The front door stands wide open.
That has always meant a warm welcome at the two-story traditional house where I grew up, but now the sight makes me shiver more than the chilly wind of Christmas Eve whistling in my face.
"Is this it?" the Uber driver asks, watching me stand in the driveway with my rolling suitcase.
"Uh, yeah." Uncertainty colors my voice and probably my expression if the driver's Can I go now? face is anything to judge by. "This is it. Thanks."
But is this home? The slightly overgrown lawn and uneven hedges would never have been tolerated by my mother in all the forty years of my life. The garage door is up and Mama's pride and joy, Shortcake, her pearl-colored Lincoln MKC, is parked there. Mama wouldn't leave her baby exposed like that.
Something's wrong.
Something's been wrong for a while. I haven't exactly ignored it. I'm not one to bury my head in the sand, but I did hope it wasn't as bad as I'd suspected. There are worse things to be guilty of than hope, but right now I can't think of them.
As the Uber pulls off and I drag my bag up the driveway to the wide-open front door, the cloud of dread that has gathered in my belly for the last year calcifies and drops like a stone. I cross the threshold and shut the door behind me, surveying the front room Mama always kept immaculate. It was the first impression of our home, and I've never seen it in such disarray. Black dirt from an overturned plant soils the white carpet. A thin layer of dust dulls the end table's usually shiny surface, and the lampshade is askew. The whole scene is askew, and I'm so disoriented it feels like I'm standing on the ceiling.
"Mama?"
Her name comes out thin and tentative, like when I called her as a child, scared there was a monster hiding under my bed. She always responded right away, coming into my room with a reassuring smile.
There is nothing reassuring about this answering silence.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
The smoke detector blares, breaking the quiet and jarring me from my stupor. White clouds billow into the hall, and I race to the kitchen. Plumes of smoke stream from a hissing pan on the stove. The acrid scent of something burning floods the air and stings my nose.
Shit!