Listen to Ethel Rohan read 'Iron for the Soul'
Mother held the fridge door open, her knuckles yellow. Her other hand reached inside, removing a butcher's translucent plastic bag filled with calf's liver; its interior bloodied, handles double-knotted.
She handed me the meat. "Wash this."
I carried the bag by its bow to the sink. The liver was another one of Mother's "cures," full of Vitamin A and recommended by the eye specialist for her degenerating sight.
Mother withdrew her stick forearm from the fridge, her hand bloodied.
I checked the linoleum, worried that the bag had leaked blood onto the floor. Mother followed my gaze, her eyes narrowed. I hadn't spilled a drop. Satisfied, she shifted her attention back to her hand. Tsking, she rubbed her bloodied palm on the skirt of her navy housecoat, her bony hips pushing through the coat's vinyl. I brought her the soapy dishcloth. She wiped down the stained fridge shelf, and the drops of blood on the base of the appliance. I rinsed the cloth at the sink, wringing it until the hot water ran clear. The weak morning sun watched at the window, the glass dimpled and opaque. Kenny Rogers crooned from the radio: I hope you're old enough to understand, son, you don't have to fight to be a man. Inside, I sang along, wondering what girls didn't have to do to be a woman.
After I washed the liver, Mother moved next to me, reaching into the cabinet beneath the sink, removing the frying pan. She brought the pan close to her face, examining its layer of white lard. I wondered, suddenly, if Mother's eyes would turn white when she eventually went blind. The color of her eyes lightened a little every day, the blue bleeding out of them along with her sight.
Mice prints patterned the round of fat on the frying pan.
"Are those traps set?" she asked.
I peered under the sink, confirming that Dad had indeed loaded the mousetraps.
Mother pulled a spatula from the drawer and cleaned the pan. Doris Day's voice filled the kitchen. Mother and I sang along: Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be.
She placed the pan on the cooker. "Light this."
I turned the burner on. The gas hissed. I dragged the matchstick along the side of the matchbox. Finally its red tip ignited. I touched the flame to the burner, flinching when it combusted. Mother set about making two apple tarts. I helped, loving making apple tarts almost as much as eating them.
That evening, mother, father, my sister, Sylvia, and I ate our dinner mostly in silence, the kitchen thick with the smells of fried meat and onions; the livers' juices speckling our peas, pinking the boiled potatoes. I grasped at something to say, anything to mask the screech of our knives and forks on the plates, the smack of Mother's wet chewing. She was eating her liver raw for maximum goodness, something else that eye specialist had recommended. I mentioned our school's upcoming field trip to Kilmainham Jail, anything to get the conversation going for a bit. A bit was all it lasted.
Dad's eyes returned to his dinner, his lips not parting as he chewed. Sylvia and I looked across at each other, sneaked sideways glances at Mother. I wished Sylvia or Dad would say something; drown out Mother's gagging sounds. How could she get those clingy gelatinous chunks into her mouth, swallow them down into her throat? Specks of potato stuck to Dad's moustache, his nose hairs appearing and disappearing as he chewed, in and out. Hands trembling, I cut into my liver, slicing through a blood vessel. The dark blood leaked over my plate, floated my peas. I dropped my knife and fork, the last of my appetite killed.
The following week, Mother brought more liver from the butcher's, lamb's this time. Sylvia and I refused to suffer through another liver dinner. We carried the meat from the fridge and outside to our back garden, buried it deep in the dirt. Our plan didn't seem so brilliant, though, when Mother discovered the meat missing.
Once we heard her shouts from the kitchen, Sylvia and I crouched on our hands and knees behind the couch in the front room. Sylvia's face blazed with panic, her brown eyes wide, showing more white than I'd ever imagined sockets could hold. I put everything I had into my face, warning Sylvia to stay hidden, no matter what.
Mother flew into the living room a third time, demanding we give ourselves up.
She suddenly pulled back the couch, grabbing Sylvia by the hair.
I jumped at Mother, pushing back her arm, inadvertently pulling Sylvia's hair harder. Sylvia yowled. Mother raised her free arm, whipping at Sylvia with Dad's black leather belt. I caught both Mother's arms.
Mother grunted, her teeth bared, and shoved me down onto the carpet.
She grabbed Sylvia's shoulder, raising the belt again. "Which one of you did it?"
"Leave her alone," I said.
"Did what?" Sylvia asked.
Mother shook her. "You know what."
The belt whizzed, ripped the papery skin from the back of Sylvia's knee.
Sylvia jumped, yelping. Blood trickled down her calf.
"I did it," I said.
Mother turned to me, her milky eyes crazed. She leathered me across my arms and back, chased me as I ran from the room.
On the stairs, she caught the back of my hair, stopping me from getting to the bathroom, the only room in the house with a bolt.
"What did you do with it?"
Sylvia followed us, crying harder. "It's outside. We buried it outside."
Mother pulled me by the hair, all the way to the far corner of our garden.
"The one thing I do for myself," she said. "The one thing ..."
I clawed through the dirt, removed the liver from the ground. Mother cupped the filthy meat to her chest, like it was a stray pet come home.
That night, Sylvia huddled next to me in bed, her damp face buried in my neck. I stroked her hair, hushed her tears. I could still smell the bloodied dirt from the garden off my hands. Why, Sylvia asked, why did Mother have to be so cruel sometimes, get so mad? I didn't answer. She asked again, twisting the front of my nightdress like she could make it do the talking.
The lie drifted up.
"She's dying," I said. "So she's trying to make us hate her, make it easier for us to do without her."
She cried harder. I cradled her, hushing and soothing, already worrying how I was going to undo my lie. She clung to me, like the dying and demented must hold onto hope.
About the author:
Born and raised in Dublin, Ireland, Ethel Rohan now lives in San Francisco. She received her MFA in fiction from Mills College, CA. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming from various literary magazines including The Irish Times Online; The Irish Herald; Prick of the Spindle, Identity Theory; Miranda Literary Magazine, and Word Riot. Ethel is currently seeking representation for her first novel, IN THE FAMILY WAY and is at work on a second novel. She also teaches creative writing to middle grade students, is a brazen chocaholic, and wants her father to hold at least her first book in his hands—because she promised him.
© 2009 Word Riot
