The Santa Cruz Diner

 My brother was always the favorite in the family, at least that’s always how I felt.  He was homecoming king in high school and has never missed a step in his life.  He works out, married his high school sweetheart, and would have been drafted into the MLB if he had only been a few inches taller.  He’s kind and dresses well, wears an expensive watch for special occasions and will be done with his Masters next year, after which he wants to teach social sciences at the high school level while coaching the baseball team.  He’s charismatic and handsome and always, always does the right thing.  When I was younger I hated these things about my brother, how perfect he always was.  I hated that I was always the co-star to his achievements and popularity and in high school was almost exclusively referred to as "Shannon’s little sister."  Naturally, I grew up and began to respect and admire Shannon, not for the choices he’s made for himself but for his insane ability to remain humble and grounded, and for the fact that no matter how old he gets he always, always will still act like a little kid.  Shannon still wants to be with Mom if he’s sick, he’ll still be upset if he doesn’t get an Easter basket on Easter and will never, ever lose his ability to make everyone in the room laugh which his fucked up, mean sense of humor.  Even now, sometimes I look at him and remember scooting around on the living room floor in cardboard boxes with drawn on headlights.

 

Me and my Mom are standing in a beautiful garden overlooking a golf course with a thick, white layer of fog over it.  The sky is a bright white and it starts to sprinkle just a bit as we watch the distant golf course.  Behind us, others who were sitting get up in a hurry and scurry inside the venue.  I watch my Mom watch the distance, and the tear she was holding in falls from her eye straight to the ground.  She smiles and looks at me, "I’m just being a baby," she says, "I know everything will be fine."  I nod and we follow the rest of the wedding crowd indoors where it’s dry.  Inside, we have a nice table near the door, with a good view of the other guests picking red wines and leaning back and laughing.  My Mom, Dad, the boyfriend and I sit somewhat somber, taking only quick glances at the two empty seats at our table, the bare seats with my brother and his wife’s names printed clearly on the markers in front of us.  My Mom keeps checking her phone and then looking up at us.  "They’re still at the hospital," she says, "they won’t be able to make it at all."

 

A day earlier the boyfriend and I were navigating the crowded boardwalk streets in Santa Cruz, trying to make our way to the pier.  I’m on my cell phone with my Mom on the other end repeatedly telling me, "Jaime, just go down Ocean Street, just keep going down Ocean Street!" 

 

"Mom, we’re at the end of Ocean Street, which way is the pier?"  I say, putting another coat of powder over my face with the visor mirror.  I hear her get frustrated and hand the phone to my Dad. 

 

"Jame?"  My Dad comes on.  "Just go down to the end of Ocean Street."

 

Eventually we pay ten bucks to park and find the pier.  We walk down the freezing docks and watch the unfamiliar ocean crash up on the shore.  We pass dreaded pot heads banging bongo drums for change and bearded men with layered clothes strumming cheap guitars.  We smile at the cozy seafood restaurants and are winded by the time we reach the end of the pier, finally finding the restaurant where my family awaits.  Inside I hug my brother first, and realize how much I always miss him.  He hugs me tight and makes a joke about my hair.  His wife, Tanya, is tougher than him, organized and goal oriented.  She’s an ER nurse, beautiful, with a weird mole just above her left eye.  We sit and joke, talk and smile, my brother makes fun of my Dad, my Mom forces me to split a dish with her, Tanya talks about how none of her clothes fit her and how much she wants a beer.  

 

Afterward we all walk the pier, watch the ocean and people, and end up at a bowling alley, drinking more and talking shit to each other.  The day is awesome.  My parents aren’t worried about money today, the boyfriend and I hold hands and kiss cheeks, my brother gets sort of drunk and his ears turn red; which happens when he he’s nervous or when he drinks too much.  My Dad is happy, nice to my Mom, pulls her close and tells us jokes.  It’s like drinking something refreshing that I haven’t had in a while, cold and sweet and memorable.  Santa Cruz has great energy, a vibe that exists all around that brings about a lack of worry, a town infused with carefreeness reminds you that life isn’t so bad, and things to come might even be better.  

 

The next morning we all rise from our respective hotel rooms and shower one by one.  My Mom watches me flat iron my hair and tells me about the job she still hates and the extended family’s snobbery.  She lets me borrow her mascara and then looks down at her cell phone.  My brother had texted her saying they might not go to breakfast with us at the famous Santa Cruz Diner because Tanya wasn’t feeling well.  Before we leave he texts again, saying they’d be there, she might feel better after they eat.

