My brother’s eyes snap open and he sits up on the operating table. I wonder if he will still be my brother after today.
Through the observation window I can see the startling clarity in his gaze. There’s no sign of post-surgery grogginess—just an unnatural alertness, as if he’s simply waking from a light sleep.
The doctors carry out their duties efficiently, almost casually, under the harsh white light. It’s eerie how something so significant can be handled with such clinical detachment. They shine a light in his eyes and I see the same shade of deep blue I’ve known since childhood—a shade lighter than my own. As Logan steps down from the table, his broad shoulders slumping, his light brown hair tousled, I can’t shake the surreal feeling that I’m looking at a stranger wearing my brother’s face. He opens the door of the operating room and approaches me, sturdy, solid, making me acutely aware of my own slender frame, feeling fragile in comparison.
"Who are you?" I ask him, almost a whisper.
"What do you mean ‘who am I’, shithead? I'm the one who's lost his fucking mind here." He grins at me.
It surprises me that he can swear. Should it? The surgeon said he’ll still be himself, that he'll still talk and act like himself. But someone who's calling his younger brother "shithead" hardly fits the image of the model citizen this procedure is supposed to produce. Did it work? Has anything been erased after all?
Is my brother still a cold-blooded murderer?
He's barely awake, which means he's barely awakened to his new life as someone who doesn't bash a guy's brain in because he doesn't have the right color skin. Two years ago when he was arrested, Erasure would have been the story of the year, but it’s hardly a novelty now. Logan Waite is just another bigot whose hatred has been sliced right out of his skull by a surgeon's knife.
Logan, devoted husband and father. Logan, with a heart of gold and a sailor's mouth. The altruist who isn't afraid to act like a dick if it means telling you what you need to hear. My only brother, the one who raised me. I had spent my life idolizing him, so I was surprised at how quickly I ended up hating him after that single shocking act. Maybe because I had idolized him.
No sense in dwelling on the past. He doesn't have a past anymore. Not one he cares about anyway.
So where does that leave us?
“What’s next?” he asks, his tone flat, as if he’s asking about the weather. The voice is familiar but there’s an emptiness to it, a hollow echo of the one I remember. What's next? How about what’s left? Everyone knows Erasure removes the part of you that makes you an awful person, even if it means taking the memories of your misdeeds and your emotional connections to everything and everyone else along with them. It’s a medical marvel, sure, but also a reminder of how far technology has encroached into the most intimate parts of our humanity. So, what's left? A person stripped to the core of their being in its purest form? Or hardly a person at all?
I search his face, looking for any sign of recognition or warmth. “A few hours of post-op monitoring, and then we’ll meet up with your reintegration caseworker,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.
"No shit," he says with that same grin. I feel like there should be tenderness in that grin, but it looks more like muscle memory than genuine affection. Is there a shadow of bitterness on his face? No, I'm projecting, seeing what I expect to see. He has nothing to be bitter about. "I'm talking long-term. A job? Place to live?"
I pause. "You've got a place to live. You've got a family."
"Right." He closes his eyes, deep in thought.
"As far as a job, I think that's a caseworker thing."
"Right," he repeats.
------
Over the following hours, I find myself eyeing Logan constantly, looking for evidence of change—or lack thereof. I don't know which would be worse. I've never heard of the process being unsuccessful. Erasure changes people; that's an undisputed fact. But watching him from a distance, I'd never know. His posture is unmistakably his: casual, but intentionally so, masking the faint discomfort from the scoliosis that was never quite corrected as a teenager. Mannerisms like running his thumbs over the tips of his fingers back and forth, never quite still. Mannerisms I share, picked up either through observation or some shared disquietude.
The examiners seem satisfied with what they see, checking off items from a list, and before I know it, he's cleared to leave. It seems rushed to me. I think of brain surgery as being a big deal, but this one is only a quick outpatient procedure. The inundation of money and energy poured into its development has produced a technology of unnatural precision. Neither the examiners nor Logan seem concerned, so I follow them down the hallway of the facility to connect with the reintegration caseworker. I walk mindlessly, too stunned and distracted, trying to reconcile the memories of my brother with the man who just woke up on the operating table, to pay attention to my surroundings.
