FAMILY MEETING, By Dawn Deanna Wilson

Meemaw had a nasty cold and had just discovered the internet. After a five-minute consultation with “Dr. Google,” she was convinced she was dying, so she called this family meeting of the three grandchildren—we assume—to tell everyone what they’re going to inherit when she passes on into the great yonder.

Her room is gloomy, dark and shadowy despite five lamps surrounding her bed. The window overlooks the Dumpster, and there’s a generic still life picture featuring clay pots and day lilies. The television is –as always ---tuned into Animal Planet, the volume too low to hear clearly, but too loud to easily talk over.

Meemaw starts fiddling with the bed controls, trying to move the mattress into a perfectly straight sitting position. She doesn’t know how to do it, but we don’t dare correct her. Last time Lisa tried she got fussed out. Meemaw said she remembered Korea and lost a brother in Vietnam, so she sure as hell knew how to operate a hospital bed.

Meemaw always spoke with the Southern flair of a girl raised along the salty marshes and cypress trees of eastern North Carolina, one who grew up fishing for brim along the river curves and inlets, disappointed when her hook only brought up an angry alligator gar.

She never adjusted to the cool evenings and snowy winters of the Appalachians. I suspect on some level she resented Pop Pop for taking her away from her native landscape, one so flat it spread out like the palm of a hand, peppered with cotton fields and tobacco curing barns sweltering in the August humidity.

But Meemaw could tell stories of oyster roasts and holiday flotillas down by Snow’s Cut on the Cape Fear River. Stories that no one was really interested in, but that disinterest only made her tell them with more gusto, showing a Down East determination that could give the mountain gals a run for their money.

Meemaw clears her throat and moves a stray strand of gray hair from her face, placing it behind her ear. She stretches her ancient hands upward as if presenting an offering. Her lips pucker, trying to form the next sentences with careful craftsmanship.

I want the piano. I know that it’s terrible to be thinking of what I can get when Meemaw dies, but I’ve always loved the piano. I’m the only one in the family who can play it, anyway.

Meemaw takes a deep breath.

“I saw the Lizardman.”

She says it plainly and matter-of-factly like seeing the Lizardman was no more unusual than seeing a cat.

“Was he all with red eyes and bat wings?” Junior asks.

“No, you idiot. That's the Mothman. I'm talking about the Lizardman.”

The Lizardman was seeped deeply in Carolina lore, flourishing near the mountains, but making the occasional appearance in the brackish estuaries and fishing inlets around the coast. He was our Bigfoot, our Chupacabra, our Yeti.

And Meemaw saw him

“I caught glimpse of him two weeks ago but didn't want to say anything because I was afraid you'd lock me up in the nuthouse.”

“You didn’t see the Lizardman, Meemaw.” Lisa rolls her eyes. She's the only girl in the family, and that’s why she gets by with everything

“I really don't think the Lizardman is real,” Junior says, more as if trying to convince himself more than Meemaw.

“I saw the Lizardman and you need to show me some respect.”

I stand up. “Let’s everybody take a deep breath. Meemaw, tell me what happened.”

She straightens her back defiantly, and like sunlight seeping through the blinds, the story starts to appear.

“I was watching Animal Planet one night after supper, and I looked out the window. Along the edge of the Dumpster I saw something silver glisten in the moonlight. Then, I saw something long and sleek ease toward me. It was half-slithering, half-walking. It had a bright blue streak down its back, kind of like the skinks that used to visit my back porch when I was living Down East. Then, it paused, as if it new it was being watched. Then slowly, it stood, walked on two legs and marched right up to my window. It had large, white eyes and a long, pink tongue that wrapped around its pointed snout.”

“You saw a deer,” Lisa says. She lights up a cigarette even though there is no smoking in the nursing home because she’s one of those people who can get by with stuff like that. She’s never gotten a speeding ticket, never filed her taxes and somehow always wins the grand prize at bingo down at the community center.

I knew there was no arguing with Meemaw. If she said she saw the Lizardman then by God, she saw the Lizardman.

“If it was a Lizardman, why was it crawling on all fours?” Lisa asks.

“Because it’s only half lizard. Are you even listening?” Meemaw snaps. “I’m not finished with the story.”

Lisa takes a long drag and then puts out her cigarette on the edge of Meemaw’s nightstand. Her eyes narrow and shower me with invisible bullets. “And by the way, I’m taking the piano.”

My entire body silently quakes. “You are not getting the piano.” The grit and determination in my voice surprise me.

Junior shakes his finger at Lisa, who holds up her hand.

“Don’t start with me,” she says. “Admit that’s why we’re all here. To find out what we’re going to get.”

“For the love of God,” Junior says. “Have some respect.”

“I’m the only one here who isn’t afraid of telling the truth. We’re here to find out about the will, and Meemaw did not see the Lizardman.”

A CNA comes in to check Meemaw’s blood pressure or whatever they do at these places. One glance at the steaming intensity of the room and she slowly backs away, motioning that she’ll come back later.

No one says anything for a long while.

I realize we can’t keep anything straight, and for a moment, I hate myself for even thinking about the piano. I’m justifying it saying that these are tough conversations that need to be had, but the truth is I I’d rather go somewhere and hide for the rest of my life.

“So, what are we getting?” Lisa says.

“Getting?” Meemaw says. “It’s not about getting. I’m trying to tell you about the Lizardman.”

Junior gets up and walks over to the TV, which is still blaring Animal Planet. “You probably just saw something on here and had a bad dream. You know, one of those shows about prehistoric creatures or some such.” He turns it off.

“I know what I done saw.”

She’s wringing her hands.

“Remember when we used to watch Animal Planet, Meemaw?” I asked. “And I always wanted you to get me a puppy, but you said I wasn’t responsible enough?”

Slight recognition. A small grin.

“Was it a dog?” Junior turns to Meemaw. “Maybe it was a dog you saw by the Dumpster and it was one of those little hot dog weenier mutts and it looked like a lizard.”

“I know what a Lizardman look like. It don’t look like a dog.”

Lisa lights up another Newport. “Meemaw, did you or did you not want to tell us about the will?”

“It’s nothing.” Meemaw says. “Nobody’s getting nothing.”

“Then what did you want from us? Why did you call us here?” Lisa paces around Meemaw’s bed.

Meemaw stares blankly at the TV. I gently place my hand on her shoulder.

“You’re not dying Meemaw,” I say. “Why did you call a family meeting?”

She takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. “I just wanted to tell you about the Lizardman. That’s all. I’ve said my peace.”

Lisa scoffs, gives a halfhearted goodbye and leaves. Junior kisses Meemaw on the cheek and follows Lisa.

I’m alone with Meemaw, and I don’t know what to say. I want to ask her about history, about the things I read about at college. I want to ask her if we really were Irish because all my Ancestry DNA said we were from Germany. I want to ask her to run away with me, just the two of us and the piano, dancing through old music, whispering memories of black-and-white dreams. In a way, I guess it’s always been just the two of us.

She slowly takes my hand and winks. “Of course, you’re getting the piano.”

I get her yet another glass of water. I put it on her nightstand, and she gives a slight nod, and I know she’s seen me. I kiss her on the forehead.

Through the window, overlooking the Dumpster, I see a flash of something sleek and silver.

I choose to ignore it.

Dawn DEanna Wilson has more than 20 years of experience as a professional writer. Her articles have appeared in Writer's Digest, Evangel, Byline and Dr. Hurley's Snake-oil Cure. She is the author of two traditionally published novels: Saint Jude (Tudor Publishers) and Leaving the Comfort Cafe (Wild Rose Press).