American Wife (2 page)

At the same time, he had an old-fashioned sense of decorum and style, always wearing nice slacks and a button-down shirt, often topped off with a Mr. Rogers–style cardigan sweater. He managed to carry them off with a casual rather than stiff air. He was a calm man, so even-tempered that the very few times he got angry were the stuff of family legend.

That's one trait that doesn't seem to have been passed on in my genes.

There is one unusual wrinkle in my family tree—my mom's mom was married to my dad's dad. They were actually stepbrother and -sister, though they never met until college.

Marion—my father's father—and his wife had four children together, including my dad. (He hated that name, by the way; most people called him “Studie,” short for Studebaker, his last name.) When my father was fifteen, his mom died after a long illness. Studie married again soon afterward, then divorced. Following that, and maybe thinking he was done with marriage for good, he moved into an apartment complex on the lake.

Meanwhile, my mother's mother, Emily—gorgeous and very artistic—had married her high school sweetheart in Pasadena. He became a very successful dentist, gave up his practice to join the Navy during World War II, then came out and resumed dentistry after the war. Unfortunately, he seems to have cheated on her; the marriage ended in divorce despite the fact that they had three kids, including my mom.

Emily then married a man from Oregon, moving there to be with him. That marriage also ended in divorce. She moved to an apartment complex—the same one where Studie happened to live.

Two bad experiences were enough to turn her off to marriage forever. Now in her fifties, she was adamant that she would remain single for the rest of her life.

Then she met my grandfather. He set out to woo her practically the moment he saw her.

We have some of the notes they wrote to each other, and based on the evidence, Studie was a master Romeo, even well into his fifties. “Together you and I are meant to be,” went one note. “You're going to marry me one day you see.” He was the sort of man any woman would find hard to resist—big blue eyes, a gentle heart, brilliant, and a great sense of humor. It took him a while, but gradually he wore Emily down and they were married.

While they'd had a few bad marriages between them, this one was the sort people refer to as made in heaven. They'd have weekly races to see who could do the
New York Times
crossword puzzle the fastest, cooked gourmet meals together, and danced in the kitchen whenever the mood struck them—which was often. They laughed all the time and just seemed to have the most wonderful days together. Visiting their house was like going to a resort where only happy people were allowed.

My sister Ashley once asked my grandmother what the secret of their marriage was.

“Oh, I don't know, honey,” she told her. “We just laughed a lot, danced a lot, and loved a lot.”

If you could package that somehow, you'd make a fortune.

They were married for twenty-five years before death separated them. I still remember sitting with my grandfather in their living room a few days after she died; we talked about her, remembering good times.

After twenty minutes or so, a single tear rolled down his cheek. It was as emotional as I'd ever seen him.

“She was such a good woman, wasn't she?” he asked.

I could only agree.

He pursed his lips, then smiled and got up. There was deep sadness, great loss, and yet resolve to go on. His energy was happy energy; sadness might weigh him down, but he rarely admitted it to others, and it was even rarer still to see evidence of it.

He'd have my sister and me over for dinner every Thursday night. He'd fuss and cook up a storm, then watch
Jeopardy!
with us in the living room. I'd hold his hand and wonder how in the world he could know so many answers.

Unfortunately, he developed prostate cancer as he aged, and despite aggressive treatments, slowly began to waste away. His body took a beating, yet somehow he managed to smile every time he saw us, whether at home or at a hospital. He was in constant pain, and it must have been hard to keep radiating love and kindness to others. But when I visited him, I always left cheered up, as if I was the one who was ill.

To this day, he's an inspiration.

Where did that strength come from?

I don't know. He'd grown up poor and achieved great success; he'd had a wonderful mother but a terrible father. He'd been through a lot—three wives is a lot of living. But none of those things alone can account for character.

My mom and dad met in college shortly after my grandparents started dating. Actually, my aunt met my father first—and went out on a date with him.

