Sleep will not come. One ear buried in my pillow, the other listens for the call, surely soon to be heard through the faint buzz of the intercom.

Much later (am I asleep? Awake?) I hear her call: "Jenny? ... Alan?"

We've encouraged Molly to call out our names when help is needed. It seemed more likely we'd hear her. Still, Jenny's stroke-paralyzed mother often just calls out, " ... I need to get up."

Now, far too early, I lie awake anticipating Molly's call. Finally I hear her and rise to respond. It's 4:11 in the morning. The ritual will require only minutes: Raise Molly's upper body in the powered bed; shift her feet to the floor; lift her into a standing position and, after adjusting her clothing, shift her onto the portable toilet.

A few moments together in the dimly lit bedroom. Quiet words. Then Molly will tell me she's ready to return to bed.

Readjust her clothing. Reverse the process; tuck her back in. Say goodnight. Empty the pot, wash up, and back to bed. It's a practiced ritual: One can almost perform it while asleep.

But it's hard to find sleep again after a call in the night. On too many four o'clock mornings, starkly awake, I give up and rise for the day. I'm awake long before Molly needs me, and hours later I find myself on the couch, snoring by her side.

On this four o'clock morning however, the ritual is not the same. When I reach her room, Molly is already sitting up with both feet on the floor! She's awake and alert, but there is something else — a brightness in her eyes that is unfamiliar.

I receive a brilliant smile. "You don't need to help me to the potty," she exults, the familiar slur gone from her voice. "Look!" Molly raises both arms, playfully waving her extended fingers. Her left arm, four years paralyzed, extends as high as her right!

Now she stands up — unassisted! "I'm all right now, Alan. You can turn off the monitor! Go back to sleep! I don't need to sit on the potty, and you don't need to help me get up! Isn't it wonderful?"

I don't know what to say.

She laughs at my confusion. "Oh, Alan! It's all right! You just go on back to bed now. And turn off that machine! Wait! Come here first and give me a hug!"

I do as she asks. I hug her wasted little body gently, and feel new strength in her response. "Thank you, Alan," she whispers. "You go on back and sleep easy now. And turn that monitor-thing off!"

I wander back and take my place alongside my wife's sleeping form. Sleep doesn't return at once, but perhaps I doze before remembering Molly's pointed instruction to turn off the bedside monitor.

I listen for its low buzz, but hear nothing.

But ... of course I don't hear it. It was disconnected two weeks ago and stored away in the attic.

Not long after Molly's funeral.