When We Push Through Sound

By Geoff Sease

In this award-winning novel, a successful but imperfect hero must confront failure and stop the deafening noise in his head long enough to hear the healing voices of the women who love him.

On a cold day on a bridge above the Mississippi River, Tristan James is drugged out, liquored up, and about to give in to the irreversible as he teeters over the water. Not long ago, it would have been inconceivable for him to be standing there. His life had always been full of successes: a brilliant wife, a loving daughter, and a satisfying career. His story was destined to be triumphant with a happily-ever-after ending.

Unfortunately, real tales rarely finish that way. First came the divorce, and then there were the series of disasters at work. Tristan had always relied on the sounds of his guitar to bring him solace when he faltered. But now, a constant and terrifying buzzing in his ears drowns out its joyful melodies, and he spirals to the edge. Jumping off the bridge would be a quiet relief. But Tristan has a bit of good fortune remaining at the bottom of his bucket of life’s blessings—five extraordinary women surround him. Each is magnificent in her own way, and together they refuse to let Tristan’s music die. Only one question remains: Can they reach him in time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jul 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665726641

Geoff Sease

Geoff Sease is a retired corporate executive who lives with Suzanne by a pretty lake in North Carolina. They have watched, with pride, their three boys grow into admirable young men. Geoff now fills his days with writing, business consulting, and getting a local rock band off the ground. This is his first novel.

Book preview

When We Push

Through Sound

Geoff Sease

Cover Art by Britt Sease

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Copyright © 2022 Geoff Sease.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

844-669-3957

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are

models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-2662-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-2663-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-2664-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022912505

Archway Publishing rev. date: 07/28/2022

CONTENTS

First Movement: The Fall

Above The Concrete And Steel

The Wedding Album

Nice To Meet You, Tristan, From Simon & Simon

Close To Being Almost Perfect

No Broken Hearts Tonight

I Would Have To Say…I Think I Do

At The Service Of Teenage Whimsy

Find Me After The Show

Just Good Friends

Chaos To Calm

Second Movement: The Winter

Mother Nature Had A Change Of Heart

He Must Surely Be Happy With Everything He’s Got

Headed Anywhere In Particular?

Go West, Young Man

Windswept Snowbanks

Far From A Big Star

Third Movement: The Spring

The Big White Elephant

Steps Headed Forward Or Backward

What A Wonderful Wednesday

I’m So Awfully Glad To See You Again

The Unmooring Of Ego

It Was Heaven

Coda

Acknowledgments

About The Author

To Suzy

FIRST MOVEMENT

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THE FALL

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ABOVE THE CONCRETE AND STEEL

S hadows of my life flash and twirl about my head on scissor-cut paper scraps floating through the air. Their memory-filled stories flirt with my grasping hand. Dull sounds of uninspired tunes clash in my ears, taunting me with cherished songs of yesteryear. Their melodies are unforgivably sterile and deflated, doing nothing but filling the emptiness around me.

The shadows clear away, and I find myself inside an elevator. It is mystical—otherworldly—and its long rise leads me to a rooftop that scrapes the sky. There is Sharon, my Sharon, waiting in a white dress and red scarf in the bright sunlight, her silhouette rising above the concrete and steel. She is so close but, like my memory-filled confetti, just beyond reach. Her face darkens as a singular cloud grays a clear day. She wants help and stretches out, calling to me but making no sound. I yell, Stop! The roof edge behind you! while her bare foot slides backward. Then, with a whoosh, she’s gone. Her sudden drop catches the red scarf by surprise, and it loses its grip around her neck, then falls away, fluttering under the breeze one last time. The sun beats down, and I sit alone on the vast, empty roof, searching for my shadows.

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Tristan bolted awake with a desperate gasp for air, and in one frantic bone-creaking motion, pulled himself upright. The pupils of his blue eyes collapsed to pinpoints, and his lids fluttered. In the place where dreams and reality collide, where both claw for control, Sharon’s name still hung on his lips, and her image remained sharply etched in his vision. Sweat dripped from his face and soaked through his shirt and pillow. He fell back onto the bed with a thud when reality came to stay. His dream had lost the battle for possession of his mind.

