23. Alison
My father is in jail.
He’s been there three weeks, waiting for the state to try him for murdering my mother. Behind that case sits a federal one, built from years of secrets and names and money — evidence Mom dragged into the light before she died. Roman O’Toole may spend the rest of his life behind bars.
And he is still fighting me for my brother.
Not because he can take care of Tobias. Not because Tobias wants him. Not because a single person in this courtroom believes handing a six-year-old to a man accused of throwing his mother down a flight of marble stairs would be anything but a nightmare.
Roman is fighting because Tobias is his. That’s how my father sees people. As things he owns. Mom was his wife. I was his daughter. Tobias is his son. Even from a cell, he wants the final say.
“Ms. O’Toole is eighteen years old.” My father’s attorney stands at the far table, one hand resting on a stack of papers.
I sit beside Arthur. Ryan is directly behind me with Walter and Cassandra, Darla beside them.
“She’s completing her senior year of high school. She has never lived independently. She has no career, no residence of her own, and no reliable income.”
My fingers curl together beneath the table.
“Ms. O’Toole is also pregnant.”
My other hand goes straight to my stomach before I can stop it. I hate that I do it. I hate more that I feel like I have to defend doing it.
“She’s unmarried. The father of her unborn child is also eighteen, and Ms. O’Toole currently resides in the home of his parents, Walter and Cassandra Harrington.” He glances toward us. “The Harringtons provide her with housing, transportation, financial support, and assistance with Tobias.”
Assistance. Like Tobias appeared in my life three weeks ago and the Harringtons are teaching me what to do with him.
“None of this is meant to diminish Ms. O’Toole’s relationship with her brother. No one disputes that they’re close.”
Close. I know the exact pitch Tobias’s voice hits right before he cries.
I know he lies about brushing his back teeth because he hates how the toothbrush feels on his gums. I know he won’t touch scrambled eggs if they’re the least bit wet, and that he wants the blue cup when his stomach hurts, and that he goes quiet in the seconds before he gets scared. But sure. We’re close.
“The question before this court isn’t whether Alison O’Toole loves Tobias. It’s whether an eighteen-year-old, pregnant, high-school student who remains financially and practically dependent on another family should be awarded full custody of a six-year-old child.”
The judge looks up from whatever’s in front of him. “And what is your client’s proposed alternative, Counsel?”
Roman’s attorney straightens. “Mr. O’Toole opposes a permanent transfer of custody at this time. Given that the criminal allegations remain unresolved, he maintains that the more appropriate course is temporary placement with a suitable adult, pending the outcome of those proceedings.”
My heart stops. Suitable adult. Not me. Somebody else. Anywhere else.
Arthur is on his feet before I fully register the chair moving. “Your Honor, Tobias isn’t awaiting placement. He’s living with his sister in a stable home.”
“I understand that, Mr. Walsh.”
“And Roman O’Toole is awaiting trial for the murder of Tobias’s mother.”
“Mr. Walsh.” Arthur’s jaw tightens, but he stops. The judge turns to Roman’s attorney. “Your client is incarcerated.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Pending trial for the murder of Jane O’Toole. The mother of the child whose placement he wishes to keep controlling.”
A pause. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“And there’s a pending federal prosecution as well.”
“There are ongoing federal proceedings.”
The judge looks over his glasses. “That wasn’t my question.”
The attorney takes a breath. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Yet Mr. O’Toole’s position is that his six-year-old son should remain in temporary custodial limbo while all of that plays out, rather than have custody awarded to his adult sister.”
“His position is that the court should carefully weigh Ms. O’Toole’s present capacity before making a permanent decision.”
The judge leans back. “That I intend to do.”
Arthur sits. My heart does not slow down.
The attorney keeps going. My age. My pregnancy.
My lack of income. School. The fact that I’ve never had a home of my own.
The trauma I’ve been through. He never once calls me incapable — he’s far too good for that.
He just stacks every piece of my life into a neat little pile and waits for the judge to reach the conclusion for him. A child trying to raise a child.
When he finally sits, Arthur doesn’t stand right away. He writes something. Crosses it out.
Then leans toward me. “You okay?”
“No.”
“Good answer.”
I swallow. “Are we fucked?”
“No.” That one doesn’t take him half a second. He caps his pen. “We’re not even close.”
Then he stands.
“Your Honor, opposing counsel has spent considerable time describing what Alison O’Toole has never done.
