“I found it!” Flavia cried.

”What?” I asked, jumping up from where I was flipping through a book full of Frankie’s band, Hollywood Shakedown’s, tour photos. It was strange seeing my little brother at thirteen, fifteen and twenty years old, and an obtuse way to see him grow up. “Does it say how I died?”

”No, but this might help,” she said, holding up an old newspaper clipping. “It says that Franklin Jonas retired and, after his wife died, he moved into Sunny Hills Retirement Home in Seattle. Joe, pack your things, we’re going to Seattle.”

She took my hand and dragged me out the door of the book hoarder’s house, shouting, “Bye, thank you!” to the bird woman as we raced out to catch the autobus.

I stumbled after her arguing, “I’m a ghost! I don’t have things to pack! What you see is what you get!”

She talked all the way home, how she was going to disguise herself and use her money to buy a train ticket. She said that planes were limited, but the last of the train tracks had been cleared the year before and it was the best form of transportation.

I watched her the rest of night. Through the painfully silent dinner with her father, after which she raced into the attic with me and began searching through the boxes and trunks.

”What are you looking for?” I asked.

”A disguise,” she replied, “Also, maybe something to prove I’m telling the truth when I say, ‘hello, we’ve never met but I’m in contact with your dead brother’.”

”Let me worry about the dead brother bit,” I told her. Walking over to one of the trunks, I pulled out a collection of my mother’s old clothing. The things she wore, and the things I’m sure she wished she never had worn. I laid it out on the floor for her to see. “Will these work for a disguise?”

We boarded the train an hour later with her dressed in a higgledy-piggledy costume of 1970’s fur vests, 80s band tees and skirts that were sleek and in style when mother had worn them. She look slightly ridiculous and at the same time slightly beautiful. Flavia was the only person I knew who could pull off an outfit like that.

She slept for most of the time, whilst I held her hand in mine and watched the broken cityscapes pass by outside the train window. 

It was raining when we reached Seattle. Some things never change. What had changed was, like Los Angeles, the buildings and skyscrapers were toppled, the shipyards were abandoned, the locks unmanned and the Space Needle had been toppled. We walked the blocks to Sunny Hills Retirement Home, following the map system on Flavia’s computer.

We entered the lobby of the building. Flavia dripped puddles onto the polished floor, shaking out her blonde hair and brushing at the matted fur of her vest. “Excuse me?” she asked the woman at the desk. “We’re here to see a Mister Franklin Jonas?”

The woman flipped through her ledger, an article that seemed almost archaic in consideration of all the technology available to the public. “Ah, yes, Mr. Jonas,” said the woman, putting her glasses on her nose, “I’m sorry, child, Mr. Jonas is no longer with us.”

oh gosh.
this is indescribly incredible. :)
so jealous of your writing. 
btw, just throwing this out there. I don't know how you should say Joe died, but I had a random thought of a tragic way.... do you wanna hear?

~Belles <3 [just finished her musical auditions]

Belles Archive

“But, we’ve come so far!” Flavia wailed.

”We?” the desk clerk questioned. She shook her head. “But, dear-“

”I mean I. I’ve come so far to see him,” Flavia stuttered, desperately backtracking, like anyone would actually guess the ghost of Joe Jonas was with her. “I can’t believe he’s dead.”

”Oh, he’s not dead,” the woman said, and we both looked up at her. “He moved. Little house on Queen Anne Hill. What business you kids have with him?”

She leaned over her ledger, looking down suspiciously at Flavia, studying her. Her eyes kept flitting over my shoulder; I looked and saw two elderly women and one man standing near the entrance to the hallway. One of the woman’s neck was bent at a grotesque angle, the other two looked terribly blue. I began to shake, knowing instantly that they were dead. 

”I’m his grand-niece,” Flavia said to the desk clerk. Neither of us registered the plural “kids” in her sentence. 

”Just a minute,” she said. She walked around the desk and towards the elderly trio in the hallway. “Go away,” she said, “Can’t you see I’m with a guest?”

The woman with the broken neck smiled and mumbled her apologies. As they left I heard her say to the others, “I always thought he was the cutest.”

Flavia looked at me with a shocked expression, upon seeing the ghosts of dead residents, walking away. The desk clerk turned back with a bright smile on her face, “Now, I should let you know, that I can see your friend here—Joseph, isn’t it? I used to be such a fan when I was young.”

We both were a bit shocked to say the least, as she smiled down at me.

”I’m very sorry about what happened to you. I cried for days when I heard,” she told me. I nodded dumbly.

”Can you tell us what happened to him? We’re trying back to find out,” Flavia said from behind me. She reached forward and took my hand again. Whenever she did I felt so much more solid, so much more alive and I would shudder.

The woman just shook her head and let her hand linger near my heart, and the memory of its rhythm. “I’m afraid that’s something you need to find out for yourself. I’ll go find the address for your brother.”

The house on Queen Anne Hill was much smaller than I’d imagined. I expected someone who’d once been a rock star to have a bigger house, but I suppose that people get more frugal as they get older. He probably was aware he didn’t need a lot of space, living on his own.

”Nervous?” Flavia asked me and I nodded.

”I’m not sure I want to do this, Flavia,” I told her. I was afraid; afraid to hear of my death, afraid to see my brother with so many years hanging onto his face in the form of wrinkles and lines.

Flavia leant forward and gently kissed me, before taking both of my hands in hers and lead me toward the door of the house. She knocked on the door with force. There was no answer. She pounded even louder on the door and from the other side the voice of an old man shouted, “I’m coming! Hold you horses. Jeez.”

My brother opened the door, an eighty-nine year old man. I couldn’t help but gasp as he stared down suspiciously at Flavia. “What do you want?”

“I, uh...”

”Well, c’mon girl,” he said, a little more gently.

”I’m doing a report for school about your brothers, but there isn’t a lot of information out there anymore, I was wondering if you could take some time out of your day to talk with me?” she said.

”Smooth,” I said.

She nodded her thanks curtly.

”Yeah,” Frankie said, “C’mon in.”

He opened the door and we wandered inside. The house was small and filled with photographs. Some of them were of us when we were younger, some of them were of his touring days. There were picture of him and his wife, a lovely blonde woman with smiling eyes. There were many photos of his children, and as I wandered around the room, I told Flavia, “Tell him his children are beautiful. Ask him their names.”

”Your children are beautiful,” Flavia repeated and Frankie smiled and thanked her. “What are their names?”

”The little girl over the mantle is Cassia. The twins are Leonius and Linos. The little one is August,” Frankie said proudly.

”They’re lovely,” Flavia said, “I’m sure they’re just as talented as you.”

”They’re dead,” Frankie said and Flavia gasped, furiously backpedaling and apologizing, trying to make up for her faux pas. “It’s all right, child, you didn’t know.”

”Ask him how,” I asked.

”May I ask how it happened, sir?” Flavia said.

”The war. Cassia’s school was hit, she survived the initial explosion, it was the shrapnel that killed her. Leonius and Linos were both killed in action. August was born premature, but a bombing had knocked out the electricity. They had no equipment to save her, no incubator to place her in...”

His words trailed off and he drew a shuddery breath. Flavia nervously stood up and placed a hand on his arm. In the silence, I walked over and whispered in her ear, “Tell him I’m here.” She looked up at me and shook her head furiously. “Do it, Flavia.”

”Mr. Jonas?” she ventured. He looked up at her. “I haven’t introduced myself. I live in your old house in California. I live in Joe’s old room.” Frankie didn’t say anything, waiting for her to continue. “I have something to tell you that you probably won’t believe. My name is Flavia Browne, sir, and your brother is standing right next to me.”