When We Push Through Sound

Geoff Sease

Description

In this novel, a lifelong winner 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?
In this novel, a lifelong winner must confront failure and stop the deafening noise in his head long enough to hear the healing voices of the women who love him.

Sujets

• Visionary
• Metaphysical
• Fiction
• Chicago

Informations

• Publié par: Archway Publishing
• Date de parution: 29 juillet 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781665726641
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

When We Push Through Sound
Geoff Sease
Cover Art by Britt Sease


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
1663 Liberty Drive
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
 
Acknowledgments
About the Author

To Suzy
FIRST MOVEMENT

THE FALL
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.

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.

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