” Arthur walks toward the first stack of exhibits.
“She’s never had her own residence. Never had a career.
Never run a household without help. All true.
And none of it answers the one factual question that actually matters here.
” He hands a document to the clerk. “Who has been raising Tobias O’Toole? ”
My breath catches.
“This is Tobias’s original pediatric intake paperwork.
Jane O’Toole is listed as his mother.” He turns the page.
“Alison O’Toole appears directly beneath her, as an additional authorized caregiver and emergency contact.
” Another document. “Updated pediatric records. Jane. Alison.” Another. “Dental records. Jane. Alison.”
He keeps going — school enrollment, authorized pickup, emergency-contact authorization — not fast, not dramatic, just one after another until the two names start to sound like a heartbeat. Mom. Me. Mom. Me. Mom. Me.
“Six years of records.” He lays the last one down. “Wherever an institution asked for Tobias’s parent, Jane O’Toole appears. And wherever Jane was permitted to name another person authorized to care for, collect, or make decisions about Tobias — she named Alison.”
Roman’s attorney rises. “Your Honor, Ms. O’Toole was a minor for nearly that entire period.”
“Yes,” Arthur says.
The attorney pauses, thrown that Arthur agreed. “That limits the legal significance of her inclusion.”
“A fourteen-year-old emergency contact doesn’t become a parent, no. No one’s claiming she did.” Arthur picks up one of the forms. “What it establishes is that Jane O’Toole, over and over, chose the same person.”
“Her daughter. A member of the household. Her name on family paperwork is hardly extraordinary.”
“Once isn’t.” Arthur gestures at the stack. “This is.”
The attorney starts to answer, but Arthur keeps going, and his voice sharpens.
“And Alison’s age strengthens the pattern rather than weakening it. She wasn’t fourteen building a custody case. She wasn’t fifteen anticipating litigation. She wasn’t sixteen manufacturing evidence to use after her mother’s death.”
The room goes still.
“These documents exist because a little boy needed a pediatrician. A dentist. A school. Someone allowed to pick him up. And every single time, Jane wrote Alison’s name.”
The judge studies the stack. “Proceed.”
Arthur opens another folder. “The paperwork is only corroboration.”
There are six years behind those pages. Real days. Real nights. Real people who saw us.
“Dr. Brenner has treated Tobias since infancy.” He reads.
“’Jane O’Toole ordinarily accompanied Tobias to appointments.
Alison O’Toole was frequently present, and as Tobias grew older, sometimes brought him herself.
She demonstrated detailed knowledge of his medical history, his medications, his allergies, his prior reactions, and his routines.
’” I stare at the table. “’Tobias frequently sought reassurance from Alison during examinations.
When frightened, he would reach for her, or ask her to stay beside him. ’”
I remember holding his hand through stitches when he split his chin open. I was fifteen. He screamed when the doctor tried to move me away from the bed, so Mom told them to let me stay.
Arthur moves to the next statement. “Tobias’s teacher writes: ‘Jane O’Toole was his primary parent contact.
Alison was also consistently involved in his school life — she attended events, collected him when authorized, helped with assignments, knew his classroom routines.
When Tobias became ill or upset at school, he asked for one of two people.
His mother, or Ally.’” My eyes sting. “’This was true before Jane O’Toole’s death, and before I had any knowledge of the family’s legal circumstances. ’”
Then it’s my school. My teachers. One remembers me leaving early because Tobias was sick.
Another remembers him coming to an Edgewood event with me because Mom couldn’t take him and Dad wouldn’t.
My English teacher writes that I’ve sometimes built my own deadlines around things involving my brother.
Then the parents. Mrs. Palmer, who used to call me to arrange playdates. Mrs. Keller, whose yard Tobias fell out of a swing in — she couldn’t reach Mom, so she called me, and I came. Mr. Ellis, and the sleepover Tobias couldn’t finish.
Arthur reads from his statement. “’Around two in the morning, Tobias became upset and asked to go home.
When we asked who to call, he told us to call Ally.
’” I close my eyes. “’Alison arrived shortly after.
She appeared to have come straight from bed.
Tobias went to her immediately. She held him while we gathered his things, and took him home without a word of complaint about being woken. ’”
Arthur sets the statement down. “These aren’t people who started watching Alison after Jane died. They’re describing what they saw when there was nothing to prove.” Then he reaches for another page. “This statement is from Fiona O’Farrell.”