A woman in her 30s, dark hair in braids down her back, is sitting at a table in what feels like a police investigation room. Her face lights up when we walk in—genuine, not dulled by habit or bound by duty to represent anyone other than herself.
"I'm Leigh Breland," she says, offering Logan a handshake. He accepts in his distinct way, his left hand behind his back, leaning forward in a half-bow. "I'm so excited for you,” she beams. Logan smiles, but he squints as if he’s unsure how to respond.
She turns to me, her true smile shifting to a professional one. "And you're not Taryn."
"No, I'm the brother, Phoenix Waite. Taryn asked me to be the one to meet Logan while she prepares at home," I explain. "Both the house and herself," I add as an afterthought, half to myself.
Leigh turns back to Logan. "I tell you this as someone who has undergone Erasure myself: this is truly the opportunity to create a life worth living."
"Wow, I've never met someone who’s had the procedure personally," I interject. "Before now, I mean,” sneaking a glance at Logan. “What's it like?"
"I wouldn't know now, would I?" Leigh replies, with a slight smile. Is she intentionally misrepresenting my question or just deflecting?
Leigh and Logan engage in an animated conversation, Leigh explaining her own role and detailing to Logan what his next steps will be. She speaks with sympathy, encouraging him to embrace the process. I stand near the doorway, feeling like an intruder with no extra chair to sit in, but too invested to step away. Instead, I lean against the doorway and listen closely.
"Erasure doesn't remove all memories," Leigh explains, her voice gentle but precise. "It targets the ones linked to your crime. You still have the rest, but without the emotions attached to them.” She glances at me then back at Logan. “It seems like you recognize your brother?”
Logan considers this, frowning. “I do, instinctually.” He closes his eyes tightly. “Like, I know who he is and our history, but it’s like remembering a book I’ve read. I know the details, it just doesn’t feel like I’m the one who lived them." He glances at me, his blue eyes searching mine, then looks away.
Leigh nods, her expression softening. “So you know he’s your brother, but he doesn’t feel like your brother?”
“Exactly.”
Leigh places a hand on Logan’s arm, her voice reassuring. “That’s just part of it. The details you don’t need anymore will fade as you form new ones. It’ll be an adjustment for everyone. You may not feel much right now, but it will come.” She smiles warmly. “Trust me.”
I feel a jolt of pain at his words, confirming what I suspected. I’m now uncomfortable standing there and wonder if I'm allowed to wander the building to clear my thoughts. Just as I decide to sit on the floor and wait instead, Leigh stands up, gives me a questioning look. “Can I talk to you next?” she asks.
Logan stands, pulling out his chair for me with mechanical politeness, and glances at Leigh, eyebrows raised and leaning toward the doorway as if wondering if it's supposed to be a private conversation. "Feel free to stay or go, I'm sorry there's not more seating,” Leigh responds. Logan shakes his head and gestures to the hallway behind him with his thumb.
I'm taken aback that a man who was a convicted murderer mere hours ago is now allowed to roam unsupervised in an unsecured building. So confident is this clinic of the thoroughness of the alteration, that no one watches him walk away—except me.
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"So," Leigh says abruptly, impatient with my momentary distraction, "you asked me what it's like. It's strange that it's not strange. That's the best I can describe it." I look at her, blank faced, not wanting to irritate her further, but her eyes are fixed on the wall behind me.
"My honest answer is that it didn't feel like anything. It felt like waking up the same as every other morning. My mama was there, and I recognized her, I did, but I didn't care about her one bit. I thought it was nice she was there to help, but I could take it or leave it. Her. And I left her. I got set up with a new job, moved into an apartment with four other girls, and went right on living." Her eyes are back on me.
"I was allowed to write a letter to myself beforehand—had to get it approved by an officer—and I told myself to move on. I didn't want any part of that life before. I didn't understand what that life was, not really, but what I knew is that I always trusted myself more than I trusted anyone else, and I knew I was leaving it all behind. Logan is supposed to be different," she tells me, jabbing a finger at a file on the table in front of her bearing Logan's name. "This says he's got a wife and three children that he's going to live with, and I don't see a single one of them in this room right now."
I stay silent.
