Don't Rhine on My Parade



  Don’t Rhine on My Parade

  A Suburban Fantasy

  Book One in the Rhine Maiden Series

  by Erin Evans

  Don’t Rhine on My Parade

  Copyright Erin Evans 2008, 2013

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  Chapter One

  I dreamed again of those pitch black eyes, staring at me. Cold, alien, hungry. It was the same nightmare I always had. I was trying to run away, but this time my feet were stuck to the ground. The eyes were getting closer and closer and in a moment I would see the teeth I had tried so hard to forget: long, sharp, and deadly white. Then the dream changed. Instead of teeth, there were hands, closing around my neck and slowly choking the life out of me as I screamed and screamed and woke myself in a panic.

  The piercing wail of screams moved from part of my dream into reality. A soft cloud was pressed firmly into my face, slowly suffocating me. Otis, my huge cat, got a shove that was meant to knock him off the bed but only succeeded in dislodging him from my pillow. I sat up, spitting out cat hair, my heart-rate still going a million miles an hour.

  “Your turn,” my husband mumbled, rolling over and pulling the pillow over his head. I groaned. The dream was fading and my fear was quickly turning into resigned annoyance as the screams were increasing in volume and intensity. I gave Otis another shove as he tried to usurp my abandoned pillow and he waddled with as much dignity as he possessed to the end of the bed where he tried to skewer me with a look of abject disdain. He never seemed to understand why I didn’t appreciate his nightly show of affection. In his mind he was paying me the greatest compliment by getting as close to me as physically possible. (I’m sure it was also the height of compliment when he rubbed orange and white hair all over my black pants, but I didn’t appreciate that either.)

  The screaming had now reached epic proportions. It sounded as if a hapless victim was being disemboweled and skinned alive at the same time. I threw on my bathrobe and staggered through the still dark house. It was way too early for this. It was always way too early for this. I missed the days when I got to sleep in. I popped open the child safety gate in the back hall with a little too much force and marched into my children’s room.

  “What Is Going On?!” I queried in a calm and reasoned manner. Okay, it was more like a barely controlled scream. Not a good way to start the day. I’m sure there are parents out there that never raise their voices, but I am sorry to say that I am not one of them.

  I took a deep breath and surveyed the room. Every book from the shelf was now on the floor. Every toy bin from the closet had been emptied onto the floor. Every puzzle had been dumped and the pieces scattered. Clothes had been pulled out of drawers, shoes were everywhere, and blankets and pillows had been ripped off the two twin beds. If the proverbial tornado had hit the room it could scarcely have looked worse.

  In the middle of this mayhem, half buried in the mess, sat my two little daughters, Cassidy, age two, and Megan, age four. Cassie was the one emitting the migraine producing screams. Her hair was a tangled rat’s nest, a bright red mark adorned her cheek, and tears were streaming down her face.

  “I didn’t do anything!” Megan yelled as soon as I walked in. She tried to hide a hairbrush behind her back.

  “What happened?” I asked at a lower decibel, clearing a space on the floor with my foot so that I could flop down and gather Cassie up into my lap. She was still hysterical and impossible to decipher through the sobs. Not that I could ever easily understand her baby gibberish.

  I pierced Megan with a gimlet glare. “What did you do? Don’t lie to me.”

  I could see Megan trying to come up with the best story. “I didn’t do anything!” she repeated, “I was just brushing her hair.” I looked down at the knotted mess in question and sighed.

  Cassie, still sobbing, burst out, “Eg it me!”

  I rolled my eyes and sighed again, “Did you hit your sister, Megan?”

  She was still trying to put a good spin on it, “She wouldn’t sit still. I was trying to fix her hair and make her look pretty.” I noticed that the tangle contained some added hair clips.

  “And so you hit her?” I don’t know why I sounded so surprised. It wasn’t like this had never happened before.

  “But, Mom!” Megan’s face told me she thought she had the perfect get-out-of-jail-free card. “Then she tried to bite me!”

  “Okay.” I struggled to my feet, still holding an almost quiet Cassie, “You are in time out.”

  “What?” You would think I’d just sent her off to Siberia.

  “Time. Out.” I mouthed the words with emphasis. “You do not hit your sister. I don’t care what she tried to do to you. Do. Not. Hit.” For a moment I felt the temptation to enforce the command welling up in my chest, but pushed the feeling down. Cassidy started squirming in my arms.

  “Wanna pay.” Apparently her previously life threatening wounds had miraculously healed now that her sister was in trouble. I sighed once again and let her down. Exasperation seemed to be an almost constant emotion for me, only alleviated by moments of heartwarming bliss when everything was calm, and little arms clasped my neck and little lips whispered, “I love you, Mommy.”

