty nice."

I can't explain why, but somehow there's something so much colder in this greeting than the last. She might not know it, but I can sense it as I pass by her, smiling as I mumble, "It's nice to see you too, Vesta. Do you mind if I set down my things--?"

"Marlin can handle that," she interrupts me, grabbing my belongings and calling for her brother. "Marlin! For land's sake, get over here and help this girl with her bags. Are you a gentleman or aren't you?"

A groan sounds from behind, and to my surprise I see that Marlin has been sitting a mere few feet away from me, scowling. He stands up, and I involuntarily flinch a bit; I'm so petite beside him, there are times I feel like I'm hidden in his shadow. "Why can't she carry the damn bags herself? She's got arms, doesn't she?"

"It's not so heavy," I protest weakly, seeing Vesta's face contort in rage. "R-really, it's no trouble."

Blood rushes to her face tinted as red as the hair atop her head, and hands on her hips, she barks, "Now see here! Celia is our guest, and what's more, she's a lady. And even if you're nothing more than a useless whiny lump, I think you can find it in you to treat her with the respect she deserves!"

"Respect?" he scoffs, and I cower at the way his voice grates against my ears. "Respect? I think Celia should be one to talk—"

"I'll carry it myself." My quiet interruption cuts through his protests swiftly, and I turn to Vesta, imploring, "Please, Vesta. Let it go."

One by one, her fingers pry themselves off the handle, and she extends it to me, letting the suitcase fall into my open arms. Clutching it tightly, I let my eyes dare to search for Marlin's, but upon my contact, he turns away. He remains there, a silent silhouette, arms crossed and lips drawn into a frown. This is nothing new; he'd always frowned before.

Hadn't he?

"…I suppose I'll be going upstairs now," I declare, bowing my head slightly to Vesta and adding, "Thank you for everything. If you need me for anything, simply call."

I don't pause for their reactions as I let my feet start step by step up the stairs, feeling my face heat up in shame from the outbursts below. I can already hear them arguing:

"What's wrong with you, Marlin?! For land's sakes, just because you've got your own problems doesn't mean—"

"Do you ever just shut up?"

"I wish that you did! Lord, the whole reason Celia is here is to overcome her problems, and you're just bringing them up again, like you don't even—"

"They're my problems, too. And she's the one who started them, right? It's all her fault. If I don't blame her, then who can I blame?"

Please be quiet. Please stop, I'm begging you. Please, please, please—stop.

I shut my eyes and stumble onto the upstairs room, and to my relief, the voices fade into a small distant hum. Such angry voices—bitter, stinging, harsh voices. Fading voices, yes, but angry ones. I bury my head into my pillow, letting all sound vanish for a few perfect moments of silence. But they can't last forever. Nothing lasts forever.

The room hasn't changed. None of it has. Slowly I sit up and let my eyes survey the familiar surroundings: the low-hanging ceiling still bears those marks from when I accidently hit it with the broom, and on the floorboards I can see the wine stain Muffy left when trying to convince me that I deserved to try alcohol as an eighteenth birthday present. The furniture remains where I've left it, untouched, and it's hard to believe that I haven't been here for so long—that I haven't been here for a year.

But I'm wasting time, aren't I? The suitcase won't unpack itself.

My fingers unlatch the cold metal lock, and as I open the worn suitcase wide, I sneeze at the dust left from so many seasons of forgotten use. There is not much to see: a pale yellow nightgown sits proudly atop a single green frock, a hairbrush and toothbrush hastily thrown beside it. Undergarments remain hidden beneath them all--an embarrassing necessity, but a necessity nonetheless.

"That's all you own? Really, Celia? Not that it's bad or anything, but wow, you really are different than those city girls."

I bite my lip, and one by one the items are packed away where they belong. It's as I'm putting away my clothes that I catch sight of something green peeking at me from the corner of my nightstand drawer. I fumble for it, and as soon as my fingers grasp it, I recognize the feel of its cracked cover, I recognize the texture of the pages slipping out of the binding.

