“About what?”
“About Natalie,” I said, hearing the frustration in my tone. “What do I do about her relationship with the other guy?”
Bowen raised an eyebrow. He said nothing, waiting for me to answer my own question. He knew me well enough to understand that I’d be able to eventually figure it out, which I did.
“I need to accept that I can’t control another person,” I intoned. “I can only control my own behaviors.”
“That’s correct.” Bowen smiled. “But I suspect it doesn’t make you feel any better.”
No, I thought, it really doesn’t. I took some deep breaths, wishing it weren’t the truth, before automatically repeating much of what I’d learned in our previous sessions. “You’ll tell me that for now, I should strive to be the best version of myself that I can be. I need to sleep, exercise, eat healthy, and keep mood-altering substances to a minimum. Practice DBT and CBT skills when I’m feeling on edge. I understand all those things. And I’m doing those things. What I want to know is what I should do with regard to Natalie, so I don’t go crazy with worry.”
If Bowen heard the emotion in my voice, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, in the calm way he always adopted with me, he shrugged.
“What can you do except to keep doing what you’re doing?”
“But I love her.”
“I know you do.”
“I don’t even know if she lives with him, or if she’s just dating him.”
Bowen appeared almost sad. “Do you really want to know?”
*
On the highway the following day, I ruminated on my conversation with Dr. Bowen. I knew what I wanted—I wanted Natalie to dump the guy—but I was only half of that equation. Or maybe only a third of it, which was even worse. I sometimes believe the world would run better if I were put in charge of everything and could indeed control people, but knowing me, I’d probably get tired of the responsibility.
I had the GPS on in the SUV, even though I probably wouldn’t need it until I reached the South Carolina border. It was straightforward until then—Highway 70 to Interstate 40 near Raleigh, then Interstate 85 near Greensboro, through Charlotte, and into South Carolina, all the way to Greenville. The computer was calculating that I’d reach my destination somewhere between one and two in the afternoon, which I hoped was enough time to get some answers.
The drive was easy, relatively flat, and sandwiched between either farmland or forest. Near the cities, the congestion was worse, though nothing like the DC area, where I’d grown up. As I rolled along, I tried to picture my grandfather taking the same route but couldn’t. His truck shivered and shook at speeds above forty miles an hour, and driving slowly on the interstates was dangerous. At his age, he would have known that his eyesight and reflexes weren’t up to par, either. The more I thought about it, the more I figured he would have opted for rural highways, with a single lane in each direction. It would have added even more time to the journey, and for all I knew, he’d taken two days to reach Easley.
I stopped for lunch south of Charlotte, then hit the road again. According to the GPS, Interstate 85 would intersect with Highway 123 in Greenville, and from there, it was a straight shot to my destination. Before I’d left, I’d learned that Highway 123 also led to Clemson University, which was a bit farther west, which made me wonder if Helen was a coed. My grandfather, the old dog, might have been robbing the cradle.
It was an absurd thought, but after more than six hours in the car, it made me laugh aloud.
I found Highway 123 without a problem, settled in for the final stretch, and when I was five minutes out, I began looking for mile markers. To my mind, had the stroke occurred farther east, he would have been transported to a hospital in Greenville, which was a much larger city and had more hospitals. Reaching the outskirts of Easley brought back memories, but none of the town itself. Nothing seemed familiar, nor could I remember the exact route I’d taken to the hospital, those memories overwhelmed completely by the worries I’d had at the time.
I eventually spotted mile marker 9 and I began to slow the SUV, scanning both sides of the highway. Unlike the majority of the drive, there was more than farmland or forest here; there were houses and pawnshops, used car lots and junkyards, gas stations, and even an antique store. The sight was discouraging; finding someone in any one of those businesses or houses who would remember my grandfather from more than six months ago—much less someone able to offer any helpful advice—might take days, even weeks, and while I was interested in the mystery, I already knew I wouldn’t commit to something like that. It made me wonder whether the trip had been worthwhile at all.