"It was different for me, because that's how I wanted it. But Logan is supposed to have people because that's what this file says he wanted. You, Phoenix Waite, are mentioned three times in this file, but you are not the wife and children who are supposed to be here right now. I'm going to do my job, but I am not his people. Now, it's going to be harder for you than it is for him to decide to be his brother again, because he could take you or or leave you at this moment, you're starting from scratch, OK? What's it gonna be? Are you gonna be that man's brother?"
My mouth is dry. "I don't know," is all I can manage.
----------------------------------------
Erasure entered the world's consciousness when a few Hollywood perverts went through with it to save their careers, if not their reputations, from the mob of public perception. They shared how it was the greatest thing to happen to them through statements released by their agents or publicists or whoever handles that thing. That earned them some sympathy, and eventual pity when it turned out their talent and charisma were sucked dry as well. Consequences, though, right? It’s not like it fixed anything for their victims.
Then came The Awakening, a human rights group, lauding Erasure as an ethical alternative to serving hard time. Ostensibly a government agency, or close enough, The Awakening steered the narrative concerning Erasure from a grotesque variety of plastic surgery to the panacea for prison reform, a humane necessity for the criminal justice system. As soon as The Awakening's campaign took off, anyone who had committed a heinous crime involving a protected class had no chance in the courtroom. And when the options were a trial, which held the prospect of the death penalty, versus a plea deal to undergo Erasure, the procedure became the more popular option. As sentences were handed down, the good doctors of Erasure began ridding the world of murderers, rapists, child molesters, and, in Logan's case, racists, one by one.
But when his conviction was handed down, there was a bright side as well: Logan's record would be wiped clean, same as his mind.
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We exit the building and I take a deep breath of fresh air, coming back to my senses. The exterior of the dignified Cleveland Park cottage stands in stark contrast to the spartan rooms inside. It's as if the downtown facility I expected, with all the soullessness the term implies, was here all along, only encased in the facade one employs when they're desperate to make a good impression. No colorful murals or dentist office fish tanks here.
We approach the car that Taryn let me borrow; both of us agreed the Metro wasn't the right choice. As we get near, a young man standing in the parking lot swoops over to greet us. He’s wearing slacks, a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and a loosened tie, the top button of the shirt undone. His bronze face is dewy, only lightly glazed with perspiration. I’d be dying if I was out here in the heat all morning.
“Good morning,” he begins, without even an attempt at a smile. His voice is clipped, clear, and devoid of pleasantries. “I have some information you’re really going to want to hear.”
“You’re kind of too late, man” I answer tersely, not willing to suffer any disturbances.
“The Awakening claims that they want to rehabilitate criminals but there’s sketchy stuff going on behind closed doors,” he ignores me, pushing the long dark hair of his undercut to the side. “Their intentions are not even close to pure.”
“Does that surprise anyone? With a creepy ass name like ‘The Awakening?’” I mutter as I stride past. I know I shouldn’t engage, but I’m overwhelmed and can’t access the poise I usually pride myself on.
“Apparently,” he continues, “or this mutilation clinic wouldn’t be here. The Awakening has positioned themselves as having support of the government—”
“Look, man, you don’t need to convince me. As far as I’m concerned, any organization claiming to champion human rights is bullshit. The common good is never their first priority. Or second, or third. Like I said, I don’t know what you expect us to do now.”
“I’m guessing Zombie there is the victim,” he gestures with an elbow toward Logan. “Keep an eye on him. If there’s anything weird—weirder than expected, I mean—contact us, we’re working on an exposé about these guys. Washington Insider.” He holds out a card with his contact information. Irritated by the ambush, I take it, then drop it on the sidewalk to make a statement, making sure he notices as I walk past to open the car door for Logan. The Logan I knew would have had words for this guy. The Logan here with me is undisturbed.
"Nice building, huh?" I say as we pull away in the car, eager to move past the awkwardness. "When do you think it was built?" I offer this as an icebreaker and an olive branch to Logan, notoriously an architecture geek.
"I don't know, bro, you want me to guess?"
"Sure!" I chirp, overenthusiastic. "I'll see if I can look it up and find out."
"I was kidding. I'm not in the mood. Sorry, man." His avoidance isn't a red flag in itself—he seems lost in thought—but it was once a reliable way to diffuse the tension. Is that right? Or am I basing that doctrine on one or two memories, convincing myself of its truth?
