Free The Land of Steady Habits: A Novel by Ted Thompson

themselves as though they might, at any moment, be torn limb from limb. He decided to tell her on their way to dinner, in the back of a cab whose green-and-white exterior made it seem more like a European police vehicle. It hadn’t been an ideal time, he knew that now—and if he could do it over, he certainly would—but they had just cradled hot drinks together in the hotel bar, staring out the window at Michigan Avenue, and Anders had felt for the first time in a while that he could confide in her, trust her with a piece of his internal life. So he told her: he was no longer happy, he was ready for a major change, and the only way he could see himself being happy was if he was alone, away from the job, away from the house, away from her.
    The rest of the cab ride was spent explaining the logistics of the whole thing—how long it would take, how expensive, which lawyer he recommended for her, what they would get for the house when they sold it—and as he rattled on, as if making his way through a PowerPoint presentation, Helene sat quietly, watching the salt-stained roads over the driver’s shoulder, as though making sure the cabbie at least was following her directions. Anders couldn’t tell if she had expected it because she didn’t respond at all—she didn’t cry, she didn’t yell, she didn’t exhale in relief—she just stared forward until they made it to their son’s celebration dinner, where she marched into the restaurant and greeted everyone with a warm peck on the cheek before sitting down with the wine list and ordering two bottles for the table and starting the meal off with a proud toast to their son.
    It wasn’t until they had gotten back to the hotel room and she had removed her earrings that she spoke a word to him. “You’ve always had terrible timing,” she said as he was folding down the sheets to get into bed.
    To this, he laughed. He had spent eight extra years commuting, marking off days in his mental calendar as his younger child flitted from culinary school to organic farming to whatever you called a clear-eyed determination not to get a college degree, while Helene had defended the enriching nature of his experiences and noted the courage it took to embark on a personal journey, which turned out to be a five-year baccalaureate in the uses of recreational drugs.
    “I don’t think my timing is the problem.”
    “You never have any idea what’s going on, do you?”
    “He’s over thirty years old. We finally got him a degree. I’d say my timing is fine.”
    “I think I’m dying,” she said as she wiped off her makeup.
    “Look, if you’re talking about my doing it on the way to dinner, I know. It wasn’t ideal.”
    “I had a weird mammogram last week. That’s what I’m talking about.”
    “I don’t even know what that means.”
    “It means,” she said, “you aren’t the only one who can die.”
    That phrase rang through Anders’s head for the next few months, as Helene returned for biopsies and consultations, a lumpectomy, and, when that didn’t work, a mastectomy, taking the breast clean off and clearing the way for a four-month period of chemo and reconstruction. Whenever Anders was present, the doctors would talk directly to him, as though he, as her husband, were the guiding force behind her decisions. They would explain to him the options, and Anders would nod along, feeling the icy indifference from the other side of the room.
    But he was there, maybe in part because of her pronouncement in the hotel room, maybe because it was his duty, even though he had started renouncing that duty with paperwork and lawyers at the exact same time. Mostly it was out of guilt, he figured, and some sense that it was a test of his character. Helene could be dramatic and at times a catastrophizer, and if he stayed consistent and supportive, the quiet rock in the treatment room, he could feel okay about sticking to his plan once the whole ordeal was over.
    But it didn’t end.