According to family lore, my aunt called up her older sister as soon as she got home.

“I just went out with this guy,” she said. “You have to meet him. He was made for you.”

That phone call gave my mom “permission” to break the don't-date-the-guy-your-sister-has-dated rule. The next time they were both in town together, they began seeing each other. Both had fiery personalities, yet somehow they hit it off. They ended up getting married about a year after my grandparents.

My grandfather had been an engineer before opening his own business supplying power transmission companies and utilities with equipment. After my father got his law degree, served in the Marine Corps, and worked in corporate law for a decade or so, he decided he wanted more autonomy, and went to work at his father's company. But my grandfather was old school—Dad had to work his way up, learning the business from the warehouse floor to the executive suite before being allowed to buy in. My dad wouldn't have wanted it any other way. It was a small business. Both my grandmother and my mother worked there as bookkeepers, and my sister was also employed there for a while. I was the lone rebel—unless you count the time Dad paid me to pull the dandelions off the office lawn.

My childhood in the seventies and eighties was pretty normal. It was the Reagan era, a time when the Cold War came to an end and women became a fixture in the workforce. Maybe that's why, when I was little, I wanted to be an NFL quarterback.

My next ambition was somewhat more realistic, but not by much: I wanted to be a race car driver.

When most girls my age were asking for Barbies, I was hoping for Matchbox cars. I wasn't a tomboy, exactly, but my interests were definitely all over the gender map.

I grew out of that phase. For college, I followed a boyfriend to Wisconsin—a mistake, but it did lead to more independence. Truth be told, we weren't even getting along at the time, but I wanted to get out of Oregon and spread my wings. It was the best excuse I could think of. I ended up earning a degree in economics with a minor in business, wandering into those fields after dabbling in psychology and philosophy.

I remember my dad laughing when I suggested philosophy as a major:
You're going to major in thinking about thinking?

There's nothing wrong with thinking about thinking, but ultimately I was too practical for that: if Plato were alive today, odds are he'd be pouring coffee at Starbucks. I wanted a profession where I could get a job and support myself, and economics and business were far better bets.

My first real job out of college was selling advertising for a local newspaper—ironic, since for years I'd sworn I'd never be a salesperson. But I managed to do well, earning a number of promotions over four or five years before Wisconsin's long, gray winters got to me. Looking for something warmer, I started interviewing for jobs in the sunniest place I could imagine—California.

I got a position as a salesperson with an office-supply company. A year of cold-calling convinced me I needed to find something else. A friend recommended pharmaceutical sales, and after a lot of debate—Do I really want to work in sales? Do I want to sell drugs?—I went for an interview and got the job.

My life to that point was a battle between my practical, conservative side and a more free-spirited, dreamer side. The practical side wanted a steady paycheck. The dreamer side wanted the
perfect
job, even though it couldn't define what that job was. I loved sales because it meant I didn't have to stay in an office all day. I got out to meet all different sorts of people; no day was ever exactly the same.

The new position took all that and added the fact that medicine helps people, making pharmaceutical sales a bit more meaningful than hawking pencils. It also paid very well. It may not have been the perfect match, but it was an engaging one. I bought a condo in Long Beach and settled in.

Gradually, the pressures of the job—not only meeting quotas but dealing with the resentment from many doctors and their staffs—started to get to me. I eventually realized that I had a case of mild clinical depression and went on antidepressants. I came to know a lot about the drugs I was recommending.

I went through some difficult emotions. I didn't have a steady boyfriend, and in fact I didn't think I wanted one. Because I was in outside sales, I didn't have even an office full of coworkers to make friends with. Looking back, I feel as if God had to break me, in a way: He had to let me feel the results of my stubbornness so that I could understand the beauty and potential of life. I had to be convinced that I wasn't destined to be a loner, that I needed to walk through this life with a partner.

“It doesn't matter what he looks like,” I said. My prayers have always been very personal and specific. “It doesn't matter what he does for a living. Just please, God, send me someone nice.”

