“Hello, darling!” her mother’s lightly accented voice reached Eira’s ears as she sipped tea from a paper cup.
She’d been working twelve hours straight and was just starting the second half of her double shift when Eira was forced by one of the many nurses on staff to take a break.
They truly were the heartbeat of the hospital, she thought back on Dr. Davis-Evangelos’ favorite refrain with a grin. So, there she was, taking a break and with her tepid cup of tea in hand, she decided to call home.
“Hey Mom, are you busy?” she asked, not needing to explain her impromptu phone call.
“Never too busy for my favorite daughter,” came the usual reply. “Oh, I almost forgot. Happy almost Christmas, darling,” she added.
“I’m your only daughter, Mom, and it’s Merry, not Happy Christmas,” Eira teased.
“Cheeky,” her mom mock scolded. “Well, you are still my favorite daughter, whether you are the only one or not. I am surprised you had time to call. Teatime for surgeons, is it?”
“I’m not a surgeon, Mom,” Eira reminded her mother with an eye roll that would have done her brothers proud.
“I know that, dear. Seriously, though, how are things looking? Will you be here bright and early on Christmas Day?”
"I am going to try, but I am pulling a double and don’t know if I can manage the drive,” she hedged, and braced herself for the undoubtedly long and harsh guilt trip her mother was about to put her through.
God love her, Eira thought the second she heard her sharp intake of breath. There was no hope for it now, so she stood her ground and listened dutifully.
“Oh, no! Now Eira, your father can come—”
“Mom, Dad will be exhausted as is.”
“Nonsense! Besides, I will not have my only daughter, helpless and alone, and stuck in some mangy Wolf town on the holidays,” her mother began.
Her parents, Manan and Moira Sidak, had emigrated to the United States when Eira was just an infant. The couple was very protective of their offspring, regardless of the fact that all six children, including Eira, were adults, and Werewolves to boot.
She and her brothers were perfectly capable of taking care of themselves, but did they acknowledge that? Of course not. And it was worse for Eira because she was their baby.
Grinning, she allowed her mother to continue her tirade, tipping the phone so a fellow resident, and Wolf, Chandra Pierce, could listen.
I love her accent, Chandra mouthed without voicing the words, and Eira shook her head.
“Don’t call Maccon City mangy, Mom,” she reminded her mother, ignoring Chandra.
It amused her to no end how easily folks were impressed by accents in the states. But maybe that was because her family had such a wide variety of interesting accents. Especially according to her friends over the years.
Why, her brothers could charm the panties off any girl within fifty feet of them just by saying hello. Of course, they grew up in England and sounded like Prince William, whereas Eira was raised in Brooklyn and sounded like an extra from My Cousin Vinny.
Being a Werewolf with supernaturally enhanced hearing, among other things, meant she could mimic them well enough, but why should she? Eira was raised in New York and was proud of her distinctly American accent.
Education had smoothed the rough edges of her cadence of speech, but what could she say? She was a product of her environment and would make no apologies to anyone for it.
Eira was a true American melting pot success story. She could curse in more than half a dozen languages, taking on the intonation of both her parents’ native countries, and those of her many relatives across the globe, not to mention the New Jersey and New York natives she lived among.
Switching from her mother’s snooty UK vibe to her father’s Punjabi uproarious swearing—the dirtiest she had ever heard which was why, incidentally, it had been banned from the Sidak family dinner table for going on a decade now—was quite fun for Eira.
“Well, maybe there is a reason your father calls it mangy, you ever think of that? Those Jersey Wolves might have some sort of Shifter skin condition or whatnot—”
“Mom!”
“Well, anyway, what of Rick, dearest? Will he be joining you? I imagine some Christmas magic might be just what the man needs to pop interesting questions,” she said in a singsong voice that grated on her daughter’s nerves.
Ugh. What was it about the holidays that made every mother in the world want to see her children engaged?
Eira cringed and closed her eyes. She had forgotten to inform her mother of her breakup right after bringing the male home with her for Thanksgiving.
Rick Morrison had been impressed by her large and boisterous family, but less than thrilled with her more reserved self. He’d even called her boring. Especially in bed were his exact words, and wasn’t that a serious blow to her ego?
“Um, actually, there is no more Rick,” she said.
“Oh no! Not another one,” her mom said, quickly adding. “Not that it is your fault. I am sure he had his own baggage. Don’t worry, darling, maybe Santa will bring you someone special this year.”
“I won’t hold my breath, Mom.”