A dull ache and deep longing settled in, and he laid back flat against the damp bed sheets. There was both joy and dread in his dream world, and he wavered between the two. While he wished he could close his eyes to reunite with Sharon’s pretty smile, he struggled to understand her sadness in the dream. He wondered if her unhappiness was only a reflection of his own growing despair. How often had he dreamed of Sharon? He had lost count. In so many ways, the recurrence had turned into a curse. Now he could only wait for the next time.

After lying motionless for long minutes, lost in the filament traces of where he came from, Tristan slowly pulled himself up from the bed again. The room was still dead-of-night dark. He turned toward the clock and grunted at the 4:15 a.m. glowing green across its display. His thoughts still lingered on Sharon’s image, like the pulsing light sensation that lingers on the surface of an eye’s retina after staring at the sun. It had been three years, four months, and a couple of weeks since he had signed the divorce papers—the same papers that set his college sweetheart free from the bonds that bound her to an unhappy workaholic. Even though they shared custody of their seventeen-year-old daughter Sara, it was increasingly infrequent that he and Sharon spoke more than in passing.

After their college graduations in the mid-eighties, they started careers in Chicago, living in a tiny apartment bordering Hyde Park. It was affordable and, most importantly, didn’t require a large deposit. Those were the sweet, tender years of a budding new life together, when the sun shone brighter, the days were longer, and the opportunities seemed endless. Both had great professional potential with top-tier investment firms in hot pursuit, but, like most fresh graduates, they were barely scraping by. None of that mattered to them, however. They clipped coupons on the weekend, carpooled to work during the week, and never thought twice about it.

During those first winters, they would bundle Sara into her little one-piece snowsuit, with her blonde ringlets poking out from the edges of her Bears’ knitted cap and her tiny fingers tucked into little mittens that her grandmother had made, to take her down to the neighborhood park. They would play there for hours, making snowmen or snow angels. Her carefree laugh would reverberate off the old grumpy building walls that surrounded them, mixing with their happy voices. When Sara was ready to go home, they would hold hands and walk back together with her between them while the sun’s late afternoon rays tilted on the horizon. But those days were gone, packed away, cataloged into memory files that unearthed themselves less and less frequently.

Tristan walked slowly to the bathroom, turned on the shower, then sleepily undressed. As he waited for the water to warm, he leaned into the bathroom mirror and looked at his etched face for the first time in a very long while. In that early morning muddle, and in the starkness of the bright bathroom light, he evaluated himself with the level of objectivity he would afford a stranger: his hair was graying with more salt now than pepper, but thankfully all still there; the corners of his eyes were sprouting crow’s-feet, but when they had appeared, he couldn’t recall. To top the aging sundae off like a cherry, a liver spot of surprising proportion was growing on his cheek. He frowned at what he saw and climbed into the shower with a grumble, but not before grabbing the half-empty bottle of Pepto Bismol sitting by his toothbrush. The burning in his stomach was back.

He dressed and grabbed a cold bagel from the fridge before heading for the door. It was still dark outside when he pulled out of the parking garage. Ed, the daytime security guard, waved at him with a laugh and headshake. Tristan was always the first out of the building, but today it was even earlier than usual. He turned left onto North Columbus Drive, crossed the Chicago River, and headed to his first stop, the Donut Whole off East Randolph Street, affectionately known as DW to its dedicated clientele.

Tristan was a creature of habit, and the shop’s early morning staff knew him well. His favorite crew member was there that morning, and she always lifted his mood. Julie Swabota had a punk-red hairstyle, with more than a couple of tattoos visible beyond the sleeves of her uniform. She had a contagious, bubbly personality and always cheerily greeted Tristan. Over hundreds of morning orders, he had learned bits and pieces of her life. She was single, twenty-nine, heavily involved in Chicago’s music scene, and sang with an alternative rock group that regularly played local bars. Tristan had promised to see her perform many times, but he still hadn’t managed it. She was a terrific flirt who made Tristan feel a little better every morning. As he walked in and the doorbell rang out, she turned and smiled with a wave.

Hi there, Tristan! she chirped, A little early for you, isn’t it? I didn’t expect you for another thirty-three minutes, she said with light sarcasm while glancing at her watch.

