Series 3, Post 3: Creative Writing Series---A Story About Jones

     By Kristin Bivens

     Check out Part 1 and Part 2 of Jones' story.

     The next week was jammed packed with interviews, events and editors. I had no time to call Jones, or sleep for that matter. I wanted to know how her project was going, but the job was taking over every moment I had. Although, she hadn’t called me all week either. But when she was being artistic, it wasn’t unusual for her to lose contact with you for a little while.

     Finally, I called her on Sunday night when I got a chance to take a breath. She didn’t answer. Nor did she call back. Odd, I thought.

     On Tuesday Jones sent me a text message that said, “Sorry, I’ve been swamped with my art work. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

     Ok, I thought, that explains it. 

     The next Tuesday Jones finally called me. “You must really be in the zone,” I said, picking up the phone.

     “I have been, let me tell you. I’m so inspired. I haven’t talked to basically anyone all week.” 

     “Well, that’s good then,” I said. 

      She was a completely different person. All it took for me to leave town and here she was, happy as a lark.

     “You are still coming home in about two weeks, right?” she asked.

     “Yes, I will be coming home in exactly two weeks. I got a bonus so I was able to for sure afford it,” I answered.

     “Good. I will have a surprise for you when you get back. It’s called art. But I’ve gotta go, the inspiration is calling my name. And hey, I love you. You have always been my best friend,” she said quickly and hung up the phone without letting me reply. 

      It’s true. I always had been her best friend. And even she went back to painting walls and selling her body on the street, I always would be.

     Two weeks went by without a peep from Jones. I called several times, text messaged about a thousand times and still, I heard nothing. We had never gone two weeks without talking. My mom said she hadn’t heard from Jones in awhile either and Jones’ mother was in Florida visiting her mother. No one seemed to know anything all of a sudden. I guessed I would find her painting in her room when I got home, unaware of the rest of the world. Maybe she was back to painting her walls and was afraid to tell me about it so she just locked herself away and threw away her phone? It was completely possible. But I prayed my entire flight home that she was just in her zone and the art, her real art, not her wall art, had taken control.
     I kissed my mother hello at the airport and then had her take me directly to Jones’ house. Something just felt off and I needed to know as soon as possible that I was either wrong or right about that feeling. It was weird though, things had seemed so much better with Jones and now this two week disappearance? None of it made any sense. 

     Jones large white house was completely dark but for a small light that emanated from her bedroom. Her car was parked in the driveway; the newspapers stacking up on the front porch. I told my mom to go ahead and go back home and I would walk back. 

     I thought about ringing the doorbell, but instead checked to see if the door was locked. It opened as I twisted the knob slowly and carefully. Inside the house, I heard a steady stream of soft indie music. But for that, the house was silent. I tiptoed around, waiting for someone to pop out from behind a corner. The house was eerie and dark. I took out my cell phone to shed some light on where I was walking.  

     “Lumos,” I whispered, laughing at my Harry Potter reference, wishing someone else was there to get the humor.

     The stairs were familiar and yet still treacherous in the dark. The music continued to drone on and on in the otherwise silent air.

     “Jones,” I said, softly. Nothing. As I reached the top of the stairs, the light from Jones’ bedroom led the rest of the way and I put my cell phone back in my pocket.

     “Jones,” I said again. Only music played on. I was scared to walk into her room for fear of what I would find. What if she’d been murdered and left for dead? What if a robber was holding her at gun point? All of these things passed through my mind as I stepped closer to the doorway. What I saw wasn’t what I had expected to see at all. I peeked around the corner into the room and all I saw was a tiny crawlspace. The room had gotten smaller in the month or so I had been away in California. And it definitely was no longer cerulean with an orange sunset. Jones had been lying the whole time. I stepped slowly into the room and took a deep breath.

     The room was so small I felt claustrophobic. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. The walls were now stark white, hauntingly bright in fact. They reminded me of a pure, peaceful person. The white was not undisturbed though. On the wall that used to be orange, articles were pasted haphazardly across the surface. There was no method to their placement, no organization. They were just there, displayed like a work of art. I walked over to the wall to take a better look and realized that the articles looked familiar. In fact, my name was on them. They were all the articles I had written for the magazine and some from even before that. So that’s why she wanted the articles.
     Over the articles there was black sponge paint placed at random for what Jones would probably call an ‘artistic touch.’ In the very center of the wall, between all of my articles, there was a handwritten letter.

     It read:

     

     I’ve come to peace with everything that has happened in my life. But I can’t be here anymore. This isn’t my place. This isn’t the life I was supposed to live. Just remember that none of this was your fault, or anyone’s fault for that matter. The people in my life are the only ones that ever made it worthwhile. Your articles are here to show you that you were always my best friend. And when I’m not here, I’ll still be yours. I painted this room white one last time to show that I’ve finally found peace. I hope you can understand. I love you all.

-Jones

   As I read the last line, my body collapsed beneath me. 

      How did she expect me to understand? Or any of us to understand? And where had she gone exactly? I stayed on the floor, staring up at the wall and the letter. Was I dreaming? Why this whole setup? Why couldn’t she just talk to me? Where the hell was she? I took out my phone and dialed Jones’ number. “This is Jones. Leave your number. Chances are I won’t call you back.” And on went the beep.

     I guess I should’ve expected her not to answer. She wasn’t dark enough to pull a sick trick like this and then jump out and say ‘gotcha!’ And at this realization, I knew she was gone. Where to, I had no idea. But she was gone. I laid my head on her floor, closed my eyes and fell asleep. I woke up the next morning with carpet imprints on my face, confused as to why I was laying inside of such a small, brightly painted room. Then I saw the wall filled with articles. And I remembered. Jones was gone. I had about a million messages on my cell phone from my mother, wondering where I was at. I couldn’t face her right now. I had to make sense of the situation first, if that was at all possible.

     I stared at the wall for about an hour, hoping for a clue of Jones’ whereabouts to pop out of the art. Nothing came to me. Maybe that’s the way she meant for it to be. In fact, of course that’s how she meant for it to be. She didn’t want anyone to know where she was or what she was doing, if she was doing anything. She meant to disappear for good and meant for no one to find her.

     Typical Jones. A tear fell from my eye as I got myself up off the floor and walked out of the room, back towards life. I would go home and I would tell my mother. She would call Jones’ mother. I would sit at the kitchen table, staring at the nicks that I had carved into it over the years and listen as she talked to everyone she possibly could, hoping to find some answers. But if I knew Jones at all, there would be no answers. She would never leave this world without a mystery.

     There was no funeral, no service. Jones mother wasn’t accepting the fact that her daughter was dead. Everyone else chalked it up to a suicide and went on with their life. But for the people close to Jones, that wasn’t the case. She was still out there somewhere, maybe painting graffiti on a brick building or train hopping in Louisiana. Maybe she was miserable, maybe she was happy. Maybe she was in a room similar to the one she left, painting it color after color. No one could possibly know for sure and that’s the way Jones intended it. She found her peace, but she left others without any. As for me, I pictured Jones in Europe somewhere, sitting on a terrace, drinking wine and painting the cityscape. I never thought she was actually dead. My best friend wouldn’t just leave me without a word. I convinced myself that she simply didn’t know how to say goodbye and so she left everything behind and started anew somewhere else. She needed to leave her life behind, and as sad as it was, I was part of that life. But I knew she was out there somewhere, I could feel it in my bones every time I walked past a paint store.

     And on some occasions, I would walk in, buy a can of Eggplant, the happy color, and paint my living room. Just in case Jones decided to show up on my doorstep.