Page 59 of A Loser by Christmas
“The latest scuttlebutt is that he’s come into a shit ton of money.”
“Who has?”
“Lito,” Harry shouts, even though he doesn’t need to. No engines roar now. The only sound is water softly lapping against the hulls of luxury vessels. That soft shush is broken by the sudden shriek of shearing metal coming from the yard. Harry speaks up over the din of speedboat production. “I heard he’s already at the next show, strutting around with a flashy new camera. Maybe the rumours are true about him selling more coke than photos. Either way, he’s still trying to talk deckhands into modelling for him. The younger the better.”
I wince at the thought of Lito pointing at mistletoe with that nicotine-stained finger of his. Harry guesses the wrong reason. He gets quieter in a hurry.
“Was I loud? Sorry, sorry. Got back into the habit of speaking up around the skipper. Got to admit, I will be sad to sail away from him.” His smile lines flatten. “He’s reminded me a lot of my own old man.”
“Because your father tried to make you follow in his footsteps?”
“No. Because Dad blew out his eardrums by surfacing too fast once too often. It impaired his hearing. Meant that I always had to check he was really listening before wasting my own breath.” More workshop shrieking drowns out whatever he says next. Harry repeats himself once that roar fades. “So we modified some of the hand signals us divers use underwater.” He cups hands around his mouth like I’ve seen him do at the marina. “If I did this, Dad would know I had something to tell him.” Harry’s next signal is a double thumbs-up aimed at his chest. “This meant I was ready to listen.”
He catches a ride back to town, and I should go with him to press submit on my final contest entry. I find myself hunting down someone who has spoken over me so often. Who has yelled and shouted. Today, curiosity curls to hug a brand-new question.
What if Dad only did that because he couldn’t hear me?
I find out beside a lifeboat.
“Dad?”
He continues to paint a child’s name with precise strokes of a brush dipped in gold, no sign that he heard me.
I speak up louder.
“Papa?”
He turns fast then, and I don’t see someone who wants me to follow in his footsteps. It’s Père Noël who looks surprised at me turning the tables by paying him a Christmas visit.
I’d forgotten this slow smile.
The same one used to bloom whenever I hurled myself into his arms each December. Just like back then, his French is awful. “What is it, Valentin? Are you okay?”
Non.
I’m not even a little bit okay.
I’m choked, which does a number on my own English. I have to start over to speak clearly. “Did you disable my water pump on purpose?”
His mouth opens then closes, and I should be mad as hell at the slow nod he finally gives me.
Now I chase for even more truth.
“You don’t actually need any specialist parts to fix her, do you?”
His jaw clenches, but he shakes his head.
“The order Calum placed on the website. It registered before midnight?”
Dad doesn’t need to confirm it. His face tells me plenty, which should feel like a theft. The thing is, I keep being gifted with surprise presents when I least expect them, don’t I?
I didn’t ask for an incubator or a five-star reminder of past Christmas dinners. And I didn’t write a wish list asking for an egg candler or a long line of Cornish love hearts. Today, someone Dad once called a loser has given me the best gift yet.
Harry is the reason I can hold up two thumbs like he showed me. I dig them straight at my heart to tell Dad without words that I’ll listen to his reasons.
For the first time, floodgates open.
Dad takes me to his office and talks. Not over me, although I do sit in silence. The payoff is that I don’t just get to hear his motivator, I get to see it when he pokes through a desk drawer.
