American Wife (21 page)

American Sniper
has now been translated into twenty-four languages—from Chinese to Serbian.
(Motion picture artwork © 2014 Warner Bros. Entertainment, Inc.)

The kids sharing a happy moment together at Rough Creek. With God's grace and perseverance, we carry on and manage to find moments of joy.

F
ebruary 2, 2013, was a Saturday like many of our Saturdays. Until it wasn't.

WORRIED AND WORSE

Around two thirty that afternoon, a friend called and asked if we wanted to join her and her husband for a birthday dinner at an area restaurant.

“I don't know if we can,” I told her. “Chris is out and—”

“Call him and ask if he wants to come.”

“I don't want to bother him,” I said, explaining that he and Chad Littlefield were with a veteran and probably in the middle of talking to him about how hard it can be to adjust to civilian life. They'd been gone a few hours, and I didn't expect them back for a while more.

“Oh, go ahead, call. He won't care.”

I knew she was right, and so I called.

Chris answered pretty quick.

“How's it going?” I asked.

“Fine.”

I could tell it wasn't.

“I'll make this quick,” I said. “I just called to know if you wanted to go out for Cheryl's birthday tonight.”

“Yeah, that's great.”

“All right. I'm going to let you go.”

“Yup.” He was irritated about something for sure.

Around four, Leanne Littlefield called me. She and Chad had planned to take her dad and mom out to celebrate her father's retirement from the fire department.

“Have you heard from Chad or Chris?” she asked.

“No.”

“Chad said he'd be home by now. And he hasn't answered his cell.”

“The reception out there is bad sometimes,” I told her. “I'll call Chris and see if I can get him.”

“All right. Call me back.”

I texted Chris, but didn't get a response. I went and picked up Bubba, dropped off Angel's friend, and came back home.

“Guess what, guys,” I told them. “We're gonna go out to dinner with Cheryl and the family!”

“Awesome,” said Bubba. “This is the best day of my life!”

We cleaned up and got ready. It was unusual for Chris not to answer my text. Still, there were plenty of reasons he might not, starting with bad cell reception.

Chris's terse reply earlier made me think that the veteran, Eddie Routh, might be in crisis mode, maybe even ready to hurt himself. Suicide was a horrible side effect of the war and PTSD. Chris had talked to a couple of guys close to suicide before. It was heartbreaking to think about young men ready to throw their lives away because they weren't getting adequate care. It could take quite a lot of persuasion to get them off the ledge and seek the help they needed.

Leanne called again. “Have you heard anything?”

“No.”

“Damn it—I have to leave now to get to Dallas. He's going to be way late.”

“I'm sure they're okay,” I said. “Maybe they busted a tire in a no-reception zone.”

That was bordering on wishful if not desperate thinking. By now it was getting dark. It was unlike Chris to be this late without calling or texting. I went outside and sent him another text.

Are you OK? I'm getting worried.

I knew if he got that, he would text right back that he was fine.

I hated to share my fears with him. But today . . .

I waited, but there was no reply.

Finally, I decided the best thing to do would be to take the kids and let him join us at the restaurant later. Four other neighboring families had been recruited for the impromptu party. We all happened to go out at roughly the same time, and stopped to chat out on the driveway.

I had just gotten the kids in the SUV when a police car drove down the road. It was Mark, a friend of Chris's, who often stopped by to say hi and pass the time.

“Hey, Mark,” I said, going over to him as he pulled up. “Everything okay?”

“Have you heard from Chris?”

“No. Mark, what's going on?”

“Have you seen his truck?”

“No.”

Externally, I was very calm. But inside I could feel myself starting to panic. These were not normal questions. No way.

“What's going on?” I asked again.

“I need to know where his truck is.”

“Mark, what is going on?”

“I've heard he's been hurt,” Mark told me. “I need his license plate number.”

A hard breath. “Okay.” Another hard breath.

I went across the street to one of our friends. As she came over, I felt the panic and fear and emotion surging inside me.

“What's going on?” she asked.

“I—I think Chris has been hurt.”

I caught myself before I lost it. I could see the rest of the neighbors looking over. A tear or two slipped past my guard.

“I want you with me, okay?” I told her.

“Yes, of course.”

“Just you.”

“Yes, wait.”

I took out my cell phone and called another friend. “Could the kids spend the night with you?”

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“I just need you to do that.”

“I'm on my way.” She was eight and a half months pregnant and had four kids, but she didn't even waste time asking for details. She must have heard something in my voice that said I needed her. She was there within five minutes.

