Johanna rose and went back into the hall. She paused to look in on Harper, who sat in his chair, unmoving and unaware of her fleeting presence. Then she continued on to Papa’s room. He was awake now, and had pulled himself up into a half-sitting position, propped up on the layers of pillows at the head of his bed. Thank God he had regained some use of his left arm and leg, though they were still extremely unsteady.
Oscar had helped Johanna build the special bed rails that kept him from tumbling out at night. It looked like a cage—a cage such as his own body and brain had become.
“Papa,” she said softly, closing the door behind her. “How are you feeling?”
He peered at her, his left eyelid slightly sagging over once-bright blue eyes. “Johanna?”
“I’m here.” She sat on the stool beside the bed and took his left hand. It shook a little, the tendons and veins carved in sharp relief under the fragile, spotted skin. “Did you sleep well?”
“Hmmm,” he said. He patted her hand with his right one. “You look tired, mein Walkürchen. Working too hard.” His words were slurred, but comprehensible. That, too, had improved over time. “What day is it?”
“Wednesday, Papa.”
“Good. Good.” His bushy white brows drew together. “Where is my schedule, Johanna? I can’t remember now if it’s my day to see Andersen.”
“Don’t worry about that, Papa. I’ll see to it.”
“Ja. You always do.” He chuckled hoarsely. “Where would I be without my girl…” His chin sank onto his chest. Johanna rose to adjust his pillows.
“Are you hungry, Papa? Some nice fresh eggs for breakfast?”
“I don’t know.” He moved his good hand irritably. “Have you any strudel?”
She smiled, swallowing. He’d always had a terrible sweet tooth. “Not today, Papa. But I can have Mrs. Daugherty bring some from town, perhaps, tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t bother. I can get it myself—” He struggled to rise, found the bed rails in his way, and tried to move them. The effort exhausted him. “Where are my clothes?”
She fetched the loose, comfortable clothing she’d had made for him, removed the bed rail, and helped him dress. It was a slow process, though not as slow as the bathing, which would wait until this evening. She encouraged him to do as much dressing as he could on his own, but the buttons always defeated him. While his feet were still bare, she checked them for sores or swelling, then pulled on his stockings and his soft shoes.
Such painstaking care took several hours each day, time taken from the patients, but she could not pass it on to Mrs. Daugherty. Except for the housekeeping and cooking, which took all of Bridget’s considerable energy, Johanna could trust no one but herself to do that which must be done at the Haven.
When she was finished with Papa’s feet, she worked his left arm gently through a series of exercises, and did the same for his leg. He bore it passively, adrift in his own world.
“Send in my next patient, Johanna,” he said. “It’s Dieter Roth, isn’t it? He’s a difficult one, but we’re coming along.” He patted her arm. “We’re coming along.”
Dieter Roth was one of their former patients at the asylum, who had been helped enormously by Papa’s techniques and gone home before their move to California. But Papa often lost track of time, confusing the past with the present.
“We’ve a new patient, Papa,” she said, fetching a glass of water from the pitcher on the washstand. “He’s a dipsomaniac, by all appearances. I haven’t treated one like him before.”
“There is no reason why inebriety can’t be treated as well as any other form of insanity,” he said with sudden clarity. “The influences that drive a man to drink are not as simple as some would have us think. I have never believed it is merely a weakness of character.”
“Nor do I,” Johanna said, her heart lightening. “I haven’t taken on a new patient in some time, however. I’m not sure how much he can pay, or if we can afford another charity case.”