A Glorious Mess

Last week, on a truly ordinary Thursday, I became part of a mystery. My youngest son (YS) rang me at work to tell me he’d accepted a bunch of flowers for me. Flowers? For me? He had thought the same thing, knowing my tendency towards hay fever.

At first, he’d thought it was a scam. That boy watches way too many YouTube clips about the subject, mostly for fun rather than a need to be aware. Generation Z can sniff out a scam faster than scammers can invent a new one. He wondered whether the bouquet in the arms of a stranger was a ploy to get him to open the door, especially given that nobody in our house would arrange for me to receive flowers.

It was the man saying the bouquet was booked for me under my full name (middle name included) that made YS decide they were legitimate. He accepted the delivery and rang me.

“Flowers?”

“Yes, really, flowers”.

“What sort?”

“Pink ones. They used your middle name on the envelope.”

“Is there a card?”

“Where would that be?”. YS doesn’t watch enough romance movies to know there’s always a card. I told him if there was an envelope, it would be inside. He looked but reported that all that was inside was an advertising card saying where the flowers were from and a packet of seeds.

Hmm… who would have sent me flowers and not left a card? I have seen enough romance movies to know there was no point ringing the florist as they won’t divulge their clients’ names. I asked YS to send me a picture of the flowers so I could see for myself. An image arrived in my messages of a bunch of mostly closed lilies that were clearly pink-tinged and would open in a day or so into gorgeous blooms. I wondered about the timing, given that we were about to go away the next day for the WA Day long weekend, but I told myself that most people didn’t know we wouldn’t be around to see the flowers open.

I looked at the envelope pinned to the green paper wrapped around the stems. That was definitely my name, even the middle one that only close friends would know, or perhaps an old schoolmate from my phase of using my first and second name as a hyphenated first name. The adjusted name stage didn’t last long, but I do have friends on Facebook whom I’ve known that long. But why would they send me flowers? Why were they sent anonymously? What nice or kind thing had I done that would warrant someone sending me flowers?

The rest of my day passed in a blur of wondering. My way of processing puzzling information is to talk about it in the hope that someone has something to say that flicks a switch and gives me an answer. So I told anyone I went past in my office about the flowers. Most of them asked the same question first: “Was it your husband?”. I said it wasn’t, because, on request from me, he doesn’t send me flowers. He did send me some when we were courting, but not often since. His most memorable flower delivery back then came from a friend’s florist shop. A courier arrived at the reception counter bearing a large bouquet of pale pink carnations. Pink helium balloons floated above, attached to the stem of the flowers by pink ribbons. It was designed to get the attention of anyone in its vicinity. I took it into my office to much interest from my colleagues. Then I read the card. I’d had an accident the day before, so my then fiancé had taken advantage of that moment to show me he cared. The words? ‘Beep beep, I’ve got a crash on you, hope to bump into you later’. Yeah, I still married him.

Thursday afternoon passed quickly in a pleasant fog of considering which friends would know my middle name and use it. I narrowed it down to a couple of likely suspects and decided I’d ask once I got home. Then I vaguely remembered my sister saying something about sending me some stuff, but she quickly replied to my text, denying responsibility. The mystery deepened.

When I got home, I went straight to the bunch of flowers. Definitely my full name and proper address. The flowers were obviously at the right house of the right person. Then I saw the advertising card that YS had mentioned. I opened it (something he didn’t think to do) and noticed words typed inside. That was when the rosy scales I’d been viewing the world through fell from my eyes. I recognised the last line as a comment by the woman I had been talking to on a bank customer helpline the day before. I was furious and frustrated at a series of errors and inefficiencies that were costing me money. A simple process that we’d been told would take two weeks had so far taken a month, and we didn’t seem any closer to a resolution. Every delay was costing us money, and I’d had enough. When I’m deeply frustrated, I cry. I hate that I do, but it still happens. I had been gritting my teeth and speaking through my tears, and she felt sorry for the poor service and run-around that we had been experiencing. Her name wasn’t on the card, but the words were almost identical to her final comment: ‘I hope you manage to enjoy your day’.

At that moment, disappointment replaced delight. I no longer wanted the flowers. Why would I want that unhappy memory in my face for the next week? I understood the customer service officer was trying to be kind, but how was a paltry bunch of flower heads meant to make up for a series of issues costing us close to a thousand dollars? I had looked up the name of the florist service and saw the flowers that had been sent. I knew they cost $70. I thought it was very generous of someone unknown to spend that money to make me feel appreciated – until I made the connection. Then my thoughts changed to ‘Why spend $70 to remind me you’re wasting my money? If you really want to apologise, send me on a holiday worth the same amount you’ve cost me.’

The revelation also explained why the flower card was addressed to me using my full name. The bank had access to all my details, so they used them. Part of my fun in wondering had been thinking about which friend would know me well enough to know my middle name, know I like my second name and then use it. All of my pleasant puzzlement evaporated instantly.

While standing there, debating whether to chuck the flowers or put them in water, I noticed how quickly my mood changed. I had spent a lovely afternoon thinking of my friends and wondering who thought enough of me to send flowers. I couldn’t think of anything I’d done to deserve that, but a colleague had said, ‘Maybe they just appreciate you and want you to know’. And I did, for those few hours, feel loved and appreciated. I enjoyed being part of a surprise and a mystery. Then I felt like an idiot for being so easily delighted when the reality was otherwise.

I ended up putting the flowers in a vase of water on the dining table. By sheer chance, the bank had chosen my favourite colour and a type of flower that I really like. We were going away the next day anyway, so the blooms would open in a mostly empty house, with only YS to see them – if he even ventured out of his room for long enough to look around!

The flowers have opened into the most magnificent blooms, which I would appreciate, even with hay fever, if they came from a friend. Instead, they’re a beautiful insult and a constant reminder of upset. Today is bin night, so that’s where they’re headed even though they are still perfect. With them will go my delight, my confusion, and the unexpectedly annoying solution to a mystery that at least gave me something else to think about during an uninspiring afternoon. I’m still not sure whether to be angry about the reality or grateful for the distraction!