  “I’m going to get a shower. You two play nicely together until I get back.”

  “Am I still in time out?” Megan interrupted.

  I mentally slapped my forehead. “Yes. You sit on your bed. Cassidy, leave her alone and play by yourself.” The giggling started before I was even half-way across the living room. Giggling and laughing were good; they were also just a fraction away from screaming and fighting. Oh well, they were happy for the moment. I thought about going back to make sure Megan was really staying on her bed, but then thought better of it. It might not be the best parenting technique but sometimes I had to operate under what-I-don’t-know-I-don’t-have-to-deal-with.

  My husband, Mark, was sleeping soundly when I returned and I almost crawled back in next to him, but I knew whatever sleep I managed to catch would be short lived. Besides, Otis was ensconced once more on my pillow and he looked adorable. Sue me, I love my cat. Before Otis I had always been a dog person. Cats were too unfriendly and detached for my liking. But Otis made it clear he adored me so I loved him right back. Cat hairs and all.

  Thinking of dogs, I had forgotten all about Harvey. I turned back around and opened the laundry room door. Harvey was there, waiting patiently. He was a little, black Cairn Terrier. A Toto dog, if you will. He had to sleep in the laundry room at night because he sometimes forgot that the bathroom was outside. Cute as a button and probably about as smart (My apologies to buttons). We had adopted him from the Humane Society in a moment of weakness. He had been three years old and the sign on his cage said “partially housebroken.”

  “Why on earth would someone dump off such a sweet dog?” I had cried, cuddling the squirming body that was trying to plant wet doggy kisses all over my face.

  Mark pointed to the sign, “Maybe because he’s not housebroken.”

  “Oh no.” I was totally confident. “They probably abused him and locked him alone in the house all day. He’s probably perfectly housebroken if taken care of.”

  That was three years, tons of frustration, multiple rug cleanings, and repeated training attempts ago. Harvey could now be trusted in the house as long as someone was there to open the sliding glass door as soon as he whined to go out. Harvey was also the cause of the biggest rationalized compromise in my life. I always
felt a little guilty when I looked at him, but my sanity and the cleanliness of my house were totally worth it. Or so I told myself.

  I walked Harvey to the back door. “Go off the porch, through the dog door and go potty outside,” I commanded him. He gave me a happy dog look and trotted off. I slid the door closed but watched to make sure he obeyed. His memory was not the greatest and I had to be very specific with my commands. One day I had opened the door, half asleep, and just commanded, “Go potty.” You can imagine what happened.

  Mark made jokes about how specific I was in my instructions, as if I thought Harvey actually understood me. Those jokes made me hugely uncomfortable, since he also noticed that Harvey obeyed me better than anyone else.

  By the time I got a shower, got dressed, and started getting the girls’ breakfast, my sleepy husband was up moving around. “Mark!” I hollered from the kitchen, “Do you want eggs for breakfast?” He rushed out of our room, laptop case in hand, and gave me a quick kiss.

  “I’m late, babe. I’ll just grab a breakfast bar.” He planted a kiss on each of the girls’ heads and was out the door. Amazing that, no matter what time he woke up, he always had to rush out the door without helping with breakfast. Okay, that’s not totally fair. Some days he tried to let me sleep in, but it is impossible to sleep in a house where little children are awake and squealing and I always gave in and got up.

  “I don’t like eggs,” Megan announced.

  “I wasn’t going to give you eggs.”

  “But I don’t like them,” she insisted.

  “I’m not giving you eggs,” I said again a little louder.

  “Mommy, I don’t like them.”

  I sighed yet again. It was going to be one of those days. Don’t get me wrong, I love being a stay-at-home-mom! It’s just that sometimes I yearn for more adult conversation. Eight hours alone with a four year-old and a two year-old can drive you a little bonkers.

  Mark and I had gotten married right out of college so I had never had a “real” job. Like everyone in college I had been full of high aspirations. I was going to conquer the world! Be the best! Have people looking up to me and respecting me! Well, some of those came true. I hadn’t conquered the world, most days I was happy if I could just conquer the laundry. I wasn’t the best or even close. But I did have people looking up to me, mostly because I was taller, but it still counted.

  What I really wanted, more than anything in the world, was to be normal. Every day that went by where no one looked at me and said, “What are you?” was a success in my book. Most people don’t want to think of themselves as normal. It seems too mundane. They want to be different and exciting. Not me. I was different, and I didn’t like it.

  I’m not your normal mom. I’m not even your normal person. Some days I worry that I’m not a person at all. Except for commanding Harvey around, (which is totally called for) I’ve been able to completely repress my ability. Not even my husband knows what I am.

  I am a monster.