Good morning, Julie, he replied with a smile. More than fifteen years separated them in age, so it was always a bit awkward when it came to their suggestive conversations. He walked to the counter and pretended to scan the menu behind her. Both knew that his order never changed, but pondering options extended their time together each morning. How was the show last night? He lowered his eyes from the menu to meet hers, his hands set in his jacket pockets.

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Julie shrugged. You know the Garden Club. Customers there are too focused on their drinks to pay much attention. He nodded sympathetically. We just need to quit playing there and stick with The Showman or Dave’s. We always get bigger crowds, and the money’s better too. She hesitated for a long moment, then said, halfway casual, When will you come to see me play?

I know, I know—I’m so sorry I haven’t yet, he apologized, but she looked at him reproachfully. When is your next show? I promise I’ll be there. I super-promise, he said with a silly grin.

We’re playing at The Showman the day after tomorrow, she said. You be there, or else our love affair is over for good! Their innocent early-morning banter had always been harmless. On this day, however, Julie was ready to test the waters. She reached out with both hands, took his right one, and turned it palm up. She picked up a ballpoint pen and leaned over to write her number on his hand, making sure he was close enough to get a whiff of her perfume. She slowly wrote the number along with a small heart sign. Still holding his hand, she looked up into his eyes and whispered, Now you’ve got my number, so you don’t have an excuse not to call me.

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The scent of her perfume carried Tristan away to a forgotten place. Julie was young, carefree, artistic, daring, and beautiful. She reminded him of his own life so many years ago, when he too played music for cheering college students. Funny how twenty-five years of forgotten dreams hover just below the surface of awareness, like water grass floating under a frozen pond, waiting for a warm day to melt away the barrier to fresh air. Then again, back when a young life could pivot on a dime, Sharon had made it such an easy decision for him to pursue the other path—the logical one.

Tristan cleared his throat nervously. You’re right, and I’m going to call you. He stepped further onto the limb Julie held out for him. Maybe we can get some dinner after the show if it’s not too late.

She smiled sweetly. Sounds like a date then. Shattering their moment, the bell above the door rang as a customer walked in. Tristan’s face flushed with embarrassment, and he hastily pulled his hand back as Julie straightened up from the counter.

I won’t lose it. Promise. Julie waved goodbye with a wink, and he hustled out the door. Neither one of them noticed that he left empty-handed.

Tristan floated to the red, two-year-old 2002 BMW 745i that he had bought a year after the divorce in an unsuccessful effort to shop his way out of depression. That morning he hopped in with an extra bounce and drove the remaining twenty minutes in a blur, not remembering a mile of it. The painful echo from that morning’s dream had faded, and while not completely gone, its memory had receded to its everyday home in the back of his mind. The scent of romance was so foreign to him after so many years without a whiff of it that he lost himself in the possibilities of the perfume that had followed him into the car.

Tristan pulled into his usual slot on the sixth level of his office’s parking garage. He did the same thing each day, not because he had a reserved spot, but because he was always the first to arrive. Tristan pulled himself from the car and grabbed his heavy satchel, its weight pulling him down. Even the thrill of his encounter with Julie couldn’t entirely wipe away the dread of what lay ahead. He had been doing this for far too long and knew that the day would add to the weight he bore.

That morning, he purposefully avoided the elevator and walked the four flights up the side stairwell to his office on the tenth floor. He flipped on the lights, as he did every morning, and the entire floor flickered brightly as the fluorescent tubes ignited for the first time that day. In the empty office, Tristan could hear white noise pumping from the speakers, purposefully deadening conversations beyond a few feet. He knew the sound well. Tristan walked past the last row of open cubicles and into his office. He pulled the previous day’s performance reports from his satchel and slapped them onto his desk before turning on the monitor and punching in his password: Sara Smile.

He rapidly scanned the early news coming in overnight from Asia, but with his reading glasses across the room, he had to lean away from the screen to see it. The night before, he had recognized anomalies in non-precious metals commodities that didn’t match actual trends and saw an opportunity to jump in with some futures contracts. A healthy dose of hubris gave him confidence that he had seen something others hadn’t. It was a ten-million-dollar play that could help make his team’s quarter and relieve some of the pressure his boss had happily placed on his shoulders. The problem, he rapidly learned, was that others had figured out the anomaly as well.

