Chasing the Waves

There are two kinds of deaths in neurosurgery. The first kind is clean. Expected. You open the dura, you see the bleed, you know before your suction even hits it. The family’s already grieving in the waiting room. You come out, you use words like “we did everything we could,” and they nod because they’ve been preparing for six months. That kind of death leaves a bruise. It aches. But it heals. The second kind is Alex. Sudden. Violent. Your hands inside your brother’s skull, thinking this is routine, this is just a resection, I’ve done this 40 times. Then the AVM ruptures. Then the monitors scream. Then you’re pushing epi and calling for blood and watching your brother’s brain turn into something you can’t fix. That kind of death doesn’t bruise. It amputates. It was five years, three months, and eleven days ago. I still count. I don’t do galas. I don’t do fundraisers, charity balls, or anything that requires a tux and small talk. The hospital sends me because “Dr. Anzani, Chief Resident” looks good on the donor list. I go, I stand in a corner, I leave after the first speech. The Children’s Cancer Foundation gala was no different. Except Alex dragged me. “Come on, N. One hour. For the kids. For me.” He was already in a tux, grinning like he hadn’t been on call for 28 hours. He had that effect. Made you think the world wasn’t made of suffering. “Fine,” I said. “One hour. Then I’m scrubbing into the trauma case.” We got there at 8 PM. He went straight for the bar. I went straight for the exit, scanning for the fastest way out. That’s when I saw her. She wasn’t supposed to be there. She was 22, CEO of some startup cosmetics brand her dad bankrolled. Zelle Cosmetics. I’d seen her face in Forbes. “The youngest female CEO in the Philippines.” She looked it — sharp suit, red lipstick, hair like she’d cut glass with it. She was arguing with a senator about tax reform. And winning. Alex saw her too. “Holy s**t,” he said, coming up beside me. “That’s Jasmin Thomas.” “So?” “So she’s brilliant. And terrifying. And probably going to take over the country before she’s 30.” I rolled my eyes. “You have a type: dangerous and unattainable.” He laughed. “Watch me.” He did. He walked right up to her, tux slightly crooked, hair a mess from the hospital, and said something that made her stop mid-sentence. She looked at him — really looked — and then she smiled. Not the corporate smile from the magazines. A real one. Small. Surprised. I watched from across the room like a creep. I told myself I was making sure he didn’t make an ass of himself. The truth? I couldn’t look away. They talked for ten minutes. Ten minutes, and Alex came back looking like he’d been hit by a truck. “She’s…” He couldn’t find the word. “Out of your league?” I offered. “She’s light, N.” He said it like it hurt. Like it was a diagnosis. “She walks into a room and it’s like… like she reminds you why you don’t quit. Why you keep cutting people open hoping one of them lives.” I didn’t have an answer for that. One hour turned into three. Alex didn’t leave her side. I didn’t leave the corner. I watched her. The way she listened. The way she challenged. The way she didn’t flinch when Alex talked about brain surgery like it was poetry. When we finally left, Alex was quiet. “You good?” I asked. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I just met the person I’m gonna marry.” I snorted. “You’re delirious. Go sleep.” He did. And for a month, he talked about her. Jasmin this. Jasmin that. Did you see her Q3 numbers, N? She’s expanding to Singapore. I tuned it out. I was busy. I was chief. I had lives to save. Then his headaches started. The AVM was a monster. Grade V. Spetzler-Martin. Inoperable, most surgeons said. Don’t touch it, Anzani. You’ll kill him. I was arrogant. I was his brother. I was better. I told the attending I’d do it. I told Alex I’d do it. He trusted me. He said, “If anyone can, it’s you.” He coded at 10:43 AM. I was holding the sucker when his pressure bottomed out. I was calling for more blood when his pupils blew. I was doing compressions on my brother’s open skull when the attending pulled me off and said, “He’s gone, Nathaniel.” I remember the silence. Not the beeping. The silence after. I remember washing his blood off my hands for 47 minutes. I remember the funeral. Jasmin Thomas sent flowers. To the Anzani family. My deepest condolences. She didn’t come. Why would she? She didn’t know him. Not really. But I kept the card. I kept tabs on her. Company launches. Magazine covers. That red lipstick she named CEO. I told myself it was for Alex. That I was keeping his memory alive. The truth? I was haunting myself. Five years, three months, and eleven days later, I’m walking through CHH at 9 PM, charts in hand, thinking about a glioma I can’t resect without killing the patient. Then she slams into me. Coffee. iPad. Clatter. “I’m so sorry—” she starts, and I look up. And it’s her. Jasmin Zelle Thomas. Not 22 anymore. 27. Sharper. Colder. More beautiful than I remembered, and I hate myself for noticing. She doesn’t recognize me. Why would she? I’m just a surgeon in scrubs. She’s a queen in heels. “Watch where you’re going,” she snaps. And just like that, the ghost in the gallery becomes flesh. Alex’s voice is in my head. She’s light, N. I should walk away. I should let her pick up her iPad and disappear for another five years. But I don’t. Because for the first time since Alex died, I don’t feel the undertow. I feel the pull. And I’m already drowning.