I know this book. But it knows me far better.

Leaning against the headboard of my bed, I peruse the pages, and ink smiles back at me, speaking memories I've all but forgotten. In these pages are my first day as a farmer, my first sleepover, my first taste of wine, my first…everything, really. So many dawns and sunsets are contained in these pages, I can scarcely name them all. So many happy times…so many hard times…so many memories.

I blink as something slips from between the pages, and I turn to a pressed flower, crumbling into a yellow powder. It coats my fingertips, leaving behind a faded scent of spring in its wake. I glance at the entries beside it, and my eyes are drawn to the final entry—a paragraph I hadn't thought to ever gaze upon again.

Farewell, my diary. Tomorrow I'm not going to need you anymore. When my mother gave me you, she told me that I would be lonely at first, and that I'd need someone to talk to about everything. But tomorrow, diary, I'll have someone new to confide in—someone who'll be there for me always. I'll probably never write in here again, diary. But from now on, I won't need to. Jack will be there for me. Forever.

Forever.

The room hasn't changed, it's true. The stories in these pages haven't changed as well. But suddenly as I close this small book, I am faced with a horrible truth: that I'm a stranger here. These sheets are waiting for an innocent young girl, these pages for the eager pen of a lovestruck young woman, this house for a farmhand radiant with laughter.

What am I but an intruder, a mother in mourning shamelessly searching for a place to stay?

I don't belong here. Not anymore.

"Do you need any help?"

Vesta straightens up, wiping dirt onto her apron as she glances my way. "You feel like tending the plants?" she exclaims, a little more astonished than I had expected her to be.

I point my toes inward and nod, the weight of her stare causing me to look away. The fields were a daunting task on Vesta's farm; rows and rows of crops sat proudly by one another, nearly double the size of my husband's seasonal crop. I'd helped Vesta for so many years on these very fields, without protest and without scrutiny. To be judged like this now, after so long—

"Celia, it's not like I don't trust you or anything, but I reckon you should be resting. You're pregnant, aren't ya?" The word forces itself out of her mouth—pregnant—with a small amount of difficulty, but it's noticeable enough, and I nod once again.

"W-well, it's not like I expect to be staying here without earning my keep—"

"This isn't like before. This is different from back then." Her stern voice echoes in my ears, and I look away meekly as she continues, "You don't charge family, Celia. Our home is your home. Don't think you have to be the one putting bread on the table."

I clear my throat. She doesn't understand—it's not just that. It's not just staying here at her mercy; it's so much more than that. "But Vesta, I want to help. Just because…well…it's something. I don't want to just lay around here doing nothing. I—I want to be useful, I want to do something worth doing. I want to be a help."

"Huh." The corners of her mouth tug into a smile, and she lets out a hearty laugh, shaking her head. "Same old Celia. Some things never change, eh?" I offer a weak smile in return as she rubs her chin in thought. "Well, I reckon maybe the deliveries—I'd feel safe letting you do that. There are some crates in the shed, and you could see the labels on 'em. They're from Fall, and I haven't gotten around to delivering them all yet. Would you be alright with that?"

"I'd love that," I beam, and Vesta chuckles once more.

"Ah, Celia. The one girl I know who actually goes looking for work. Same good old Celia. It's nice to have you back, missy."

"Nice to be back," I murmur. And with the lie still fresh on my lips, I walk towards the shed, closing the door behind me and enclosing myself in darkness.

Same old Celia. Same old Celia, the lovestruck shy farmgirl. Same old Celia, the pregnant widow. Yes, some things don't change--but people do, whether they want to or not. Life molds us, shapes us until we're barely recognizable, and repeatedly throws us at the obstacles ahead. You can keep smiling. You can keep fighting it. But it's only so long before that smile becomes a frail shield, and you can only fight for so long before you give up.

I don't want to give up. But it's hard to keep fighting when you don't know what you're fighting for.