American Wife (25 page)

He wore that to his grave under his plaid button-down shirt, a silent last guffaw.

CHAD'S FUNERAL

Chad was laid to rest first.

Leanne wanted to have a simple ceremony, in keeping with the way Chad had lived his life. I'm sure she would have wanted it to be quiet and small as well, but under the circumstances that was impossible. The local Baptist church hosted a ceremony that drew hundreds of people; so many packed in that many had to watch on a video feed in a nearby room.

The service beautifully reflected Chad's life, with memories and poems recalling his vitality and thoughtfulness. He was a kind, quiet man without airs or pretensions, and his service honored those beautiful qualities.

It happened that I was with Chad's parents when they saw him laid out for the first time. His father grabbed him by the shoulder and said, “You go rest high on the mountain, son. Rest high on the mountain.”

I'm still moved to tears by that memory. His dad said it with conviction and pain, affirming both faith and, ultimately, life.

The kids came with me to the church. It was the first time they'd gone to a funeral of someone they knew well.

Tears flowed down Angel's face as the ceremony came to an end. We slipped out together to the restroom before going on to the cemetery.

“Mom,” she said, leaning against the stall. “Daddy keeps saying he's sorry. Why does he say that?”

“I don't know, honey.” I had no doubt she was hearing her dad—their connection was so strong it surely would survive even death. “I don't know if he's sorry that he can't hold you, or that he's not here. But I'm glad you're hearing him.”

“Yes.”

The Patriot Guard Riders showed up as a personal gesture, honoring Chad and his family and escorting them to the grave.

He died just shy of his thirty-sixth birthday, having left a quiet but important mark on his community, his family, and his friends.

We miss him still.

THE LONG GOOD-BYE

And then it was our turn.

For the longest time, Chris had talked about wanting to be buried at Arlington National Cemetery, the country's foremost military cemetery, near Washington, D.C. But toward the end of his life, he'd begun to rethink that.

Soon after Chris's death, Marcus Lutrell, a good friend of Chris's, suggested that Chris be buried in the state cemetery in Austin. Located near the state capitol, the cemetery is the final resting place of notable Texans, from Revolutionary War veterans to recent governors. It's a frequent destination for school groups and tourists; beyond that, it's a lovely setting, quiet and serene.

But I just didn't know. Marcus said it would be appropriate for any number of reasons, starting with Chris's love of Texas.

“Trust me, it's gorgeous,” he said when he saw me hesitating. “It'd be perfect.”

Governor Rick Perry soon joined in, maybe at Marcus's suggestion, encouraging me to have Chris buried with other legendary Texans. I told him that I couldn't just decide without seeing it.

The next thing I knew, someone volunteered their private plane to fly the family there. The kids, my parents, Chris's parents, his brother and his family all came along to help me decide.

In a way, it didn't feel like my decision, or even the family's. It was really Chris's. Or should have been. When we were on the plane, I asked everyone to pray with me. “I want to hear Chris's voice and see what he thinks about the place,” I told them. “I want to hear his wishes.”

The governor and his wife picked us up at the airport. Mrs. Perry took my parents and the kids to their house for lunch while the rest of us went with the governor to tour the cemetery. The main entrance reminded me of the Alamo, a place Chris had always loved. His fascination with history seemed to fit perfectly with the place. School kids came regularly to learn about our history, something I knew would appeal to him.

It just felt like Chris.

Still, I had to be sure. I excused myself and took a walk away from the others, moving down the hill to a spot where I could see the immense flag.

“Okay, babe,” I said. “If you can talk to me, tell me what you think. I don't know.”

Bad-ass.

The words flew into my head, bypassing my ears.

Bad-ass. Bad-ass. Bad-ass.

Over and over, I heard those words in my head. It was as if Chris was there, telling me yes, this is where I want to be buried.

There were plenty of logical reasons to choose Austin—it's much closer to the family, and I can be buried next to him when my time comes. But I truly felt that Chris had spoken at that moment to me.

Walking back to the family, I felt his arm around me and his gentle lips on my temple.

“Okay, babe. Austin.”

When you feel things like that, physically or mentally or somewhere in between, you wonder sometimes if you're making it up. But you don't want to question it—the feeling is too intense, and too welcome.

Having decided on the cemetery, we still had to pick a place for the funeral. That proved harder.

Funerals are usually very private affairs, with only a few friends and family involved. But in this case, there was such an outpouring of sympathy from the public that I felt people had a right to help send him off. Chris's parents agreed. Together with other family members and close friends, we tried to figure out how to accommodate them all. We thought about holding the service at an outdoor rodeo arena—appropriate for a former cowboy—or some other place that could hold a lot of people. But we couldn't find anyplace free on such short notice. We brainstormed possible alternatives.

“I'm just trying to think of all the things Chris liked,” I said, my mind drifting. “He loved the Cowboys . . . Why not Cowboys Stadium?”

“Chris did love the Cowboys,” said Jeff.

“That would be great,” I said. “But . . .”

“Why not?” asked Wayne.

“Well, it's
Cowboys Stadium
. . .”

They convinced me we could ask.

I don't know exactly what happened, who asked, or how it worked. All I know is that in what seemed like no time at all, Jerry Jones had given us permission to hold the memorial there.

More than that, Jerry volunteered to provide
everything
—the building, the staff, the security. His incredible generosity floored me.

“It's an honor to do it,” he said when I tried to thank him.

Chris would have been floored at the idea of being given a service in Cowboys Stadium—though I suspect he might have tried offering Mr. Jones some advice on how to run his football team when he met him.

While others did the work putting the ceremonies together, I made two strong requests: I wanted to hear the song “Amazing Grace,” and I wanted bagpipes.

