Girlish

flames shot out. After that, he decided to remove the fuel filter to see if that helped. The manual said to place the Weedwacker on the ground and pull the cord, so he placed it on the gasoline-soaked carpet and pulled the string. Flames shot out again, larger now, because without the filter the gas flowed faster, and the carpet ignited instantly. Thick, black smoke quickly filled the house and Samson couldn’t see, so he propped open the side door so the cats could escape, and made his way by feel to the front door to find the dogs. As he walked, he closed every door he passed so that he would stay oriented, thus saving the ugly bathroom. He found the dogs and brought them out with him, carrying the lab who was too scared to follow. As soon as the firemen cleared the house, he went into the garage, found the fuel filter he had removed, and threw it in the bushes so that no one could blame him for the fire. Girl was struck by the notion that he did it on purpose. It somehow made sense that her husband of four years could have been acting intentionally. If he had been depressed enough, if he had craved the adrenaline of a disaster so badly, needed it so badly, then he could have been purposefully careless, acting on a suicidal impulse, consequences be damned.

She ran into the backyard, unable to process what she had been told. She called Mother first and screamed at her incoherently over the long-distance line, demanding to know why she had moved away, demanding that she answer for not being here when Girl needed her most. They were homeless with four cats and three dogs, no credit card, and only a few hundred dollars to make it until the end of the month. Samson still spent much of each day bedridden. Girl didn’t get paid time off of work, and she knew that there was no way Samson would be able to handle all the necessary details so that they could resume their quasi-normal life.

Girl sobbed into the phone, “Why aren’t you here? Damn you for moving away!” Mother just calmly let her rant, not arguing, and after they hung up, she called a family friend to come help Girl.

Girl called the insurance company next, surprised that she reached an adjuster on a Saturday evening.

Too angry to parse her words nicely, she asked him, “Is stupidity covered?” The adjuster just laughed and assured her that they would pay, and quickly. A Red Cross truck came and gave Girl hotel and restaurant vouchers as well as phone numbers of boarding kennels for their pets. Samson vomited from the smoke he inhaled and they gave him oxygen, trying to persuade him to go to the hospital. He refused, preferring Girl to nurse him as he coughed up black chunks of phlegm and threw up for three days straight.

Samson brought the insurance policy to the hotel, smudged with soot, and he had Girl read aloud everything that was and wasn’t covered. They stayed up late while he dreamed out loud of all the money they would make from this and planned how to get the insurance company to fix his uninsured motorcycles.

The hotel pillows were too soft and the room smelled of mildew. Samson stayed up watching TV in bed with the volume on high—years of riding Harleys had left him with partial hearing loss. Girl lay on her stomach and prayed for the world to go away. Although she generally thrived on crisis, this was too much. Samson’s body smell irritated her, and his loud voice invaded her head. Sleep was her sanctuary, and as much as she craved it, it wouldn’t come.

They moved into an old apartment building—the only place that allowed them to bring all three dogs and four cats. Six months later, the house was repaired enough for them to move back in. Then Samson was arrested for another road rage incident, and this time, he was charged with a felony. Combined with the accident and house fire, Girl knew that she could never trust her husband’s judgment enough to have children with him. She had never had career goals, but only this certainty—that someday she would have children, and that she would love them into beautiful human beings who weren’t broken or scarred like she was. But more than that, he was escalating. Girl started to worry about her own safety.

Girl tried to leave Samson. She drove to Liz’s office—they might drift for years without speaking, but she knew that she could always count on her. When Liz had broken her ankle, she moved in with Girl until she could climb stairs again. Now that Girl left Samson, Liz took a day off of work and helped her move some furniture and boxes into a storage unit. But one phone call from Samson was all it took, and Girl went back, though she left her things in storage. He promised to change. He begged Girl to go back to marriage counseling. He swore he would get off the morphine, help out more around the house, lose twenty pounds if only she would give him another chance. Girl didn’t know how to say no. She yearned to leave him but she didn’t know how, and she did not think she could live with the shame of divorce. Father was on his seventh wife. Girl didn’t want to fulfill her in-laws’ expectations that she was bound to repeat her parents’ mistakes. Girl had promised Samson forever. Samson always told her, “If you think you will ever find another person who loves you as much as I do, go ahead. But you won’t. No one will ever love you like I do.” What if it were true? Girl told herself that staying was her only option, and went with him to see a therapist.

“You have two choices,” Samson said right before he walked out