I found the first one in the most intimate of places; our bed. It was placed on the Egyptian cotton-thread sheets, beckoning me. Of all the presents I had ever received, this was the strangest one. It was a book on butterflies. I instantly knew it wasn’t from James. It couldn’t be. I knew my husband. His gifts were always in rich-colored velvet boxes, glittering and insanely lavish. He would never gift me a book, let alone one on butterflies. Also, he didn’t know I loved butterflies. After I met James, I knew I had to embrace different, more useful interests like collecting art and skiing; there was no time for nonsense such as butterflies.
I wondered who it could possibly be from. The book released suppressed memories. As I stood clutching the book, my mind started to wander back to the past. I thought about all the wonderful times, about the family vacations, and about him...
I snapped out of my reverie quickly and decided to store the book away in my closet where James would never look, vowing to deal with it later. Gradually standard chores like organizing dinner parties occupied my mind and time, giving me no chance to think about the book again.
On February 21st I received my second gift. This time it was a copy of My Fair Lady, my favorite musical since childhood. I thought about asking James, but something stopped me. The time span grew shorter and I starting finding more presents weekly. Unusual, un-James-like presents. The fact that I always found them before James was mystifying. Soon hiding them became a habit, and my feelings of guilt slowly subsided as I comforted myself with the thought that I had no clue about the sender of the strange presents.
After a long time, James and I spent a lovely evening together. We returned home from the late night movies, and as I opened the front door we entered to witness almost 250 daisies filling the hallway. James collapsed in a sneezing fit and I tried to search for a card, for something that explained this but, as I knew already, all in vain. I knew that the flowers and the previous gifts were related, that they shared a sender.
I knew this because I adored daisies, but James allergies meant adopting a new favorite flower. I started collecting the flowers and prepared to chuck them out. Once the hallway was daisy-free again, with only the sweet scent still lingering, I went upstairs to find James with watery eyes and a foul mood. As was his right as my husband, he started asking me about the flower ambush. Instantly, defensively, I claimed that I had no idea and, since there was no card, they could always have been meant for him. Even as I said the words, turning the tables on him, I knew in my heart I was wrong.
“They couldn’t have been for me, Eva! Anyone who knows me well enough to send me flowers is quite aware that I am highly allergic to daisies!”














11
I didn’t answer, I couldn’t answer and eventually his medications kicked in and James was out for the night. I lied down on my side of the bed, deep in thought, before finally tumbling into a deep sleep.

Those thoughts weaved into dreams and I dreamt about Micah. Micah was my first best friend, the only person from whom I had no secrets, who knew everything about me. He knew that I loved butterflies, that my favorite musical was My Fair Lady, and that I adored daisies.
He would still be my best friend, if it wasn’t for one thing. He didn’t exist. Or at least that’s what everyone said and eventually it had jammed its way into my brain also. The last time I saw Micah was when I was 17, and madly in love with him. My parents were furious when they found out that my only best friend and true love was a figment of my imagination. They forced me to “lose the act.” Predictably, I had a huge row with them and locked myself in my room, promising never to come out. That was the night Micah had came to me for the last time. I still remember the night with alarming clarity. He sat on the edge of my bed, not speaking a word, letting me pour my heart out. When I was all out of tears, I had looked at him, expecting him to join me in my rebellion against my parents. He got up, kissed me very lightly on the lips, my first kiss, and left. I never saw him again.
After dreaming about Micah 13 years later, there were no more presents or flowers to be dealt with. It was sort of a confirmation, at least for me. I was never able to explain the sudden appearance of the 20 dozens daisies to James and, since there wasn’t much he could do about it, we had no choice but to move on. Thankfully he didn’t know about the presents, which were now locked away somewhere he would never find them. I wasn’t lying to him or cheating him-not exactly anyway. There was no way I could show him all the presents and explain about Micah without sounding like I was on the brink of insanity.
Receiving those presents somehow satisfied me, giving me the closure that I very much needed.
Consequently, my relationship with James took a turn for the better. However odd this may sound, the gifts that I believed were from my imaginary first love contributed to fixing my marriage. James and I were happier, happier than we had been in a long, long time.