American Wife (17 page)

“Well, sure.”

“Then why are we going through all this trouble? They'll love us the way we are.”

He was right. Appearances don't matter—though company
was
a good excuse to clean the house.

Gradually, I learned not to obsess. Now, if you come to my house, some days it'll look really good. Other days, it'll look like a tornado hit. I've come to accept that it really doesn't matter.

The success of
American Sniper
encouraged the publisher to ask Chris to do more books. After tentatively agreeing to do a series of fictional novels with Jim based on some of his experiences, Chris decided to put that project on hold and do a nonfiction history book. He'd been interested in history from the time he was young, and after talking with Peter Hubbard, his editor at HarperCollins, came up with an idea that intrigued him—telling the history of America through the story of ten different guns that had helped shape our country.

The book had a very tight deadline—it was due at the end of 2012. Chris simply added it to his list.

Meanwhile, his celebrity brought him a lot of other opportunities. The number of people and companies approaching Chris for product endorsements and speaking engagements made it clear that he could look far beyond Craft to make a living. He commissioned a personal logo and began exploring his options.

PRESSURES

All my life, fame had been for someone else: the movie star, the football hero, the politician. Now I was living with it.

Chris's “role” as a hero had never seemed strange: it had evolved naturally from who he was. He was a strong man, emotionally as well as physically—my rock, to use an old cliché. His personality demanded that he protect other people, and put in the right situation, he would do that again and again. So the fact that he was a hero on the battlefield made absolute sense. Of course he was brave and had done a lot of courageous things in combat: he was Chris.

But becoming famous? That was something in a different direction. Chris was a humble man—that was every bit as critical to his personality as being a protector. He retained that. He still didn't brag; he talked about his experiences in very direct answers, as he always had, but the reluctance remained in the tightness of his grin. The difference now was that people knew what questions to ask because of the book. And of course they knew to ask them because he was
Chris Kyle!

Exclamation mark intentional.

His humility managed to come through in person, but that only made him more endearing. Being humble and honest made him even more of a hero—and more famous.

Movie stars and football players and all sorts of celebrities now wanted to meet him. He had become famous himself, joining whatever magical circle that is.

Yet so much of our lives didn't change. We still lived in our house, we still struggled to have dinner together and make sure the kids got to school on time. Chris took the garbage out like everyone else.

But he was
famous!

Was I famous, too?

I didn't think so. I went to the book signings and the events and enjoyed being who I was—wife of an American hero. Chris Kyle's wife. That was my identity; I was wife and mother. I wanted to be the best possible wife and mother, but you don't get famous for that. Which was fine.

I think for Chris, all the notoriety became an extension of his natural friendliness. Even before all of this, people said he could make friends just walking down the street. In a way, this was more of the same—though on steroids.

He wasn't always comfortable with the attention. It put pressure on him in a way that I didn't entirely understand at the time. He didn't feel he needed to live up to people's expectations, but he did feel he owed them something, if only politeness. Meanwhile, he owed himself the knowledge of who he really was—not the person they thought he was.

I was his rock, or maybe his touchstone with reality. I wasn't famous, and in his mind, he wasn't famous either. Because fame wasn't real. But Chris Kyle was.

Fame is a funny thing. In one sense, it brought us a lot of new friends and acquaintances from all different walks of life. On the other hand, it closed our circle down. You can only spend so much time with people.

And you can only spend so much time straightening out misconceptions. I didn't realize this at first; it was a lesson I had to learn as time went on.

Fame for any reason tends to bring out detractors and haters, people who whisper things that aren't true or are distortions of the truth. Online especially, people would simply make things up, projecting their own hang-ups and hatred on Chris in comments on Facebook, in online book reviews, and the like. People said all sorts of BS.

Chris ignored most of it, pretty regularly. I tried to, but occasionally I'd see something and burn.

There were so many things that were so far from the truth that they're not worth mentioning.

It got worse with the lawsuits. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It's one thing to see criticism and made-up baloney in online comments from anonymous sources, and another to hear echoes of it from people you think are friends. Chris was mostly able to shrug and move on. I found it more difficult.

I want people to like me. And I want to like them. Even casual acquaintances, professionals like lawyers and accountants, or office workers—I feel a need to deal with them as friends. As Chris's fame brought us in contact with more and more people, I struggled to deal with them all as friends. Anything less just didn't feel right.

Eventually, that would have to change.

In late fall, Chris was called to give a deposition in the Ventura case.

Chris took it very calmly, sitting for hours and answering the questions politely.

It had been six years since the incident, and memories had faded. While we knew from working on the book and discovery in the lawsuit that other people who'd been there remembered it roughly the same way, there were some very minor discrepancies in the accounts. But Chris was careful not to speak with people who were going to be called as witnesses. “I'm not supposed to,” he told me. “And besides, I know from our intel work that if there
aren't
discrepancies, then it's very likely the story is made up. If everyone remembers it the same way—especially after time has passed—well, something is up.”

He was extremely confident that the trial would go his way. He always insisted on taking the high road. When asked about it after the suit was filed, he would smile and not say anything more.

Maybe not smile. Maybe grit his teeth, at least at home.

Chris and I met with a financial adviser to help plan how to give proceeds of the book away. Before we began, Chris told him that, in the event of his death, all of the money was to go to me and the kids.

“You'll be the family of the fallen, then,” he said when I tried to object.

Some of the families Chris wanted to help told him that while they appreciated the thought, they didn't want the money. While we did give away a portion, his intentions were soon overtaken by events.

