American Wife (36 page)

I've heard that general idea in different versions and permutations. Chris talked about the kids and me moving on if he died at war. Still, the idea of “moving on” breaks my heart. I still love him. I still feel married to him.

I don't want people to not see the ring and think, She's over it. She doesn't love him anymore.

But beyond the ring, does the pain have to be intense to prove that I loved him, and love him still?

I was finally reaching a point where I knew that was illogical.

More: I felt it was wrong. Pain proves nothing.

Both sides of my brain, logic and emotion, realized that continued suffering isn't the way to honor Chris. It's certainly not what the marriage was about. The marriage, even in its imperfect moments, was about support and love. It was a no-pain zone.

So what of its ultimate symbol? Keeping the ring on my finger meant what? Denial? But taking it off meant what?

Acceptance?

I accept his death, but I don't accept that what we had is over. The ring, and the love, remain important—even if the relationship has changed.

I removed the ring from my left ring finger to recognize that Chris was gone, and that, on earth, our relationship had changed. Then I placed it on my right to symbolize the lasting nature of our love.

It felt awkward and strange. And sad.

Not long afterward, I turned forty.

All grown up.

Bubba was born the day before I turned thirty. Ever since then, I haven't really cared about celebrating my own birthday. I have a lot of fun planning his parties; there's no need for something big to mark mine. In fact, my biggest present each year is spending time with the kids. Maybe that has made it easier for the years to slip by without much fanfare.

But forty didn't slip past; it was too big a milestone. Two of my best friends saw to that, taking me out to a nice restaurant for dinner. It was splendid—I didn't want to do anything else.

On the one hand, the birthday itself was no big deal. The number, though . . . Well, it does make me sound older, I have to admit. Psychologically, there's a huge gap between “late thirties” and “oh no, forty!”

On the other hand, I think that instead of feeling
old
, I'm feeling surer of myself, and maybe more mature—
mature
being a good thing, not a synonym for
senile.

Wiser.

Calmer, sometimes. Though that's still very much a struggle.

The decade that had passed had been an incredible one, both for good and bad. Who would ever have predicted all that happened in my thirties: I had children, moved to Texas, watched Chris become famous, endured his loss, struggled with court battles, worked to start a charity . . .

I flew around the country, made incredible friends, got a chance to inspire others . . .

What will my forties hold?

Less drama, I hope. No tragedies would be wonderful. But more of the other things that the thirtysomething me enjoyed: friends, family, helping others.

One thing did strike me, however, as I considered my thirties:
Maybe it's a blessing that we don't know what the future holds.

CRAFT AND THE HOUSE

Jesse was only one of the legal combatants I had to endure in 2014. In some ways, the fight over Craft and the future of Chris's name and trademarks was even more difficult—it involved the future as well as the past.

Not to mention my home.

Kyle Bass had told many people—and me—that he was giving me the house Chris and I had lived in, meaning that he was forgiving the mortgage and renouncing any claims. He told me to stop paying the mortgage but to keep up with the taxes—an arrangement that was more than fair.

Somewhere he changed his mind. I have to wonder if the house became just another pawn in the battle over Craft and the rights to Chris's name and trademarks.

Or not “just another.” It was an especially emotional one for me. And important: It was our family home.

Sometime after Chris died, one of his friends said something offhanded about us having to leave our house. I was shocked, and demanded to know why.

“Because a ghost lives there,” he said.

He was speaking metaphorically about all of our memories. But that was exactly why I did
not
want to leave. I still felt Chris very strongly there, and I didn't want to lose that.

By the fall of 2014, I realized that I feel Chris strongly everywhere I go. He's so much a part of me that I can't lose him. Physical places may suggest memories, but that's all they do: suggest. The experiences are already deeply embedded in my brain and soul.

So by the time it became obvious that the best way to move past the ugliness was to offer to give up the house, I had already reconciled myself to the fact that I didn't need the physical structure to stay close to Chris. It still hurt to leave for many, many reasons, principle being one of them:
When is a promise not a promise?
But I've learned, painfully, that I can't control what other people do, much less what they think. I have to do what's best for myself and our children.

The negotiations stretched on for weeks. I wanted peace, but it was long in coming.

One of the most difficult things to accept for me—and maybe most women—is the fact that not everyone likes me. It's impossible to please everyone, whether in a lawsuit or in everyday life.

I've always had trouble with that. I want people to like me. I have since I was a little girl on the playground.

That just can't happen. And it was painfully obvious here, even though no one got into an actual fistfight with me.

Actually, I would have preferred a fistfight. It would have ended sooner.

But I'm evolving, I guess. I finally feel I've earned the right not to care what other people think.

Did I mention I turned forty?

By the terms of the settlement, I was allowed to live in the house rent free until October 2015, after which point I could either purchase or rent it. In return, I paid $50,000 for Chris's .338 Lapua sniper rifle, one of the guns he used in Iraq which he had originally pledged for the down payment on the house. All of the parties released each other from various liabilities and agreed to drop their suits. I gave up trying to figure out what had happened to Craft or CIRM. We agreed to cooperate in Craft's bankruptcy proceedings, to the extent possible.

Most importantly to me, I got full, undisputed rights to Chris's name, likeness, and logo.

A painful chapter of my life was closed. Chris's dream came to an end—but a new one that I shared fully was about to become a reality.

