𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭, charlie conway

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 | the glass children

     CRYSTAL'S BEDROOM HAD STOOD in state for the years since her surgery, like a family waiting for their soldier to return home: pink walls, a shiny silver bed frame, clean white desk scattered with "research" and books. Sunlight drifted through the white curtains when her alarm clock switched on to radio, waking the now 15-year-old Crystal from slumber and to the amnesia she faced daily.

For her, yesterday was when she went in for surgery, so she was typically shocked upon realizing she was home, waking to her normal 7:05 alarm. Her feet hit the ground on cue, just as Chris walks up the hallway to be present in the kitchen for the twenty minutes until he and his twin sister head off for school.

Crystal rounds the corner and sees her mom at the stovetop, flipping pancakes with a smile. Carrie is polishing her white leather cheer shoes so they sparkle for this afternoon's practice; Chris sits at the table with Crystal's book, to the right of the seat she always picks.

Crystal kind of rubs her eyes, shuffling to her seat. Sleepiness and confusion are no combination for someone in her condition. But all Chris has to do is smile for her to perk up.

"Morning, gemstone." He remarks, standing only to grab himself and Crystal plates and glasses, their mother ready to serve them.
"I... wasn't I in surgery?" She questions in the same words she'd never know she speaks each day.

"You're cancer-free, but the surgery affected your memory. Read through your book Crystal, I'll be right here."

Crystal is occupied with the pages of the book designed to fill her in on the happenings of her daily life as Donna pours milk in everyone's glasses, flipping pancakes off a stack and onto their plates. Chris has dug in by the point Crystal starts to fathom what's happened to her, a stray tear rolling down her face before her breathing stirs up, her lungs entering a state of freeze.

The near-daily panic attack.

Chris stands and pulls her chair back, practically lifting her from under her arms and leaning her against his chest. He does just as the doctors instructed to guide her through, reaching a level of mastery before he turned 13.

"Breathe for me, Crystal. Listen to me breathe, listen to my heart." He gently forces her ear to his chest, grasping her tighter in hopes the pressure will bring her comfort. Most importantly, he has to be calm and gentle — attributes he saves for just this part of his day, the daily routine of handling the "memory attack."

Some might wonder why out of all people, Crystal's brother handles this aspect of the day, but for the Nelson family, the reasons are obvious. First off, Donna nor Carrie could do it without getting upset, no matter how many times they had watched Crystal go through it. It broke Donna's heart that her daughter felt this way each day, Carrie's too. Though it upset Chris just as much at first, he could handle it without tears. By now, he was numb to it — he didn't know why it wasn't the way same for them. But he knew he had to hold some role in this house; he had to be "the man" in a house with no father.

The other reason was that he was the only one that could make it stop, or at the very least, snap her out of it. Today the flustered struggle to breathe turns into tears, the gentle sobs from her lips always upsetting, but not immutable.

"Shh honey, it's gonna be alright." He brushes her hair back through his fingers, eventually rubbing her back. "It's fine that you feel confused and upset. I'm here to help the big feelings shrink."
After another minute or two, the cries begin to subside and he has her sit back down to eat.

7:15.

The family quietly eats, perhaps discussing what's coming in their day to distract Crystal. Then Chris takes her to the couch, hoping to relax her further by getting something she recognizes on TV. This morning it's a Full House re-run.