The kids weren't oblivious to the new demands on Chris, but we insulated them as much as possible. Their dad was often away for TV or other appearances. But overall he was home a lot more than he had been when they were younger and he was a SEAL. He brought them a lot of joy, whether by tossing a ball around or tickling them, teaching them how to hunt or just watching TV. Angel loved to climb into his lap and cuddle. His tensions and cares would melt away as he held her.

I know there's a saying about “Daddy's little girl wrapping him around her finger.” Chris and Angel didn't have that kind of relationship, exactly. She was definitely
his
girl—he was closer to her than probably any other female on the planet, including me. But he also held her to high standards. She couldn't get away with being bad or taking advantage of him.

She could see in his face that he was absolutely delighted by her. He “got” her humor, and he definitely got her.

One day he had to leave on an overnight trip. We said good-bye and closed the door; Angel and I went into the kitchen.

She had tears in her eyes.

“Okay, honey?” I asked.

“Yeah. I know he's coming back tomorrow,” she said. “I guess I just miss him already.”

I told Chris what she'd said later on that night when he called to check in. It was something cute she'd done.

“Wow,” he said. “I feel like I've just been punched in the stomach.”

He slid down the wall to the floor, hand to his face, devastated by his daughter's simple statement of love.

“I wasn't trying to make you feel bad,” I told him. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.”

We talked a little more, then he hung up the phone. The man he was traveling with said later that he looked wounded the whole rest of the trip.

The business, the fame, and just the everyday things that a father and husband has to deal with—it must have been a heavy load. I think back about it now and I'm truly sorry that he had to bear all of that.

He didn't complain. That wouldn't have been Chris.

Around Thanksgiving, Chris mentioned to his brother Jeff that he was thinking of getting rid of his truck. I was floored. He'd wanted a tricked-out black pickup for years before he got it, and labored so hard to get it just the way he wanted.

“Babe,” I said to him later on, “I'm shocked—why are you going to get rid of your truck?”

“Ah, I don't know,” he said.

“What are you going to get in its place?”

“A 250 or something,” he said, referring to a good-sized Ford work truck. “Something inconspicuous.”

Not too long after that, one of our friends died in an accident. We drove up to the funeral and I was struck by how strange it was—how vastly the family's lives had changed because of the death, while for us everything was still “normal.” We would grieve with them, but things would continue as they were.

Chris and I talked about the ceremony on the way home.

“There were a lot of people there,” I said. “I would like a small ceremony.”

“For a funeral?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I want a big funeral,” he said. “I'm gone, right? Blow it out.”

He wanted bagpipes, music, and a large crowd.

We talked a bit more. “Do you still want to be buried in Arlington National Cemetery?” I asked. We'd discussed the possibility several times; it had been among his dearest wishes.

“I don't know if I feel that way anymore,” he confessed.

“Why is that?”

“I just want to be wherever is best for ya'll.”

I was so taken aback by that. But it stayed with me.

FRIENDS—CHAD

Leanne Littlefield and I met each other on the local soccer fields where our kids were on teams together. We were friends, close friends, for a while before her husband Chad and Chris met. Once we introduced them, the two men seemed to bond very naturally. Chad's easygoing personality matched well with Chris's. Chad didn't want or need anything out of the friendship; he just genuinely liked Chris, and vice versa. They started hanging out on weekends, watching football or fooling around with the kids. Leanne and I would hang out in the kitchen and we'd all have a relaxing, fun time. Chad even helped Chris clean out the garage one day—if there's a stronger test of suburban male friendship, I can't think of it.

“You know, I think Chad would take a bullet for me,” said Chris one night when we were getting ready for bed.

“Really? That's an awfully big thing.”

“Yeah, but I really do.”

We were on a brief vacation trip with the kids when our tenth wedding anniversary came up.

It was almost an afterthought for both us.
Hey, it's our anniversary! We should do something special.

We didn't. We both thought that the fact that we were together and happy was enough. There was no need to clink champagne glasses or have some special night out, let alone invite friends or have a party. We knew, and that was what mattered.

In retrospect, I think this was a mistake. You should do anything you can to strengthen your marriage and celebrate it. Milestones help you appreciate what you have. I think it's too easy to forget how much you love someone if you don't celebrate once in a while. If nothing else, those special occasions give you a chance to focus on the other person and spend some meaningful time with them.

Chris and I talked about it later. We decided that we would never let the anniversary pass again without some sort of celebration and formal acknowledgment.

It turned out we never got the chance.

I don't know if it was the pressures or what, but toward the end of 2012, Chris mentioned that he was thinking of giving up “dipping”—chewing smokeless tobacco.

Chew had been part of Chris forever, certainly since I'd known him. It certainly wasn't healthy for him—especially since he generally would swallow the spit, if not the tobacco.
Ewww—yuck!
But he always felt that it was something he wanted to do and didn't worry about the health consequences.

“You're really thinking of quitting?” I asked when he mentioned it.

“Yup.”

“Well, anything I can do, let me know.”

“I will.”

ATTENTION AND TEMPTATION

Chris's activities took him to many places. His new status as a celebrity brought many more invitations to events like charity hunts and fund-raisers.

It also brought a lot of attention from people he didn't know. Mixed in there were a few female admirers, attracted to either his fame, what he represented, or his good looks—can't blame them for that!

There were a lot of temptations, I'm sure. Most of his events had hotel rooms, ranches, alcohol, and women. Granted, they were all somebody else's wife or girlfriend, but my memory of Team infidelities hadn't quite left me. Sometimes opportunity knocks and sometimes people are just plain stupid in the moment. I had to remind myself of the good man I was married to each time he left.