 

The Santa Cruz Diner is like any diner you might imagine in a town such as this.  It’s quant with vintage memorabilia on the walls, including a giant shark’s head and photos of sinking boats.  We sit in the corner booth and flip through the pages of diner food.  My brother makes fun of me relentlessly for using the word, "as well" when ordering hot tea, telling me I’m a nerd, pretentious and lame.  I say "fuck you" and order a blue cheese hamburger even though everyone e

lse is getting breakfast.  Tanya is distant, covering her face with her hands and excusing herself to the bathroom a number of times.  My brother looks worried, watches her scoot out of the booth each time and puts his hand on her back when she returns.  Just as the food arrives she leaves the table again and then returns quickly, shaking and crying.  "We have to go to the hospital right now," she says and my brother’s face turns white as he grabs her purse and they leave without saying another word. 

 

In the hotel bathroom I slip on the most awesome dress I’ve ever owned.  I make the boyfriend help me zip the sides up and flat iron my new, dark bangs.  I admire the vintage neck line and feel good about pairing the blue/grey dress with my black and gold wedges, which I slip on before exiting the bathroom.  Outside the bathroom my Dad stands at the other end of the room in a grey button down and dark green jacket.  His hair is slicked back and he’s starring at the TV even though it’s not on.  "They lost the baby," he says.  I squint my eyes and say something stupid like, "seriously?"  Tanya was four and a half months pregnant.  

 

While we were watching my eldest cousin and his model wife exchange adorable vows under an overcast sky in a garden in Santa Cruz, my brother sat in a hospital room with his young wife while she experience what she described as the worse pain of her life.  While the boyfriend and I bullshitted with the guy giving drinks at the open bar, Tanya was being given a medicine which was to make sure she passed all of the baby’s remains out of her uterus.  And while we smiled at everyone who asked, lying, telling them we didn’t know what was going on, my brother had to be escorted out of her room by a doctor- who forced him to leave and get some air.  They had arrived at the hospital just after 10 a.m, and were still there are 8 p.m., waiting for it to be over.  Miscarrying so late brought about so much pain that they put Tanya on a morphine drip, and had to force the rest of the baby out .

 

It’s late and we’re at the bar with a bunch of relatives.  My vision is blurry and I only slightly remember doing an Irish Car Bomb with my Grandpa.  My Mom comes over and tell us that they left the hospital and they’re going to come by and say hi to everyone and congratulate the married cousins.  I don’t comprehend it at first, I look around me at all of our extended relatives, laughing and drinking and it feels like slow motion for a minute.  I feel protective, calm, like I don’t want these people to see them and cry for them and try and tell them that shit happens for a reason and they can try again in a couple of months and don’t worry it was nothing she did and how they hope hope hope they’re okay.  I put down my beer and see people shuffle out the door, and I think maybe there’s a crowd around them but I’m sort of drunk by this time and it seems weird, like cinematic in a way I could never write.  I don’t say anything to the boyfriend and walk outside where my brother stands, red ears and red eyes, drained and humble, like every time he lost a little league game.  I don’t remember the look he gives me, but I hug him right away before he can say anything, I wrap my arms tight around his neck and I totally. fucking. cry.  I cry hard, feeling the tears soak into his t-shirt and until my throat burns a little.  I cry enough for him to pat my back and tell me to stop crying.  I do.  I pull away and wipe my face.  He hugs me again. 

 

The next morning we rise again from our respective hotel rooms, this time hung over and still tired.  Tanya insists that we go back to the Santa Cruz Diner, that she wanted her food so bad that day.  We sit in the same booth in the same corner, and Shannon still pokes fun at me about saying "as well."  We don’t really talk about what happens, but it doesn’t seem weird.  After breakfast we have to drive back to Sacramento with my parents while Shannon and Tanya have to go to San Jose, where Shannon has a business training something or other for a few days.  We eat our breakfast and I watch him pat his wife’s head and make his eggs into a sandwich with his toast.  He eats too fast, too much, gets full and then complains about how he ate too much too fast, just like he did when he was a kid.  We laugh at him and he throws a straw at my Dad.  He is being strong for her, I think, as she eats silently, her body slumped back against the seat.  For as much as I think, study and analyze all the comes with being a woman, a good woman, a strong woman, sometimes I forget that it means something just as profound to be a good man, a strong man, one that IS a man with vigor and perseverance and solid, solid strength.  He helps her out of the booth with one hand and I am proud to be in the same bloodline as him, and as all the people around me.  

 

Outside while we’re all saying goodbye, he smashes a toy a just got from the quarter machine.  I ask him if he remembers riding around in cardboard boxes all the time when we were kids.  He says he does, and that since he works at a moving company he could probably get some pretty big ones now.