Chapter Seventeen
Zinc Cream
“Mother knows best” is a crock of s**t.
“I’m sure it was in there,” Helen muttered.
She sifted through the clothes and books, then, in desperation, grabbed another bag.
“Or here.” She fiddled with the tight knot, and when it refused to budge, she ripped at the sides; towels spilled out, followed by a bra and a hammer.
She was definitely not a systematic packer.
I slid the book onto the top of a box. “Forget the zinc,” I said, but she didn’t hear. Instead, she upended three large boxes onto the floor with a “maybe in here” to herself. Pots and pans crashed to the floor, followed by a glass bowl, which smashed onto the ground—glass flew everywhere.
We stared, and then without a word, Helen bent to pick up the pieces, flopped to the floor, and cried.
I sa
