The Harper Effect

by Taryn Bashford

  ‘My turn for the bashed-up face,’ he says. He’s too close. My heart gasps. I struggle to figure out the new language my body is speaking – I need an interpreter. I step back. He lifts his racquet, taps my cheek with the edge as a Saab screeches into the car park. Colt holds himself frozen beside me.

  ‘That man won’t change,’ says Milo, stomping toward us and smoking with anger. ‘Let’s get you hydrated.’

  We huddle down the side of the café away from prying eyes. Colt pours the Milo Potion. He drowns his stare inside the cup of orange liquid before drinking it. ‘What did Dad say?’

  ‘What you said. But isn’t this his chance to put two fingers up to the tennis world? Why would he want you to give up on your dreams after what happened to his career? I was there back then – I watched him stuff up and it was the saddest thing in the world. He just needed to accept help and –’

  Colt throws the cup and punches the wall with a roar. He slides down the bricks, cradling his fist. His expression swerves from a chilling rage to haunted and empty, as if his body is being drained, his essence sucked down a plughole.

  Milo squats, seizes Colt’s forearms and shakes. ‘He won’t change, Colt. I threw everything I had at him. But you can’t let him bring you down. I’ll help you. Don’t repeat history and refuse to be helped.’

  Right in front of me Colt closes the door on the world. I stare at his slammed-shut face, the bloodied knuckles. His body slumps like the life is trickling out of him while Milo strives to shake the life back in. All at once, Colt isn’t remotely scary. His masks have gone and he’s just a boy, afraid of losing his dad, afraid of making the wrong choice.

  And I think of Aria and how she gave up her dreams only to figure out she shouldn’t have.

  ‘You can’t give up, Colt.’ I slump to my knees in front of him, take his uninjured hand, and pump it when it stays limp. ‘I know you love your dad, but he’s not well or he wouldn’t ask you to do this. And there’s no guarantee he’ll get better and stop drinking even if you do give up tennis. And then you’ll lose everything for no reason.’

  ‘Harper’s right,’ adds Milo.

  Colt’s jaw clenches. ‘But if I carry on – I’m as good as killing him.’

  ‘Are you the one making him guzzle a bottle of vodka?’ asks Milo. ‘Only he can choose to beat this. You can’t do it for him.’

  Colt stares into space. ‘He wasn’t always this way. My third birthday he gave me a tennis racquet – he taught me –’

  He curls his arms over his head. His shoulders heave.

  Milo gives him a minute then examines the injured knuckles. ‘Let’s get you to the hospital in case you’ve done some real damage. But you’re staying with me for a while. You need some space to make the biggest decision of your life.’

  Shaking his head, Colt says, ‘I won’t leave him alone, Milo.’

  My stomach grips at the idea of life without Colt – training alone, attending tournaments without him, never seeing the smile that seems created just for me. My fingers splay and press against my chest. I rush to my feet, knocking over the Milo Potion.

  I vaguely realise that this could mean we don’t go to the Australian Open, but mostly I see that whatever choice Colt makes, he loses: his tennis career or his father.

  Jamie Jagger is knocked down by a car that night.

  Milo calls to tell me early the next morning. ‘He was so drunk he didn’t see it coming. Colt’s at the hospital now, and Natalie Barbie is with him. He blames himself, of course.’

  I hate that it’s not me beside Colt. I feel like a child who’s been told I’m not old enough to go out past eight o’ clock, but Dad insists I stay away, keep training and focused. Dad needs to stop protecting me and let me grow up. I complain to Milo, but he won’t interfere with parent-law.

  When I hear Jagger’s going to be okay, I text Colt: Stay strong and take care of yourself. He doesn’t respond for two days and then out of the blue a reply pops onto my screen. He’s agreed to go back to rehab. See you soon. That’s it. Nothing memorable, no smiley face, but it’s the first text he’s ever sent me and I can’t bring myself to delete it. I like seeing his name in the list of messages.