I went in and grabbed the kids' PJs.

“Hey guys,” I said coming back out. “You can have a sleepover!”

“Mom, is everything okay?” asked Bubba.

“I don't know,” I said. “I think so. I just have to work on some things.”

“Okay.”

“Mom, is everything okay?” Bubba asked again.

“I think it is.”

My friend came and the kids left. I went inside with Mark and found the information about the truck.

“And you haven't seen it today?” he asked again.

“Not since Chris left.”

“I want you to stay inside.”

“Chris has been shot?” I said. I don't know why.

“That's what I heard.”

Repeating these memories make them fly back. Time compresses, and I am once more in my house in February, fearing the worst but not willing to admit it. My time as a SEAL wife had taught me that you never to go to that worst place emotionally, until you are forced to.

Even in the most deliberate telling, the memories never run cold. They always burn, shaking my voice and curdling my chest.

I called my mom.

“Mom, I can't talk, okay?” I said quickly.

“Okay,” she answered.

“Chris has been shot. I don't know where he is. I want you to pray for him. Dad, too. I just need you to pray.”

“Oh my God. OK, honey, we will be praying.”

“I'll call you when I know something.”

“Okay.”

I got off the phone. My cell phone began exploding with text messages and calls from people asking what was going on. I didn't know what to answer, and so I didn't.

Okay, he's been shot, I thought. Probably in the stomach. Gut wounds are terrible, but he'll make it. This sounds really bad, but it's survivable.

I knew if he'd been shot in the hand or the leg, I'd have heard from him by now. So it had to be something a little more serious—but not
too
serious. I didn't think, or didn't allow myself to think, that it would be anything worse. I just couldn't.

We can get through this, Chris. We've gotten through so much already.

People started coming into the house. Three men I didn't know walked into my kitchen.

Who are you? Why are you here?

I found out later that they were pastors from local churches. I'm sure someone told me, but it didn't register, maybe because that would have led to the inevitable conclusion that Chris was dead.

I floated along for a while in something like denial. Harsh reality pounded at the doors and every window, but I refused to acknowledge it.

Sorrow telescopes time and rearranges it. Things that happened quickly seem in memory to have taken ages. The order becomes jumbled—which thing did I do first, which next, what then?

I called Leanne. She was at the restaurant, still expecting Chad to show up any moment.

“Leanne, Chris is hurt. His truck is missing. I don't know what's going on.”

“Oh my God, Taya,” she said. “What's happening? Where's Chad?”

“I don't know. I'll call you as soon as I find out.”

“I'm leaving Dallas right now and coming home.”

“Okay.”

The phone rang as soon as I hung up. It was Debbie Lee, Marc Lee's mother.

“Hey Debbie, what's up?” I said. She had texted, and was now calling. I didn't want to be rude, but I knew I needed to keep the line open.

“I—I heard about Chris, is it true?”

“What have you heard?” I asked.

“I heard . . . bad things.”

“What bad things?”

“Uh . . .”

“Damn it, Debbie! What have you heard?”

Debbie took a deep breath. “I heard he was killed.”

“Okay. Well, I hadn't heard that. I'll let you know if I hear.”

I got off the phone angry— How dare people say that! You NEVER go to that place. Until . . .'

Chris is dead?

A friend came in. “Taya, Mark wants to talk to you.”

“Okay.”

I went down the hall, where Mark and another police officer were waiting.

I had heard so many times before about people who got horrible news falling to their knees or passing out, and I wondered how I would react. Now here I was.

“Mark?”

I looked at him. From what I remember, his eyes were downcast; he stood strong in his uniform, and yet he looked crestfallen, defeated.

He nodded his head. “I'm sorry.”

“He's dead?” I asked. “Chris is dead?”

He nodded again.

The tears started. “Mark, are you sure?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

The tears came in a downpour.

“Mark, Mark, I'm sorry. But I have to know—are you one hundred percent sure? Is there any way you are wrong? Any possibility you are wrong? Before I go down this road—are you one hundred percent sure?”

How many other times had I stared at this scene from afar, thinking that Chris was dead or dying? How many times had I rehearsed myself for the possibility of the deepest, darkest sorrow?

But that was ages ago, another lifetime. The time of danger had passed. We had gotten to a place where the only thing before us was happiness and fun and growing old together.

But it was now that my deepest fears had come true. Now that I stood in the hall, grief welling inside me, tears flowing.

“Are you one hundred percent sure?” I demanded. “Are you one hundred percent sure?”