I wish I had the presence of mind to speak during the car ride, to offer encouragement or just a sense of normalcy, but my consciousness is entirely consumed by the driving itself. I finally got my license last year, only 12 years after completing driver's ed in high school. "Who needs to drive in the city?" was how I justified the decision for years to anyone convinced I would regret not being able to drive. Logan doesn't comment on the fact that I'm driving, or, to my relief, on the tense jerkiness with which I do it. Nor does he seem to notice the car itself. Not that he would recognize it—Taryn bought it sometime after the arrest.
It's a short car ride north to Chevy Chase, a reminder of why I prefer the slow contemplation afforded by walking or waiting for the Metro. In the back of my mind, I think, It's not taking long enough, Taryn and the kids need more time to prepare. But soon we're pulling up to the home that was once Logan's pride and joy, the bay window seeming to reach out to greet us, and the shutters looking as if they're opening their arms in invitation. "Built in the '30s," he used to remind us ad nauseam. It was a big deal a few years ago when it “turned” 100. Taryn was a stay-at-home-mom before all of this; how she has managed to hold on to the house I haven’t cared to know.
We park out front, I take out the keys, and I sit there for a moment, staring through the windshield. I feel like there should be noise, what with three kids presumably somewhere on the premises and an entire street of neighbors in beautiful brick homes. Shouldn't someone at least be waiting on the porch to welcome him? Even the colloquial crickets, otherwise omnipresent this fall, are refusing to chirp.
"Want to prep?" I ask, still facing forward, not ready to make eye contact.
"To be honest, I don't know what I'm prepping for," Logan replies.
"Do you want to talk about that?"
"No." Then after a moment, "Not avoiding it, really, I just don't want..." I wait for him to finish the sentence until I realize he already has. You don’t want anything? Do you want to talk about that? I'm tempted to say, but don't.
"Well," he says as he unbuckles and opens his door. I get out and give him a hug, surprising myself. Old habits. He neither rebuffs nor squeezes tighter, just matches my pressure and waits for me to end it.
"Alright then," I add stupidly as I notice my thumbs running back and forth over my fingertips. He starts toward the front door and I grab his hand to stop him. "Here are the car keys. Tell Taryn I said thanks." Then I turn and walk down the road, desperate to get as far away as possible from whatever is about to happen inside that house.
I'm tempted to walk the nearly seven miles back to my Brookland studio, especially when I look at my phone and realize that somehow it's only just after 2:00 in the afternoon. The continuous circuit of one foot following the other usually serves to loosen my mind and body, as if there's a coil connecting my legs to my lungs, and the only way to breathe deeply is to unwind the coil by staying in motion. But the afternoons are still hot this early in the Fall, and I have a feeling my feet would not appreciate the journey in Birkenstocks.
Glancing at my phone to check the time, I notice an email from the DC Public Library alerting me that the newest batch of books I placed on hold is ready for pickup. Just the distraction I need. I only ever end up reading half of them, but there's something comforting about having books at home, and I have neither the money nor the space to procure a permanent collection. The library closes early on Sundays, which is reason enough to take public transit and pick up the books while there's still time. I walk toward the bus stop, approaching Western Ave and the invisible line that separates D.C. from the rest of the country.
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90 minutes later, I walk the block from the bus stop to the Woodridge Library, the afternoon sun lengthening the shadows on the pavement. I try to recall which books I placed on hold this time, and which of them I might actually read. Entering the library, I greet the young man at the desk with a tight-lipped smile. It's usually either him or Stephanie. Stephanie, who I have gotten to know over the past two years of semi-frequent visits. This guy, I’ve seen almost as often, but ever since I accidentally winked at him once, I can no longer bear to interact further.
I head straight to the ‘holds’ section, a small corner of solace. I know exactly where my books will be placed, each one with a slip of paper held in its pages bearing my name and the book's title. I gaze at the covers one by one, gauging my interest level, when something catches my eye on one of the hold slips.
Barely visible above the pages of the book is what appears to be a note written in black marker. I pull it out and read: NIX. The blood drains from my face.
Below that, written much smaller in pencil: It's your brother. Go to the birthday bridge. Remember the worst day of your life.