Ellie Meets With Coach
A simple cup of coffee to figure out what next
This is a novel in the making and will be the third book in my series on “Alfred.” Reader feedback is welcome and appreciated…or you can just read and mull over to yourself.
I promised Alfred that I would strongly consider engaging an independent voice to help me piece together my complicated past. It felt so easy for me to see what Alfred needed. With luck and the grace of God, we had found something that worked.
But me? What would I do? Where do I start? I knew it wouldn’t be easy.
I called Coach to see if we could chat. I was a bit reluctant because, in my way of thinking, he belonged to Alfred. I didn’t want to do anything that might complicate their relationship. Still, I thought Coach might have some suggestions of people I could reach out to. Then, I could make an assessment and pick, like I did for Alfred.
I would need someone who was measured, had a quiet and thoughtful way, wouldn’t judge me harshly for my kept secrets, and would let me navigate with only a few gentle nudges.
In other words, I needed passive guidance.
Two weeks later, Coach and I met at our local diner for coffee. The diner is like us. Not fancy but solid, comfortable, and without any airs or pretension of being more than it is.
When I first set eyes on Coach, I forgot how tall he was. After that, I recalled his warm, friendly face and a smile that sparkled. It was still all there.
We had an awkward moment where you didn’t know whether to hug or shake hands. We laughed at our confusion and then did a light hug, bordering on an air hug. We were so glad to see each other.
We sat down, ordered our food, and then conversation started immediately. After ordering, I got a quizzical look with a question,
“Blueberry muffin and coffee going to be enough? Is that what a Soho Glob baker matures into? Gives up chocolate for blueberries?”
This made me laugh. It reminded me of how much Coach knew about Alfred and me. I knew far less about him. I came back with, “Well, maybe, but Alfred told me that your mom enjoyed the Soho Globs he baked for her, so it might not be an age thing.”
That drew silence and then another small smile.
“Yes, she really did enjoy the ‘Globs,’ as Alfred calls them. She was still at the stage where she understood that someone I had helped, baked them for her. I’m guessing that also factored into her enjoyment.”
“So, how are you doing?” I asked, and then added, “Unfortunately, I know how long it takes to heal from the loss of someone you love.”
Coach explained how he was doing, and our time together flew. He was in healing mode. He was back helping clients. He described having a hole in his heart that might not close so easily, but he felt thankful that he had his mother for so many years and that he was with her 24/7 for her last month.
Then, the conversation stopped, and he looked at me. I knew it was time to share what had led me to call him.
Now, the conversation didn’t flow so easily.
Me: Coach, it is just so good to see you. It feels like you never left.
Coach: It has been a while, and I am glad to see you too.
Me: So, you must be wondering why I called. I waited until I thought enough time had passed that I wasn’t trespassing on your time of mourning. Alfred said he would try not to need you so much because you had your own pain to attend to. I wanted to be at least as thoughtful as Alfred, so I waited.
Coach: Well, Alfred is very kind, and I think he needs me less, which has made it easier to give me space. Mostly, he knows I am always in his corner and available when needed. And you reaching out was a happy moment for me. You didn’t need to wait.
Me: Thank you. So, what caused me to say, “I need to speak with Coach,” is last month Alfred said exactly the same words I said to him three years ago when I introduced the idea that he talk to you.
Coach: Which were…
Me: Which were, “I think you’re good, even great, but you could be better.”
There was quiet again. I could see Coach thinking. I was trying to read his mind.
I think he was feeling some mix of pride that Alfred could make the observation and say those words to me. Maybe Coach was thinking he’d like to know more about why Alfred said that. Maybe he thought he could help me, too, and then there was probably some recognition that he couldn’t.
Those were the conclusions I drew as I looked at him.
And then, I broke the silence.
Me: There seems to be a lot going on in your mind right now.
Coach: Yes, there is. To say that Alfred is an old soul and an amazing person doesn’t say enough. You’d have to add his deep and abiding love for his mom. You were, after all, why he agreed to see me. Alfred gets his most special qualities — intelligence, kindness, intuition — from you. I hope you know that. So that’s what I was thinking.
Ok, so this moment was really hard for me. I suddenly couldn’t eat my muffin. I felt butterflies. I haven’t had these kinds of feelings stir in me for quite some time, and I didn’t know what to do. I think I just stared at Coach. Then I looked down at my coffee.
My head was still down when I heard, “Ellie, I know this feels strange, and you don’t know what to do. Nor do I. But I am going to think about this and find you someone you can talk to who will be helpful. Alfred is right. You are great.”
Now, I felt a tear coming. Coach let the silence happen. It seemed we were having a lot of conversation, with sudden bursts of silence. “Bursts” because the silence felt louder than the words, but for whatever reason, the sudden stops didn’t seem to bother either of us. It’s just where we were at the moment.
I had my hand on the table, resting. Then I felt some fingers lightly rest over mine. Then I heard,
“Ellie, look at me, please.” I did, but I wasn’t sure I wanted Coach to see my tears.
“Ellie, we are going to figure this out. Feelings go where they go. But here’s what I’d like that is going to help you and whatever coach I find you. I’d like you to start keeping a journal.”
Now, I thought Coach was confused. I am not a writer. I like numbers and math, and I told him so. Suddenly, I became clear and efficient sounding.
Me: Coach, you know that I’m not someone like Hannah who loves to write. It seems that worked for her. I don’t really write.
Coach: But you have a lot of memories, and putting words to those memories will be very helpful.
Me: Can’t I just discuss them?
Coach: You are in charge of you, so you can do whatever you want. But I think you will discover that writing down moments from your past will help you to heal. From the little I know, there has been a lot of trauma, and I’m guessing it has never been discussed.
Me: That’s true.
Coach: And someone needs to help you revisit those memories and understand how you coped and built a life. I’d say you’ve done a really good job, even amidst the pain you’ve never addressed.
Me: How do you know I’ve done a really good job?
Coach: Easy. Alfred is our proof point.
I loved that he said “our” and made me chuckle at a moment when I felt very vulnerable. I needed that. I thought about the wonder of being Coach. He could go from serious to light in one fell swoop. He could help you laugh and think deep thoughts at the same time.
It was his next move that reminded me of his spirit of generosity. He taught this lesson to Alfred. “The most generous acts don’t require money,” he’d remind Alfred.
Coach shared with me that the loss of his mom had been so deep that he had started to keep a journal.
“Ellie, a writer, once told me, ‘Write your piece. Find your peace.’ That’s what I think we both need to do.”
So, I agreed I would start to write about moments in my past while he set out to find someone for me.
“It won’t be just anyone, Ellie. It will be someone worthy of you.”
A tear started to trickle again, which caused Coach to reach over and gently wipe it away.
“Ellie, I’m so glad you called me. And I am so proud of Alfred for having led you to this moment. We will find you some help, and I will be in the background to root you on.”
There was quiet.
And then he added, almost as an afterthought, “But me, in the background, will be ‘Tom,’ not ‘Coach.’”
That felt significant. Could I actually say, “Tom?”
We hugged again, but this time, it was not an air hug. It also left me wanting more.
On my way home, I stopped at our local game store, which has puzzles, games, coloring books, and journals to write in.
I hadn’t decided whether to write by hand or on my laptop, but just seeing the newly purchased yellow journal lying around would remind me I’d made a commitment.
I knew Coach…I mean, Tom… would deliver, and I wanted to be ready. I would start doing my part immediately.
The first piece written in Ellie’s story is below:
This is so sweet and thoughtful, Jill! I love it.