Heather the Hermit

The meeting of Hermits Anonymous was rather small today. Heather sat in her usual chair by the window – for some reason most members smoked. She could not understand how they could buy smokes without coming in contact with people.

She herself had not seen another person in seven years before coming here. She had her groceries delivered in the middle of the night by an unseen frozen food van driver. She had her pension direct deposited every month, postage stamps sent to her by order, so she could pay her bills. She managed to live alone for a long time. Her gray ponytail grew long and thin, she wore mostly her pajama-like sweats, and never bothered to put shoes on.

At first she noticed that it was more comfortable to come out at night to get her mail. Then she caught herself avoiding contact with neighbors, canceling the phone line, getting rid of TV, and even with her children she only communicated by sending them mail-ordered Christmas gifts. Over the years she learned to live without many little things she used to find necessary – like laundry soap and vacuum cleaner bags.

It had been seven years of total solitude when her youngest son Bart showed up unexpectedly to visit and brought the girl. Samantha was her name. She was so friendly, so patient, so understanding that Heather did not think to send her them away at once. But that was when the little self-help brochures started appearing around the house. Bart and Samantha said they respected Heather’s privacy and stopped coming. But an invisible postman kept delivering the annoying mailings: “Are you tired of hiding?” or “Does solitude affect your life negatively?” and finally, “Do you consider yourself a hermit?”

Heather was getting restless. Sneaking out at dawn to pick up ready meals and powdered milk was not fun anymore. Reading the encyclopaedia finally felt weird. Laundry was smelled too fragrance-free all of a sudden. Deep inside Heather knew she wanted to go outside, maybe walk in the park. Perhaps buy an ice-cream cone. Finally she picked up one of the brochures and mailed the business paid envelope to Hermits Anonymous with just her address in it.

Two days later she had visitors. An intimidating looking old man with long hair, chaps and a motorcycle, and a bald young woman with no eyelashes riding behind him. They sat down on Heather’s couch and told her their stories. She listened, her eyes downcast, and did not want them to stop. For the first time in years she did not want to be alone even for a minute. She started crying. Then they took her to her first meeting.

It was a small room in the basement of the First church on Treehill and fourteenth. Heather has been going there every day for the last three months. That day she would get her ninety-day chip – a green plastic coin symbolizing the time in recovery. She looked out of the window – the street was busy, dirty, cars zooming by, people shouting at each other, a small child crying in a stroller. She sighed.

The group had collected money to buy her a television. That’s when she saw the news for the first time in years. It was sad and disturbing. Part of the recovery was visiting other hermits, and she had felt a stab of pain seeing their quiet and clean homes. She longed for privacy. She did not want to do service work. She did not want old male hermits flirting with her. She did not want to drink coffee, confess or listen to any more confessions. She was definitely relapsing.

The meeting was coming to the point when the new members received applause and awards for returning to the society. Heather moved closer to the window and started sliding it open. She made gestures to show that she was hot. The chairperson announced the name of a recovering hermit who had stayed social for one month. Everybody clapped as Pearl, a thin elderly Asian lady, stood up to receive her coin.

Heather managed to open the window all the way by now. Randolph, a handicapped young man was now receiving a chip for staying with people for two months. Heather picked up her purse and stood up clapping. Her name would be next.

She smiled shyly, waved her hand a little and muttered “I am sorry. I can’t stay. I have to go. I am going out now.” She stood up on her chair, pushed the screen out and awkwardly climbed out of the basement window onto the sidewalk. Total silence accompanied her exit. Total silence – the music to her ears.