  At breakfast two days later the atmosphere in the house is – unsettling. It’s three days before Christmas and Mum’s making up the bed in the guest bedroom while Aria, who returned home from her friend’s house twenty minutes ago, bakes gingerbread men for the Christmas tree, her white chef hat wonky. ‘The First Noel’ blasts from the radio. But at every lead-in to Christmas I can remember, Jacob would be beside Aria right now doing a great job of getting in the way, licking bowls of raw biscuit dough and horsing around loud enough to drown out the carols on the radio. Today he sits across the room in an armchair, his head bowed as he strokes the dogs at his feet. Aria tells a stilted joke that I can’t hear properly above the carol singing. Once Jacob and Aria had been so close they ate cereal out of the same bowl every morning, and now he’s keeping his distance and fake-smiling at her jokes.

  No-one’s saying Aria gave up the Con to preserve her breaking heart, or that now that Jacob has failed the audition she did it for nothing, and no-one’s suggesting there’s something going on between me and Jacob. Yet the ripples of truth are in the air like heat waves, threatening to burn us if we get too close. The truth is in each curt shrug, each fleeting glance, each awkward silence, each sigh. So this is how it feels to be alone in a crowded house.

  Dad is talking on the phone in the study, his bacon and eggs going cold on the kitchen table. He rushes in, rebukes Jacob for not clearing up his spilled cereal, and yells that Colt is coming to stay – but he must get back to the office and we’ll talk later. I tear into where Mum is stacking towels on the bed in the guest room, humming ‘Silent Night’ to herself. ‘What’s this about Colt? Why doesn’t anyone tell me anything around here?’ My voice wobbles with excitement.

  ‘Sorry, darling. Dad just organised it.’ She straightens, rubbing her back. ‘Colt’s staying with Milo while his dad’s in rehab, but Milo’s visiting family in Germany for a week over Christmas and didn’t want to leave Colt alone. Of course, we invited Colt to stay, and it means you two can keep training. Milo wants you to use our court – the press are camped at the practice courts.’ She stuffs a pillow into a pillowcase. ‘They’re excited about Australia’s up-and-coming superstars – and with the Open next month –’

  My phone rings in my pocket.

  ‘Dampfnudel. Merry nearly Christmas.’

  ‘Milo! You’re sounding extra cheerful. Relieved to be escaping from me and Colt?’

  ‘You’ve heard. I wanted to confirm you’re okay with it – Colt staying. I realised we decided all this without you. Sorry – had to get the cow off the ice.’

  I snigger at the idea of Colt being a cow on ice. ‘Of course I’m okay with it.’ This is going to be the best Christmas ever. ‘Can’t have him alone on Christmas Day. Does this mean he’s made a decision about tennis?’

  ‘Not yet. Stay away from the press. Take care of him. He’s a bit – been a tough time.’

  What Milo doesn’t understand is that now I’ve seen inside the real Colt, every part of me wants to make him feel safe and protect him from the big, bad world. Except my own feelings for him will have to be put aside because he needs help, not more complications.

  When Colt arrives he’s folded himself away, like an umbrella. He escapes the Welcoming Committee within twenty minutes, slipping into the guest bedroom next to Dad’s study. He’s barely said three sentences. Five hours later the door is still closed.

  But when he emerges, freshly showered and dressed in a short-sleeved, white cotton shirt and smart khaki shorts, he apologises to Mum for falling asleep and asks if he can help with dinner.

  With a look of pleased surprise, Mum passes him a knife and three tomatoes and he gets slicing. ‘Don’t suppose you got a
lot of sleep at the hospital,’ she says, then adds, ‘Were you a chef in a past life, Colt? See how thinly he slices tomatoes, Aria? He’s earned cucumbumber duties.’

  Colt frowns. ‘Cucumbumber?’

  ‘Harper could never say the word when she was little,’ she explains.

  Colt chuckles, glancing at me. My chest warms.

  The radio continues to blare Christmas carols and the smell of mince pies fills the air each time Aria opens the oven. I’m best left out of the kitchen and grapple through a game of cards with Jacob, listening to Colt interacting with Aria and Mum. He’s comfortable in the kitchen, even letting Aria pop biscuit dough into his mouth.

  After losing again, Jacob chucks the cards in the air, letting them scatter on the floor. He refuses to pick them up unless I help. Irritated, I give in to avoid a scene. On our hands and knees he passes me his cards. ‘Your parents are keeping tabs on us,’ he whispers.

