"Mrs. Poole, there is nothing we can do for you. You can keep calling, but I'll have the same answer I did last time you called, and the time before that. Either there'll be an improvement, or there won't be. There's nothing we can do for him or you," Dr. Hanson replied tersely over the phone. I wanted to heave in despair.

"There has to be something. A pill... A procedure... Something... Anything. He's awful. I don't know what do anymore. I can't do this on my own," I quietly cried into the phone, again, to the rehabilitation doctor.

I sat in my closet, away from the door, hoping any sound would be muffled. This was my new hiding spot. A spot where I would soundlessly make phone calls without anyone hearing me. This was my spot to come to when I needed a minute to myself to think or cry.

Today it was my spot to call the doctor, again. To beg for any assistance. Any help would be better than no help. Justin was getting worse; he was changing right before my eyes.

The bank called earlier to advise me that the mortgage hadn't been paid. Justin had promptly gone back to work and resumed paying the bills. Which I had been grateful for. The amount of bills we had was astonishing and how he even kept up with all of them amazed me.

Yet this morning I'd got the phone call about the mortgage payment being fifteen days late. It was so unlike Justin. During my quick takeover of the bills I had seen how dedicated and strict he was about paying on time. His schedule was set; dictated in his planner.

Worried, I had called Justin quickly at the office, to make sure everything was okay. His simple reply was, "I'll take care of it. You'll still have your big house to live in," then he hung up, leaving me gaping at the phone in my hand.

I had prayed so hard that this call to the doctor, the third one this week, would have the answers. Any kind of help would have eased my mind.

Justin was ruthlessly angry, and the thought of him coming home from work scared me. His eyes bore into my soul, leaving me breathless in a way I never thought I would feel. I found myself wishing he would work longer hours or even have to go out of town for work.

"Mrs. Poole... Jessica, have you contacted his parents? He seemed to respond positively when his father was around. Perhaps they can help you? We did all we could do while he was here. Perhaps his family practitioner can prescribe him something?"

"Dr. Hanson, please. I don't know what to do. He's changed. He's not my husband anymore," I pleaded with him over the phone.

"We told you there was a chance of behavioral differences. We warned you about the negative results of a brain injury. Did you read the booklet we gave you?" he asked, some annoyance filling his voice.

Anger flared up inside of me. I hated it because it caused me to snap at everyone. I was lost in a new world. I missed the calming effect Justin once had on me; the way he brought me back down to Earth and showed me ways to face my problems.

"I read the stupid pamphlet. I've read it every day for the past sixty-four days. You didn't fix him. This is your fault. It was your job to fix his brain, and you failed. Instead, you let a raging bastard come home. And now all you can say is call his parents? Thank you for all the help Dr. Hanson, you've been so generous with your time. And your suggestions are so very doctor like. Maybe I'll call a lawyer... since you know... you sent him home twenty-eight days after a brain injury. What was it the nurse said... That's right: y'all needed his bed," I raged into the phone. White knuckles shined through my pale skin as I gripped the phone tighter in my fist.

There was so much more I wanted to scream at the smug doctor who I knew was sitting behind his large desk in his muggy office toying with a pencil. Just like he had been every time I had gone to see him during Justin's brief stay at the rehabilitation center.

My palm itched to reach into the phone and wrap my hand around his throat and squeeze. I gasped at the image, surprise taking over me at the rage I felt. Who am I becoming? I soundlessly asked myself.

I would never call a lawyer; the words had just popped out of my mouth. It wasn't the doctor's fault he had a brain injury. When had I become a person who blamed others?

"Dr. Hanson... I'm sorry. I just don't know what to do," I said, a break in my voice.

"Mrs. Poole, there is no need to attack me. I did my job. You implied you were capable of taking care of his needs. You need to seek out professional help elsewhere. My services cannot help you. Please refrain from calling my office again. Good day," he curtly replied. His voice disappeared into a silent nothingness that rang loudly in my ears.

Yes, good day, doctor Hanson, I said in my head as I stared at the closet wall, my vision clouding over with tears.

Loneliness plagued me for weeks. More so after Justin came home. He wanted nothing to do with me. After the church incident, he started sleeping on the couch and falling asleep while watching TV long after everyone else had gone to bed. The TV was his companion; my replacement.

The growing distance between us stung, bruising my heart with its pointy barb. I'd never felt so abandoned. I was alone in the battle to help my husband, and I had no idea what to do.

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