Her Name is Mariah

Chapter one

Things are often not as they appear. It is an unfortunate lesson that most will learn at some point in their lives, often replacing their naivety and innocence with distrust and skepticism. Some learn these difficult lessons in college, often following a defunct relationship while others do shortly after getting their first job, finally accepting that the rat race consisted of many frayed edges. Mariah Nichols came to this realization at a much younger age; she was five.

It happened in a beautiful house that sat in the residential area of the quiet, Ontario town. It was inside the walls of a bungalow that was surrounded by perfectly manicured lawn, with a large oak tree displayed in the front yard. The modest house was reasonably new and well maintained; a dog-ear fence embracing the property and beautiful flower garden full of Black eyed Susan’s. Those who took notice saw the children merrily run outside to play in the fresh snow every winter and the boy occasionally played basketball in the summer, while the little girl blew bubbles and skipped rope. It appeared to be the perfect family.

And really, who would ever think that everyone in the house was miserable: but they were. 

The mother was a beautiful Russian immigrant, with an ivory complexion and huge chocolate colored eyes that communicated her innocence since first arriving in Canada years earlier. She had only been a young girl of 18 then, her father encouraging her to move and marry abroad in order to escape the dismal financial situation in their own family. Although it hadn’t felt right to wed a mere stranger in another country, she trusted and respected her family’s opinion when they insisted that her future husband was a good man. Although this Canadian man was slightly older than this Russian beauty, her father was certain it was a positive sign because it indicated he was more financially stable and mature than someone much younger. Her mother claimed that the combination of getting married to a handsome man and living in a new country was very exciting and a wonderful opportunity, something she should appreciate.

Her name was Polina and although she knew her parents meant well, it would quickly become clear that they were wrong. 

Rather than introducing his new wife to friends and help her understand Canadian culture, Polina’s husband thrusts her into a new world and showed no compassion regarding her fears or concerns. Often more interested in working longer hours than crashing in front of the television, she was left feeling isolated, like she was his housekeeper during the day and whore at night. He demonstrated impatience when she was not able to understand various aspects of her new country and intolerance, often depicting every word she mispronounced and insulting her Russian upbringing whenever the opportunity presented itself. This wasn’t the friendly, welcoming Canadian culture that her parent’s had described.

With the birth of their first child a year later, Polina quickly fell into a depression from the combination of feelings of isolation combined with no social aspect and even less knowledge of how to bring up a child. She often cried with her newborn son, feeling completely helpless. Secluded and living in misery, she insisted on going on the pill immediately after (to which, her husband seemed apathetic) but an error seven years later and Polina miserably found herself pregnant again.

The father was hopeful about the second child because he felt Polina attempted to keep Anton away from him, often speaking to their son in Russian and insisting that bringing up a child was ‘a mother’s duty’. She grew angry every time he tried to help until finally, he stopped. Maybe the next baby would be different. 

No, he thought to himself, the next baby will be different. 

His marriage to the stunning, young Russian hadn’t turned out as he had hoped. Polina was much different once arriving in Canada than she had been in their many conversations before her move. It was almost as if he had signed up for one thing – then got another. In fact, one of his friends would joke that it was his own fault for ‘shopping in a catalogue and expecting the description to be as exciting as the actual product’. It angered him because he hadn’t seen his wife as a product or a desperate, last measure to marry that his friends were suggesting. In fact, it wasn’t something he had planned.

His name was Frank Nichols and he considered himself to be just a normal, average man. He studied business at university, got a great marketing job at a soft drink company and played by the rules. After falling desperately in love with an emotionally unavailable woman in his mid-twenties, he later made many attempts to get back into the dating game until his mid-thirties, when he finally decided it was a dead end road and began to look outside the country. Frank was discouraged. He was a simple guy who hadn’t crazy expectations in life. He didn’t want to be a rock star. He wasn’t trying to be the richest man in the world. Frank just wanted a normal, stable and happy life with a wife and children.

At first, Polina seemed to be that missing piece of the puzzle: and then she wasn’t. Although he discovered hints of vulnerability and love in the young Russian’s eyes, they were brief and rare. She seldom communicated with him and her demeanor was as cold as ice. He gave her anything she wanted and yet, Polina showed no appreciation or respect in return.

The couple’s second child did not bring happiness to their marriage. In fact, the baby brought more stress. And for all the times Frank stared into the little girl’s big, brown eyes and truly wanted to keep the family together as one unit, the truth was that he couldn’t deal with the increasing hostility in his marriage. He waited until his daughter was five before deciding to leave his wife.

The neighbors were surprised to see the marriage end. They had been so happy – hadn’t they? It was an attractive couple with beautiful children, living in a modern, reasonably sized home. On the outside, it did appear to be ideal for those who strolled by on their evening walks, casually peaking in the windows from afar and making assumptions about the people inside.

The little girl with the big, brown eyes grew to idolize her brother. He was an angel in her heart. Always so patient and understanding, she knew he loved her more than anyone in the world. Meanwhile, their mother’s behavior only grew more erratic after Frank Nichols left their home and moved to another city. It was supposedly for work, but the children knew better.

Polina and Frank’s children were very close. The little girl, even confessed to her brother that she didn’t think their mother loved her. He calmly listened to her concerns and remained silent, biting back the truth that threatened to escape his lips. His sister didn’t have to know that their father chose to name her after a former girlfriend – the one that ‘got away’ – and that this piece of painful truth had stabbed thro