Shit, shit, shit! he barked out at the empty office. At least he thought the office was empty until he heard footsteps approaching. Doug, one of the other partners, poked his head into Tristan’s office, leaning in and gripping the doorframe with both hands. He looked like a floating head connected to eight well-manicured fingers.

You all right, brother? Doug asked with a show of concern that barely masked his giddiness. Something go south last night?

Tristan responded with a sideways glance. Yeah, I had an aluminum contract that got caught and flipped upside-down. He turned back to the monitor. I’ll have to let it roll over to see if it bounces the other way.

Doug waited the appropriate few seconds. Ouch! Anything I can do to help? Tristan knew there wasn’t anything he could or wanted to do to help. His trading desk competed with Tristan’s in a Survivor kind of way as partners fought for the firm’s finite capital. Doug was one of those young guns from an ivy-covered business school that had joined in the last five years and skyrocketed to partner. He and a few others like him were shiny and new, full of high expectations and a healthy dose of entitlement. They had bullied their way to the front of the corporate queue while previous groups of young guns were distracted by children’s recitals, soccer games, and marriage difficulties. While Tristan wanted to throttle Doug’s smug neck, in many ways, he was looking at himself years removed.

Tristan sighed. Nope, nothing you can do unless you want to transfer ten million to my desk. A weak laugh escaped as he said this, knowing how ridiculous it sounded.

Doug smiled. Ha. You’re a funny man.

Hoping to reclaim a tiny sliver of respect, Tristan turned his back to the door. Asshole. Tristan could still feel Doug’s presence, watching him for a moment before walking out. It was going to be a bad day.

Anyone who walked by his office that morning would have seen an athletic forty-five-year-old man bent over a much-too-small monitor, craning and straining to find some new magic in the screens full of numbers. The only sounds around him were the tapping clicks on a keyboard, an occasional mumble, and the scratchy hush of white noise in the background. Time slipped by until his assistant came in to check on him. He looked up and said good morning. Marjorie, a fifty-something-year-old veteran of the firm, who had been with him for the last five years, laughed in amusement.

Good morning? I was just coming in to tell you to have a good evening because I was going home. She laughed again. I stuck my head in about five hours ago, but you didn’t even look up. She hesitated before continuing. Did you get any lunch? God, I hope you took a bathroom break!

Yeah, I think I did. Bathroom break, that is, he said, shaking his head while realizing the world had moved on without him. I’m working through a tough night in Asia. Our big bet on aluminum went the other way.

I was going to grab you a sandwich, but frankly, you pissed me off, so I thought you could figure it out for yourself. Marjorie hesitated. You know you missed all of your meetings today, including one with Mister Joseph. She waited, and he got the message loud and clear. Kendrick Joseph, who demanded the use of his formal name, was one of three managing partners and Tristan’s direct boss. However, he was such a massive bastard that most everyone called him Killjoy behind his back, a crafty play on his K.J. initials. Marjorie never stooped to that level, though. I came in to remind you, and it seemed like you heard me, but it’s hard to understand a monosyllabic grunt.

Tristan realized the weight of missing the meeting and slumped further in his chair. Really? Shit! He worked through the problem further. And the fact that he didn’t come barreling in here searching for my scalp can’t be a good thing either, can it? Marjorie shook her head slowly, acknowledging what she already knew and what Tristan was just figuring out. He stood up and turned off his monitor. I think I’ll leave with you and try to erase the day. Marjorie smiled kindly and waited while Tristan got his things together.

Ready? She turned without waiting for a response, and they headed out past the maze of cubicles and through the office badge scanner. A couple of analysts who witnessed the escape caught each other’s gaze and shook their heads slowly.

When Tristan arrived at his apartment building, two things suddenly dawned on him. First, he was unbelievably hungry. It had been over twelve hours since that cold bagel. Second, he had forgotten to copy Julie’s phone number from his palm. He glanced down and saw only bluish smudges from pinky to thumb.

Shit!

Flowers—that was how he would fix the problem, and he made the call to the shop as soon as he was in his apartment. Luckily, the florist was still open. Before he left to pick up his order, however, he first had to get something into his stomach.

His search through the refrigerator reaped only two disappointing options: a stale, half-eaten pizza, and an old leftover pasta plate from the Italian place around the corner. He grabbed the pizza, turned on the oven, and scanned the state of his kitchen while he waited.