  I shift onto my haunches to put some space between us. ‘You’re imagining things. I told Dad we’ve talked and he doesn’t need to worry. Be yourself, yeah?’

  Piling the cards on the table, I survey the activity in the kitchen and notice Colt sizing us up.

  Dinner is rowdy, with Jacob and Dad bantering and competing for the biggest laugh. Afterwards, Jacob goes for a swim and Aria excuses herself to shower. Colt and I hang over the deck railing sipping on lemon water. Jacob moons us before jumping into the pool.

  ‘Time he grew out of that,’ I say, mortified.

  The garden is a fairy-light showdown. Mum is a sucker for a traditional Christmas and she arranges to swamp the tree line and pretty much the whole house and garden in fairy lights. Even the tennis court is swathed – it belongs in Santa’s garden.

  When four members of Jacob’s band arrive, Jacob grabs me roughly in a goodnight neck-lock. ‘Jeez, Jacob. That hurt. Getoffme.’ He calls me a cry-baby and climbs the wall with his buddies.

  ‘We training tomorrow?’ Colt asks. ‘I’ve got some catching up to do.’

  My neck still smarting, I squash down the excitement so my voice doesn’t sound too high. ‘You’ve made a decision about tennis?’

  He lowers himself into a wicker chair. ‘After the car hit him, I realised Dad’s drinking has little to do with me playing tennis or not being there for him – I hadn’t thrown his ultimatum in his face or deserted him for the tour. He drinks because he’s a sick man. And when he drinks, he makes stupid choices.’

  Relief trickles through me.

  ‘Except I’m running out of time,’ continues Colt. ‘I have to make some big money so I can afford to keep him in rehab until he’s completely better. I have to make that happen at the Aussie Open – it’s the only way I can help him – before he kills himself.’

  ‘Aussie Open it is, then.’ We clink glasses and I drop into a chair next to him.

  ‘I kept thinking about what you said – about what would happen if I gave up on tennis and he didn’t get better. That was the final thing that helped me decide.’ He play-punches my arm. ‘So, thanks.’

  His face is wide open, eyes filled with light and – something that makes my belly flutter.

  ‘I’m sorry if that dumps a pile of pressure on you,’ he adds.

  I hadn’t thought it through, but he’s right. If we don’t win – no rehab. Suddenly Jagger’s life is in my hands too.

  In the morning I take Colt on my usual run to the beach. We reminisce about the paddleboarding session. ‘So much has happened since then,’ I say. His eyes wash over me, thumbing through memories. I swallow hard.

  ‘That was way too short a run,’ he says, bouncing on his toes like a boxer. ‘Come on, slacker. That’s not going to win us the Open.’

  We run ten kilometres before racing home, competing for the lead. Colt wins and we collapse on the front lawn in a heap of sweaty limbs. The temperature gauge is set to hit 35 degrees today. The sun flames hot in the sky, pulsing over us.

  ‘Swim?’ I remove my trainers without untying the laces.

  Colt follows me down the side of the house and I dive into the pool, fully clothed, expecting him to refuse. As I surface there’s an explosion in the water beside me.

  ‘Last one to finish eighty lengths is a squished tomato,’ I yell, and push off the wall. He leaves me in his wake after a lap and perches smugly on the edge of the pool when he wins. I squint up at him.

  He tickles me under the arm with his toes. ‘A squished tomato? Where did you get that from?’ I somehow don’t want to mention Jacob and haul myself out of the pool.

  Colt leans back on his hands and considers the pool. ‘This is great,’ he says. ‘I can concentrate on getting fit – it’s a bubble the outside world isn’t allowed into.’ Our eyes link with a jolt.

  I look away, nodding toward the court. ‘Good. You could do with a break. Now let’s go play tennis.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Milo. Can I eat breakfast first?’ He stands, offering me his hand. ‘Last one to the kitchen gets to wash your socks.’ He lets my hand go and pushes me into the pool. Under the water I laugh so hard I come up spluttering.

  Later, Colt asks me to drive him to the shop. He wants to contribute supplies – before he empties Mum’s pantry.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Jacob’s always over and he’s never done that before. Mum wouldn’t expect it.’

  ‘I don’t care if she wouldn’t expect it. I want to do it. And does Jacob have his own bedroom at your house or what?’

