Sometimes, late at night, long after Mom put “her four girls” to bed, she and Daddy watch t.v., in the livingroom. Mom sits on the small, green sofa against the wall behind my bedroom, and Daddy sits across from her, on a matching sofa. Mom sews a button on one of my sisters’ parochial school, white-starched blouse, or hems, up or down, a blue and green plaid, pleated, uniform skirt. They sit quietly, talk quietly, quietly in the poetry of sweetheart love with one another.

Bedtime for my sisters and me is seven o’clock sharp, as by that time, Mom has had enough of us for the day, though I wonder about that, because she orders me to watch my sisters most days.

“Teach Barb and Maria how to play hopscotch,” says Mom as she closes the green door on the front porch.

I draw the shape of squares into a cross shape with white chalk, and show them how to play. I concentrate on the shaky chalk lines that stumble over the concrete sidewalk, the chalk roughly bumps grains of sand in the concrete. I wonder if the sand comes from Cummings Beach, where we swim. The wavy squares, the big, loose, hand-drawn numbers, the chalk in my hand, absorb me. I am with my sisters, and yet, I am not. I am inside of myself.

“Don’t step on the cracks, you’ll break your mother’s back,” says Donna, who joins us.

I feel sorry for Mom as I imagine her with a broken back.

At seven o’clock sharp, my sisters and I share one bedroom, with two twin beds, two girls to each bed. Cars pass by the house, headlights strike Venetian blinds’ shadows to the wall. I watch the shadows’ slow, swaying, lullaby movements and listen to trains’ rumble and whistle at the train station, a block away, until I fall asleep.

Sometimes, I wake during the night, and listen for Daddy and Mom’s voices. I can’t figure out what the talk’s about, and it doesn’t really matter, as I’m just happy to hear humming voices for a change.

Sometimes, I wake, scared, a choking knot in my throat and thoughts of a murderous fight my parents had earlier in the day. The quiet house and my sisters’ sleeping, in-and-out breaths, and a little prayer to Mother Mary, give me courage to slip out of bed, pull the blanket over Maria’s shoulder, slide into slippers, and on tippy-toes, with the shish-shish-shish of my flannel nightgown against my legs, go to the dark kitchen. Out of sight, I kneel on the gray linoleum floor near the stove, to watch my parents in the livingroom together.

Other times, they’re asleep, beyond the French glass doors that separate the livingroom, in their bedroom, that has just enough room for a bed, two dressers, a nightstand, and before baby Maria could share my twin bed, a baby’s crib. I slip into Daddy and Mom’s bedroom, and climb into bed between them, a safe spot. They don’t hear me, don’t feel my touch, and don’t wake, because I’m as quiet as a sneaky mouse. Sleeping Daddy and Mom give me the chance to find comfort without drawing attention to myself.

Nestled in a valley with their backs to me, Daddy’s mountainous, white shoulders loom above, and Mom’s soft, easy breathing slows the beat-beat-beat of my heart. I lie there between them, take them in. Daddy’s light brown, reddish curls, slightly damp from sweat, a sleeveless, white, cotton undershirt, exposes muscular, white skin, brown-freckled dots surround a U.S. army tattoo. Mom’s dark, black hair sprawls against the pillow, a dark halo in the night.

Here, I lay, as the very early morning sunlight starts to slither in, with the starts of sparrows as they flit and chirp in the front yard. Listen to the peaceful breathing of my parents. Listen to the house, so very quiet. Listen for a waking sound from my sleeping, Polish grandparents upstairs. Listen to the gentle whispers of baby Maria, if the crib is still there. Listen to the beat of my very own heart. Listen to the house as it tells me to shush-shush-shush, Jeanne, it’s okay, you’ll get through what’s yet to come.