Even before we came to a final agreement, I accepted moving as inevitable, and began looking for a new house. I briefly flirted with the idea of relocating to Austin to be near Chris's grave. It's a beautiful, interesting city, with an art district and music festivals—a fun place to live. More important, many of our friends have homes in that area. But my heart really wasn't into it: I only looked at one house there. As lovely as it was, it convinced me the city wasn't for me. If I was going to stay in Texas, it was going to be someplace where we had a little room to roam.

Weeks of searching turned up a house with a barn and a good bit of property—enough land to have horses, and some peace of mind and privacy when you take a walk. It had a come-as-you-are air, the sort of place that says kids are welcome here. I made an offer and it was instantly accepted—and just like that, we had a new home.

The business side of my brain had taken over, instantly weighing the options and pushing ahead. I didn't second-guess myself, but the idea of moving was tough for the kids. There were a lot of tears as they struggled to understand why they had to leave their home. I think that was why so much of my focus was on finding a place where they could have fun. They're tough and very resilient, but at the same time very human. I can't take away all of their pain, but if I can mitigate it even slightly, I try.

When we first looked at the house, one of the owners took us to the barn.

“Do you have horses?” he asked.

I touched Angel. “No,” I said. “But we want to have horses.”

I could have stopped there, but I also felt obliged to move on.

“My husband knew horses,” I said. “But he's gone now. We're going to have to learn on our own.”

HAPPINESS

In my heart, we're four.

Day to day, there are only three of us. I feel so close to the kids, closer than ever; I know their rhythms and what they need.

But part of me realizes that if I do my job right, some day they'll grow up and leave. They'll marry and belong to someone else.

It's not easy to accept, but it's something all parents deal with.

A friend of mine who's a pediatrician says that she's been amazed by her kids at every stage of their lives. It hasn't always been easy to accept their independence, or stand by and watch them struggle, but they have grown into wonderful young adults.

“It is what you make of it,” she says. “You either make the adjustments and grow with them. Or you'll be miserable, and so will they.”

She has practical advice. The best: Be interested in what they're interested in. When her daughter was hitting the teen years, she started asking her to download the top ten songs on her playlist; my friend would listen to them as she worked out. It sounds like such a simple thing, but it gave them something to talk about and share.

More advice:

“Parents assume that when a kid—especially a boy—gets older and things get a little awkward, that they don't want to be hugged anymore,” she says. “But they're the same people. And if you stop talking to them or hugging them—at night, when you're not embarrassing them in front of others—you will be disappointed. Your teenager is still the same kid they were when they were little. They're just going through different things. It's your job to stay strong and still believe in the relationship.”

You have to tell them, “I love you no matter what. I will love you always. We're always going to be good. Even as you change and grow up. Even when you're independent.”

In many ways, I have it easy now with the kids. They're still in elementary school; the teenage years will surely have their own challenges. I've tried to stay involved in their lives, though my participation in school events has declined because of my other commitments. I can't be the supermom who volunteers for every class trip anymore. But I do chaperone when I can, and one of my happiest days recently was watching Bubba give a class report.

It's been hard to realize and even harder to accept that that's enough.

The kids' emotional growth won't suffer if they don't have the most frightening zombie costume in their class? No? Really?

Can I get that in writing?

Things that are vital to their success in life as well as school—those things we still do. Chores, required reading, homework, of course—those are all still there.

And we still thank God every night for the things that mean a lot to us. We always say what we are grateful for that day—and from that, I've learned a lot about what's important to them, and I think they've learned the same from me.

One of the most remarkable things about children is their compassion. Mine continue to pray for others every night. Maybe it comes from the DNA. Maybe it comes from having been through adversity. But it's a wonderful quality, one that I hope stays with them as they grow.

Recently we went to a circus. It was fun to watch the kids enjoy the clowns and the animals and all the other acts. I used to lose myself like that. No more.

Why can't I find that pure joy, I wondered, watching them. I just don't have it in my heart.

Had Chris been there, I would have felt it was a perfect family moment, like that Christmas before he died. Now, of course, it's more complicated.

I'm not going to have that exact feeling ever again. But I sense that I can have a different joy—not better, but still joyful. I just have more mud to get through.

Some people tell me that I have to finally close the chapter that includes Chris. But I think, or at least I hope, that I can have it both ways—that he can join me in that new chapter, even if our relationship now has been changed.

The kids are not perfect. And while they are best friends in a brother-and-sister kind of way, they don't
always
get along. Every so often—rarely—they remind me they're just like other kids. But it makes them all the more precious to me.

Not all that long after Chris died, they were playing in another part of the house when I heard a commotion. I didn't think much of it until I called Bubba over for something a few minutes later. It took him a few minutes to answer.

“What were you doing?” I asked when he arrived.

“You're not going to like it.”

Uh-oh.

“Tell me what you were doing,” I insisted.

“I'd rather show you.”

Oh-kay.

He led me to his sister's room. There on the painted door were the words
ANGEL
SUCKS
!! written with a Sharpie pen. The exclamation marks ran all the way across the wood.

What was the appropriate punishment?

He scrubbed for twenty minutes, without getting the words off.

“So what are we going to do?” I asked finally, inspecting the not entirely blurred result.

“We could hang a sign over it,” Bubba suggested.

“Okay. Make a sign. But it better be something nice.”

I came back a little while later. He'd hung a very nice sign:
ANGEL
IS
THE
VERY
BEST
SISTER
EVER
.

“Aw,” I said, truly impressed. “Do you think that?”

“Nope,” he answered, truthful to a fault. “But you said it had to be nice.”