  ‘Told you. We’re practically siblings. Mum and Dad wouldn’t want it any other way.’ But Colt’s right – Jacob does seem a bit entitled, taking what Mum and Dad do for him for granted and never doing anything in return. When Colt doesn’t seem convinced, I add, ‘Jacob’s parents are hardly ever home and if they are they’re not exactly into kids. Not that Jacob’s a kid, but we’ve got into a habit now.’

  After our shopping expedition, Colt rides his motorbike to visit his dad and also the psychiatrist who’s treating Jagger.

  Somehow, when he leaves, the kitchen loses colour.

  I mooch around making coffee, reading, clock-watching, and end up on the sofa in the kitchen listening to Jacob and Aria play guitar. They quibble and criticise each other and where Aria once led their practise sessions, now they argue about which key to play in.

  When Colt walks in his eyes find mine. Shadows swirl around him. I feel a stab of panic.

  He plunks himself next to me. ‘Hey,’ he says. The expression on his face nicks my heart so there’s a permanent scar.

  ‘Hey.’ I don’t ask how it went – I can guess it wasn’t easy. I go for distraction and tempt him with Aria’s shortbread while Jacob and Aria compete to outdo one another on each instrument. When they’re done, Jacob proclaims himself the winner.

  ‘You can’t say you beat Aria on the flute, Jacob,’ I tease. ‘She whooped your arse with her exam result.’

  ‘The examiner probably fancied her.’ Jacob snaps the latches on his flute case.

  ‘Go die in a hole,’ shrieks Aria, chucking violin rosin at him. It would’ve hit him on the side of the head had Colt not shot out an arm.

  ‘You nearly lost your last few brain cells, Jacob,’ I say.

  Colt sniffs the rosin, puts it on the table. ‘Are you three always ragging on each other?’

  I phoney grin at Jacob and Aria and they phoney grin back, a thousand thoughts behind our eyes.

  At dinner Jacob suggests he fetch his guitar and teach Colt to play. I inspect Colt, keen for him to loosen up further. But, wearing his own sham grin, he shakes his head and keeps eating. Once dinner is over, Jacob pressures him again and I join in.

  ‘Come on, Colt. You’re meant to be upsizing the child in you,’ I say, even though I’m slightly uneasy that this may be Jacob’s way of showing Colt up.

  Scraping back his chair, Colt says through gritted teeth, ‘I said
, no.’ He stalks out onto the deck. Jacob suppresses a snigger.

  I march after Colt. ‘No need to flip out. We’re only having some fun.’

  He spins around, features knotted. ‘My dad is trying to kill himself, the landlord wants to kick us out because my dad didn’t pay the rent with the money I gave him, I can’t afford to pay the bills – so I’m sorry if I don’t exactly feel like horsing around. It’s nothing to do with lightening up. Sometimes I think you need to upsize the adult in you.’ He swings back to the garden.

  Every word stings. He’s right, of course.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I step closer to play-pinch a tensed bicep. ‘It was insensitive of me.’

  His shoulders sag forward. ‘You weren’t to know.’ He exhales. ‘I’m a moody bastard.’

  ‘I know enough and I shouldn’t have said it,’ I say shakily.

  Back inside, I tell Aria and Jacob to leave him be and watch a movie or something, then kick myself when their faces blanch. I’m saying all the wrong things tonight. But when did watching a movie together become wrong?

  An image of the three of us tangled in each other’s limbs shutters through my mind; we were watching a Harry Potter movie after a morning of swimming at the beach and a picnic lunch in the woods where we re-enacted the attack on the giant basilisk. I can almost taste the salt from the popcorn, smell the aloe vera I’d rubbed on Jacob’s burnt shoulders, feel the heat of our sun-warmed bodies squished together on the sofa, beach sand still flecking our legs. It was the day before I left on the junior circuit and I now recognise that every time I came home after that, we tried to reproduce that moment in various ways. But it never worked. You can’t plan perfect moments like those. Yet for everything my choice to play tennis has lost me, the tennis court is still where I want to be. It’s still what I want to be doing. And that’s why I have no plan B. The reasons for playing are not tangible, they just are. And at some point we need to acknowledge that we can’t keep trying to recreate being the Raggers.