We got both, and more.

Sometime that week, Angel came to me at bedtime.

“Mama, can I tell you something?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I keep hearing Daddy say, ‘I love you, baby girl.' ”

“You do?”

“Yes,” she said. “His voice sounds a little different, though.”

“I know, honey.”

“I keep trying to make him laugh. He's laughing—but his laugh sounds a little different than when he was here.”

I tucked her into bed.

Chris was the only person who really understood Angel's humor. Her face would light up when he laughed. It was part of their special connection, and they still had it, even with him gone.

Hours before the actual ceremony was to begin, a private gathering was held in a downstairs club area of the stadium. It was quite an affair, with an elaborate buffet and bar. Chris was laid out elegantly in a room at the side where people could pay their respects. There was a long line to view the casket.

I came a little while before the memorial ceremony was scheduled to begin. As I walked from the car to the private suite, I caught a glimpse of the huge screen that hangs over the middle of the field. There was a picture of Chris and me, seventy-two feet high, 160 feet wide.

Something caught in my throat.

I'm not going to do this now, I thought. I am not going to break down.

I kept walking to the room.

People were lined up in the hall, waiting to get in. The place suddenly fell silent.

“Thank you,” I told them as I passed. “Thank you. Thank you.”

There were so many close friends I hadn't seen in years, or I had seen and just hadn't been able to connect with. I wanted to touch and connect with each one, but the circumstances didn't allow it.

I went to the casket to check on Chris, to make sure he was okay. It sounds silly, I know, and yet it was the most natural thing, as if we had come to a party at different times: I was arriving late, and the first thing I had to do was go and check on my husband.

We spent a few moments together, he and I. The others gave us space, just as they would have if he'd been alive. Then I went back into the room, hugging people, holding myself together. At different points my lip would begin to quiver and I would feel myself starting to slip, but I quickly got it back in control.

I will not be weak. People will not see me break down.

The minutes slid away. Finally, it was time for the formal ceremony. They needed to close the casket and take Chris out to the field.

It was my last chance to be with him, face-to-face.

Whatever we believe about spirits surviving, I thought, however strongly I still feel Chris beside me, whatever happens in heaven, this will be always my final chance to look at him as I know him now.

I went over to the casket. I touched his face and stroked his hair.

“This is it, babe,” I whispered.

My knees weakened.

Don't do this! You're going to cause a scene.

I want to feel this. How do I do this?

I stood back, empty. I wanted to impress it all in my brain, this one moment and our lifetime together. I wanted it preserved. But the emotion was so overwhelming it threatened to obliterate me.

I started talking to Chris in my head.

Look at this, babe. Cowboys Stadium!

All these people! Isn't this great?

Can you believe this? Who would have thought?

The one-sided conversation, such as it was, pulled me together. I took a deep breath, and gave him a kiss on his head, then turned away.

I stopped after a few steps, glancing back.

Walk! Just walk!

If you don't walk now, you never will.

Walk!

I turned and walked away, this time for good, never to see my husband's face again in this lifetime.

The area around the fifty-yard line had been set up with a stage and seating. The kids held my hands as we went to the elevator, ready to go out.

“Can you believe we're in Cowboys Stadium for Daddy?” I asked them, trying to rally my spirits as well as theirs. “He would be so blown away.”

I think they nodded.

The elevator opened. We got in. The car went down, and suddenly we were walking onto the runway that led to the field.

Pay attention to what's around you. This is unbelievable!

The bagpipers began to move, the tap of their shoes on the concrete apron echoing loudly. The cadence centered me. The pipes began to mourn and my spirit swelled, the music propelling me forward.

The casket was marched out and placed front and center.

The pallbearers and Navy honor guard stood at attention.

I was moving in a cocoon of numbing grief and overwhelming awe. There was a prayer, speeches—each moment moved me in a different way. The easy jokes, the devotional hymns, each had its own effect.

I began to float.

When I'd asked people to talk about Chris at the ceremony, I'd made a point of reminding them of his humor and asking if possible to add some lighter touches to their speeches, roasting him, even; it was all so Chris. But now some of the light jokes tripped a wire:

Don't talk bad about him! Don't you dare!

Then in the next moment I'd realize he would have been leading the laughs, and it was all good again.

I couldn't force a smile, though.

One of the things that I've always felt missing from funerals and services is the voice of the man or woman who was the deceased's partner in life. I've always wanted to hear from the person who'd loved them more than anyone. Biblically, the two become one flesh—the spouse is their other half. It has always seemed to me that his or her voice was critical to truly understanding who the deceased was in life.

I also felt that
American Sniper
had told only part of Chris's story—an angry part in much of it. There was so much more to him that I wanted the world to know.

People said Chris was blessed that I hung in there during his service to our country; in fact, I was the one who was blessed. I wanted everyone to hear me say that.

Beforehand, a friend suggested I have a backup in case I couldn't finish reading my speech—a “highway option,” as Chris used to call it: the way out if things didn't go as planned.

I refused.

I didn't want a way out. It wasn't supposed to be easy. Knowing that I had to go through with it, that I had to finish—that was my motivator.
That
was my guarantee that I would finish, that I would keep moving into the future, as painful as it surely would be.

When you think you cannot do something, think again. Chris always said, “The body will do whatever the mind tells it to.” I am counting on that now.

I stand before you a broken woman, but I am now and always will be the wife of a man who is a warrior both on the battlefield and off.

Some people along the way told Chris that through it all, he was lucky I stayed with him. I am standing before you now to set the record straight. Remember this: I am the one who is literally, in every sense of the word, blessed that Chris stayed with me.