American Wife (29 page)

There is something about human nature that seeks that out. There can be five hundred good comments about something, and one negative. Which one do we focus on?

THE RIGHT PEOPLE AND THE RIGHT MOMENT

Being positive isn't always easy—and it can be even harder to do the right thing.

That summer, still trying to figure out how to carry on Chris's legacy and start a charity, I was invited to a networking event. While I was in the audience, a man who'd met Chris got up and started talking about how they'd met at Shot Show, how they'd gotten along, and how he knew they'd instantly become friends. It was that way with a lot of people: they just couldn't help but be friends with Chris, and vice versa.

“Then I heard about his death,” said the speaker. “And I know this sounds awfully selfish of me to say, especially with his wife in the audience, but I felt as if I'd been robbed. I'd lost a great friendship before it even had a chance to begin. I've never cried the way I cried when I found out.”

Then he invited me up—the people there had put some money together and gave me a check for $25,000.

It was more seed money for the charity. Better, the networking event provided me with contacts for dozens of people with experience running charities. I felt like God was telling me, “I got this.”

I know you feel as if you can't do this, but I can. And I will.

Similar things happened as the year went on. I happened to mention the need for a website with Jennifer Lee, V's wife, a friend who had drawn even closer following Chris's death. The charity would need a designer and graphic artist; I had no idea how you went about finding one.

“Taya,” she said, “you do know what I do for a living, right?”

“Uh, well—”

“No?”

“Um, no,” I admitted.

Jennifer is a vice president of a corporation; included in her responsibilities was overseeing a team of designers and website creators.

Duh!

“I would love to be a part of this,” she said. “Let me set that up.”

Great!

We talked about other things, including the fact that
American Gun
was due to be published shortly. The publisher wanted me to help promote the book, which meant a lot of television appearances. I was willing to do anything I could—but nervous about being on TV. Chris had had some media training before his book tour, but I hadn't.

“You don't know any of those kind of people, do you?” I asked.

She shook her head.

But God was listening. A few days later, Jennifer called me from Ohio, where she had gone to visit some relatives.

“You're not going to believe this,” she said. “But about that media trainer . . .”

Her sister-in-law and a friend had recently started a company that helped charities and nonprofits in various ways, from marketing to media training.

I just felt like it was divine intervention. God was putting the people in front of me I needed. The charity—which would eventually become the Chris Kyle Frog Foundation—started to take shape. There was still a lot to do; over the next several months I would be ready to quit many times. But every time, God put someone in my face to help.

I encountered my share of people who looked at me as “the little woman” who should say “yes” to whatever business they proposed, then go back to the kitchen. That attitude was most acute in the business world, but I encountered it in plenty of “normal” life situations as well. Proving I could walk and chew gum at the same time was never enough; I had to do it with a PowerPoint and perfectly coifed hair—while taking care of two kids as well.

There's an unfortunate tendency to look at a stay-at-home mom and conclude that she isn't interested in “serious” things. Business sense? Forget it. I hate to say it, but I think that stereotype is especially applied to the women who are married to military guys. A lot of people seem to think that we don't have the intelligence, or the experience, to be able to handle business. It's hard for people to understand that we're
choosing
to stay home; a lot of us—myself included—were quite successful in the business and professional worlds before devoting ourselves to our families.

I was most surprised to see that attitude among some of the people working with me on the charity. I guess I thought they'd be more enlightened.

Now, the truth is, I couldn't handle all the things Chris was involved in, let alone the charity, on my own. But no one could have. Chris would have had to hire and involve a lot of people as well.

Unfortunately, I didn't realize how true that was for quite a while. I kept pushing myself to do more, to prove that I was worthy, and to turn my grief into something useful. There was so much to do that even when people stepped up to help, I tried to keep most of the burden to myself. I kept feeling that I had to do more, and that it all had to be perfect.

After several months of nonstop work, a friend offered to let the kids and me stay with his family for a few days. It was the first vacation we'd had since Chris died.

His house is located on the coast in a beautiful, parklike setting. It was very peaceful, and with his family around, I felt a load off my shoulders. For the first time in months, I could sleep for ten, twelve hours, not worry about the kids, not worry about anything.

But amid all the peace, I couldn't entirely escape my sadness. One morning I was out walking and suddenly felt as if I were being pushed down into a hole. My friend's adult daughter happened to see me and asked what was wrong.

“I just realized that Chris doesn't really belong to me anymore,” I told her. Tears were rolling down my face. “He belongs to everyone, and I've lost that part of him that was mine.”

“I have chills all over my body,” she said. “This has never happened to me before, but I feel Chris wants me to tell you something.
He'll always be yours.”

While we had buried Chris, one important task related to his grave remained: picking a headstone.

That turned out to be harder than I would have imagined. There were so many choices that finding the exact right one became a daunting task. It wasn't just me I had to satisfy; the kids had to have a say.

“Mom, Daddy's stone is going to be big,” said Angel. “I want it really big.”

Maybe she was concerned that it would be on the ground and she wouldn't be able to see it, or find it easily. But she really didn't have an explanation; she just knew what she wanted. And if it was important to her, it was important to me.

To help us get an idea of the different possibilities, the officials at the cemetery took us across the grounds. I was impressed by Coach Tom Landry's stone, which was navy blue with silver specks that sparkled when hit just right by the sun. Not only was it beautiful; Landry was a legend among Cowboy fans—something Chris would have appreciated.

