Writer's Block

I was sitting on my couch watching the rain cling to the windows. The little beads sounded like pebbles against the glass. I was afraid the window would break. The heavy blue curtains let only a streak of light from the outside world in. I tried not to let my gaze wander across the dark living room. I didn’t want to see the pale yellow wallpaper peeling away at the edges or the ugliness of the cluttered papers, bills, and junk.

It smelled like death in here.

My grandpa was—God knows where—up in the sky or down below knowing that I’m a mess of a person. His cancer was sudden and unforgiving. At times I felt like his mood swings were the same. We were too poor to get him the treatment he needed, but he would have refused if we had it. I knew he wanted to die; he was done suffering. He had lost everything and everyone in a fire, some twenty-five years ago. The blaze came in the dead of night. I was only an infant at the time.

We were the only family we had.

The last time he was awake, I went into his room carrying a bowl of tomato soup. I thought about bringing crackers because they were his favorite, but he no longer had the energy to chew them.

“I have something for you,” his voice was hot with pain.

“I really don’t need anything.” I set the bowl on his nightstand and pulled a chair I had taken from the kitchen the week before closer to him.

He tried to lift a bony hand up to mine, but he couldn’t. He used to be so full of life; a typical round, old man, but he was nothing more than skin and bones now. That man died a month ago. “I know I’ve been hard on you growing up, but you deserve to have a life outside of this lonely house.”

I wanted to say, “But I have you.”

Instead I said, “You’ve only ever put me first. You’ve given me more than I could ever ask for.” I grabbed the soup and began to feed him a little spoonful. His bottom lip quivered, struggling to stay open. I hated seeing this. It made me want to cry. I felt my cheeks growing flushed and the stinging sensation in my eyes.

He swallowed and coughed. He hesitated as if he was thinking whether or not he should say what he wanted to. “When I die,” he paused and looked up at me, then continued, “When I die, I want you to get as far away from here as possible. Finish up that writing degree you wanted. Don’t worry about the bills, I have something sorted out. There’s gonna be a man that’ll come here once I’m—”

“Grandpa—”

“No, if I tell you I have it figured out, I do.”

I tried to feed him another spoonful, but he refused. The stinging in my eyes was becoming too much to hold back. “But we don’t have any money. I’m gonna get another job to help pay everything off.”

“No, I will not allow it!” The sudden burst in energy caused him to start gasping for air. His breathing was crackled and ragged. I quickly set the soup down and ran to grab a glass of water. I felt a tear loosen itself and stream down my face.

By the time I got the glass of water and was back in the room, he was asleep.

***

I had scraped together some money for his cremation. I couldn’t even afford a proper burial or urn. I put the box of his ashes in his room and shut the door. His room was the only bedroom in this tiny house. I usually slept on the pullout couch in the living room, where I was now and have been since he passed. My door-to-door sales job let me go. It’s my fault. I couldn’t show up for my shifts the past few days.

The rain began falling harder. The droplets sounded more like large rocks against the windows. I heard a loud rattle on the front door. Was it the rain? The door rattled again. I ran my fingers through my greasy brown hair to try to smooth out the mess. I adjusted my sloping shirt and looked through the peephole. There was a tall man standing outside. He was wearing a business suit and carried a box in his hands.

I opened the door, letting in the fresh smell of the rain. It was nice.

“Hello.”

“Hi, ma’am. My name is Jason Turner. Your grandfather hired me to help him write up his will and deliver it to you.” He reached for his black fedora. Some rain water that had collected there dripped out as he took his hat off.

“I don’t know why he hired you. We don’t have anything of value.” I must have looked like a mad woman. He was kind enough to pretend not to notice. He gestured with the hat towards me. It only occurred to me then that I was making this man stand out in the pouring rain. “Sorry, yes, come in.” I stacked papers from the wooden coffee table and the stained loveseat and put them on the floor out of sight.

“Uh, thank you.” Mr. Turner set the box on the coffee table. “Well, in this box is everything your grandfather wanted me to give to you.” Mr. Turner lifted the lid off the box and placed it on the floor. He pulled out a little black notebook, followed by a folded up piece of paper and a metal box with a keyhole.

“How much did he pay you?”

“He knew you would ask that and told me not to answer.”

Figures.

“Here is the notebook. He said you would know what to do with it.”

I took it from him and held the notebook in my hands. I ran my fingers up the hard cover and pulled at the elastic closure. It felt familiar. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s completely understandable. If you don’t mind, we need to unlock this metal safe here. Now, he already had this when he brought it into me. I don’t know what’s inside. He gave me the box with everything inside and told me when to bring it to you and not to open it unless I was here with you.”

“Okay.” I was a little confused.

Mr. Turner reached into the box and pulled out the tiny key. “Oh, and he said if he had left it here, it might have been lost or thrown out on accident.”

Grandpa was never one to overlook things.

He handed me the key. I reluctantly unlocked the lid and opened it. I held my breath. Inside it was a bank statement listing the amount of $20,000 in my name.

“What? This can’t be right. We don’t have this kind of money. Where could he have gotten it?”

Mr. Turner turned to me and gave me the folded up piece of paper from the box.

Eleanor,

I have been putting aside some money since you were younger. I knew the day would come when I could no longer take care of you. You deserve every cent of this money. Do not waste it on my bills, I arranged it all after the diagnosis. You take this and go find yourself a life worth living. Get that degree you’ve wanted so badly and don’t forget your notebook. That notebook’s a good one. I just know someday you’ll make a best seller with it.

I looked up at Mr. Turner. My mouth was open.

“Well, I believe that is it. I’m just gonna leave this all here for you.”

“Um, thank you.” I put my head back down and set the notebook and paper on the table. I got up and walked Mr. Turner to the door.

“Have a good rest of your day.” Mr. Turner put his hat on and tilted it downward before walking out into the rain. I closed the door and went to the window. I pulled back the curtains to let some sunlight in not blocked by the clouds.

I looked at the notebook laying on the coffee table. I went over to it and undid the closure. The pages were smooth and clean. For the first time in a long time, I took a deep breath and began to write.