I didn’t want to call Chantal in case her husband answered the phone. I had spoken with him only once in the last few years, but his arrogance was stifling. I showed up at her house instead, and when her husband answered the door, I noticed his bruised knuckles. I remember how Chantal would sometimes try to hide the bruises on her face with makeup.
“Hello Pierre. Just checking up on Chantal. She’s missed a couple of days of work and hasn’t called in.”
He didn’t respond in the gruff manner I expected. Instead, he just gestured me inside. He pointed at a mass of white in the corner of the kitchen. It looked like a giant cocoon.
“She was always good at sewing, you know. And now she’s gone and sewed herself inside this bag of thread. She did it while I was down at the pub, probably to try to hide from me. What a joke! She’ll come back out when she’s hungry. I’ve always said she was crazy, you know.” He laughed.
But I didn’t laugh.
I looked more closely at the cocoon, pressed my finger against the membrane. Something stirred inside, something big.
Chantal wasn’t hiding. She was changing. Whatever was going to come out of that cocoon wouldn’t be good for Pierre. I thought to warn him to run.
Instead, I just said, “Would you ask Chantal to call me at work when she comes out?”