If I had to have someone in my life, let him be good.

A few weeks later, I met Chris. And he was the nicest person I ever met.

“THAT THING”

Chris and I told the story of how we met in
American Sniper.

Briefly, I was living in Long Beach at the time. A girlfriend wanted to go down to San Diego—nearly a two-hour drive—to check out some bars and relax. I almost didn't go; it was a long drive and I was tired.

But I went. We ended up in a bar in Coronado, where I found myself drinking Scotch and offering sarcastic comebacks to an admittedly good-looking but obnoxious young man hitting on me.

The man's friend came over and interrupted us, joking that I was abusing his friend.

Now
this
was a handsome man. A bit over six feet, solidly built, he had a warm smile and broad shoulders to go with a sweet Texas accent and an easygoing, aw-shucks manner that instantly melted my cynical heart.

His name was Chris Kyle.

He admitted to being a Navy SEAL, though that wasn't a selling point for me—my sister had had a relationship with a man who wanted to be a SEAL but turned out to be something less than perfect. But before I knew it, I was drunk on Chris's good looks and easy personality.

That and the Scotch I was drinking.

It is unfortunately true that I emptied the contents of my stomach on the way to the car. He sweetly held my hair back to keep it get from getting soaked as I did. When a relationship starts like that, it can only get better.

Our relationship quickly grew. I was living in Long Beach at the time; Chris was in San Diego. Conservatively speaking, that's a two-hour drive. But Chris drove it often. He'd get off work, hop in his pickup, and be at my condo before dark. And not just on the weekends: he often rose before the sun to get to work in Coronado Beach. We'd go out to eat, maybe take in a movie, play miniature golf, bowl, see friends—the usual date stuff. But our most fun was just hanging out together.

I pinned a picture of Chris up near my desk. (It's the profile picture on his Facebook page, if you're interested.) Under it, I taped a quote that went along the lines of:
Life is not about the number of breaths you take; it's the moments that take your breath away.

Chris was all about those breathtaking moments—riding broncs in the rodeo, jumping out of planes. He worked hard and played hard—but was just as likely to relax completely, sitting comfortably on the couch with a beer or whatever as he took it easy. It was a paradox; I loved both sides.

He could also be terribly romantic and thoughtful. My job was a real challenge. The work was difficult and the boss demanding: he thought nothing of calling or emailing at odd hours, even on the weekend; you ignored him at your peril.

There was a point at which everything got to me. And it was exactly at that moment that Chris stepped in and planned a weekend getaway. He found a little cabin out in the woods where there was no cell phone reception—
yes!
—and without telling anyone, we made our getaway.

Almost. I actually called the boss and told him my cell reception was giving out, and so I wouldn't be able to check messages, something he expected even on the weekends.

As soon as we got to the cabin, I headed to the bedroom. Inside, I opened my suitcase and changed into sexy white Victoria's Secret–style lingerie, complete with corset and thigh-highs. Feeling a little shy and silly, I walked out and leaned against the doorway of the living room where he was sitting.

“Hey!”

“Yeah?” he mumbled from the couch, not bothering to look up from the magazine he was reading.

“Turn around,” I said.

He turned around—slowly at first. But as soon as he caught sight of me in that lingerie, he hopped clear over the couch and chased me down the hall to the bedroom. I squealed and giggled the wholeway.

When I met him, Chris had graduated from BUD/S, or basic SEAL training, and was already a SEAL. Chris didn't play the SEAL “card,” though; he didn't brag or call attention to what he did or himself. He was just a hot guy with an interesting job that he hardly ever talked about.

There came a point about five or six months after we met that I started to really want to be assured that we had the possibility of a future together. That for me meant the possibility of marriage. I wasn't looking for a wedding date or a ring, but I did want to know that was at least a strong possibility. The question of the future began weighing on me—there was that practical side—so one night on a road trip to Oregon I brought it up.