Still, there was something about the color that didn't quite suit Chris, and I began to worry that it might be too close to Coach Landry's. So when Gilbert Beall, the artist who would prepare the stone, offered to show me some other possibilities, I gladly accepted. We went to another cemetery where he pointed out a somewhat similar stone in dark green. Like Coach Landry's, it's from Scandinavia and has a subtle sparkle. It's a handsome, stately rock. Dark green was Chris's favorite color; it reminded me of hunting and nature, which of course Chris loved.

It was also very expensive. But of all the things I might spend money on, my husband's final resting place was the most deserving.

The design—it hasn't been finished as I'm writing this—has elegant trim work that reminded me of the trim on our house. But it also has a simplicity to it that for me speaks of humility. The artist is doing a relief of Chris, based on Chris's favorite portrait of himself: in camo in Iraq atop rubble. It was one of the few pictures of himself he actually liked. On my side—not to be occupied for many, many years—there will be a relief of the kids' and my hands together. It will be a lasting symbol of our lives together.

Little things assume immense importance when they are associated with death. You focus on things that seem irrational—except at the moment.

We had to choose a specific location and position for his grave. There was a beautiful spot on the hill that would have let him face the flag, but the arrangement would have meant placing his head below his feet.

I couldn't do that.

I ended up choosing a spot at the bottom of a hill, on a piece of flat land near a stream.

Still, not everything was perfect. A politician was going to be buried nearby.

“Could you make sure there's someone between Chris and the politician?” I asked. “He really wasn't fond of them.”

You just want to keep taking care of the person you love.

As the months went on, I couldn't shake the feeling that Chris was still somehow with us. Maybe it was the depression; maybe it was grief. Maybe something else.

Feeling down and empty, I chance to look across the room and think I catch a glimpse of him.

I go to a restaurant with the kids and sit at a table. A while later I look up and swear Angel is sitting on Chris's lap.

I take a walk and from the corner of my eye see him in his camouflage jacket walking beside me.

He's in a crowd, or standing across the parking lot, or lurking nearby in the shadows.

TELLING CHRIS'S STORY, AND OURS

American Gun
was scheduled for publication around Father's Day 2013. Meeting the deadlines was an incredible effort—toward the end, we were working around the clock, every day of the week. But finally we finished. The only thing that remained was the selling.

The publisher had originally planned for Chris to do publicity, much as he had done on
American Sniper
. But without him there, they asked me to fill in. While they expected some interest in the book and its tales about American history, they knew that the media would be far more interested in my story—how I was coping with Chris's death.

I felt honored that people cared.

I'd done some interviews with Chris when
American Sniper
came out, but this was different; I was on my own. It was a coming-out party, in a way, the first time I'd spoken publicly about Chris for any length since his death.

I wanted the book to do well, not only to honor Chris but to earn back the advance the publisher had given him for it. But I also saw the promotion efforts as a chance to talk about different issues facing veterans, especially PTSD. I wanted to make it clear that, barring special circumstances, veterans with PTSD are not threats to the rest of us. And I wanted to spread Chris's idea about small gestures of support meaning a great deal to veterans who have come home from war.

The publisher thought I could use security to accompany me, and we turned to V, who'd been on the first book tour. I talked about the plans for the media and book tour with Jennifer a short time later; she'd helped arrange for some media training to prep me for the more emotional points.

She asked if I was okay.

“Yes,” I said. “I feel really confident.”

“Good. I'm going with you.”

“No, no, I'm fine.”

“Of course you are. I'm still going with you.”

It became kind of a running joke with my friends that summer—I'd tell them I was fine to do something on my own, and they'd show up for support. Then I'd turn around and thank them profusely when I was done, because truthfully I couldn't have gotten through without them there.

The arrangement was tricky for V and Jennifer—normally a bodyguard won't travel with someone related to them, because they tend to be a distraction. But there were no incidents anywhere, including New York, where I was joined by Harper publicist Sharyn Rosenblum and Jim for part of the time.

Sharyn had handled the arrangements for
American Sniper
and developed a deep connection with Chris and me. By now she was more friend than publicist, and I was glad to have her along as an advisor.

Bill O'Reilly agreed to have me on, in a kind of reprise of Chris's appearance. Bill had defended Chris after the Jesse Ventura suit was filed, and I think he was genuinely distressed by Chris's death.

That didn't make it any easier to do the show. I mean,
Bill O'Reilly.

We arrived early. In makeup, I kept telling myself to be confident. The others kept giving me thumbs-up signs, and Sharyn was very positive, but when the producer came to get me, I felt my throat tighten.

I'm losing it, I thought while walking out of the green room.

I stopped in the hall and waited, trying not to show my panic to the producer.

He disappeared into the studio. I stood there, breathing slowly—or rather, trying to breathe slowly. Mostly, I wasn't breathing at all.

Sharyn appeared next to me.

“Take an extra water in with you,” she suggested, handing me the bottle.

I'm not sure why she thought that would work, but I nodded.

“One minute,” said the producer from the doorway.

At that instant I absolutely could not go on. I couldn't even move—which was fortunate, because if I could have moved, I would have run out of the building, probably all the way back to Texas.

The producer prompted me again, gently adding that I could take my time; they were going to tape rather than air the spot live. Somehow I managed to move myself in the direction he was pointing. I entered the studio and saw Bill sitting at his television desk, waiting. That psyched me up—for half a second. Then the urge to run was joined by other, even less attractive urges emanating from my stomach. I clamped my mouth shut and walked silently to the guest's chair.

Bill is not chatty before interviews, but that was a good thing—my mouth still wasn't working. The producer must have seen something in my face—sheer panic, most likely—and he hopped over to calm me down. I have no recollection of what he said or did, or how my mouth finally started working. I just know I took some sort of breath, turned to Bill, and said something along the lines of “I'm ready.”