The Pyramid

By Alexandra Wuest

Photo Credit: Stephen R. Milanowski

My mother wants to sell me oils. The oils smell like fresh-cut flowers and citrus fruits and the fishbowl stench of a house that’s been left unoccupied for several months. They have names like SARCASM and PASSIVE AGGRESSION and I’M SORRY YOU SEEM TO THINK I WAS THE WORLD’S WORST MOTHER. She shows me one that smells like a mixture of lavender, spearmint, and the metallic taste that comes with accidentally biting the inside of your cheek. This one is called YOU COULD HAVE HAD IT MUCH WORSE, she says. She says these oils are part of the entry-level WHEN I WAS YOUR AGE I WAS MARRIED WITH FOUR KIDS package. Once she sells these, she’ll be promoted to the I DON’T WAKE UP WITH FEAR IN MY CHEST ANYMORE tier of the company. She says that tier comes with new, better oils. Like FORGIVENESS, she says. And ACCEPTANCE, she says. And I DID THE BEST I COULD, she says. She says that last one smells like pumpkin spice, rain, and the hollowed out feeling that follows an hour spent crying in the shower.

The house smells like the candle shop in the mall on garbage day. The smell gives me a headache. The air is so thick with all the oils my mother is diffusing that the dog can’t breathe. He wheezes on the carpet in the corner. My mother takes out a new bottle of oil. This one is good for dog asthma, she says. It’s also good for indigestion, long-held resentments, and breast cancer.

We sit down to dinner with the whole family. My grandmother has prepared a feast. My aunt has arrived for the meal, as well as my other aunt, as well as their children, the many cousins, who are all hungry.

Portraits of my dead father and his dead father and his dead father line the wall behind the table. My cousins heap piles of food onto their plates until there’s none left for the rest of us.

It’s all right, says my grandmother.

I don’t need to eat, says my aunt.

I never need to eat, says my other aunt.

They split a trio of almonds, but my grandmother doesn’t finish her portion. I couldn’t possibly, she says, and pushes the plate away.

Meanwhile, the ceiling above the dining room table has begun to leak. There’s a crack, and it drips something that is either green juice or stomach bile—it’s hard to say which. My aunt picks up a porcelain teacup and climbs on top of the table to collect the liquid, but the teacup is too small. It fills quickly and needs to be emptied every few minutes.

Don’t worry about me, she says, standing in the center of the table, the overflowing teacup in her hand held to the crack in the ceiling. Just enjoy your dinner.

No, no, my other aunt says. Allow me. She gets on top of the table with her own teacup.

Don’t be silly, my mother says, climbing on top of the table and pushing my aunts out of the way. In her hand a teacup of her own.

The cousins smash plates of spaghetti over one another’s heads.

After dinner my mother corners me in the kitchen. She wants to know if I’ve decided which of her oils I will buy. She tells me if I buy the CONDITIONAL LOVE package, I could join her team and sell oils myself. She tells me she’s always looking for action-oriented earners. She tells me I am her favorite daughter.

I shake my head. I don’t want to buy any oils and I don’t want to sell them.

My mother scowls. She dabs an oil on each of her wrists called DISAPPOINTMENT. It smells like a mixture of jasmine, frankincense, and a wildfire that is spreading at the rate of eighty football fields per minute. She rubs her wrists together and takes a deep breath. Money is just an energy, she says, and wanders away to see if any of my cousins have saved up enough allowance to afford her oils. 

I set the table for dessert.

My aunt has baked a three-tiered cake frosted with blood red buttercream for dessert. Sugar is making us sick, she says, serving me the largest slice of the cake. Carbs are evil, she says, and adds another slice to my plate. Artificial food coloring too, she says, and hands me the red frosting-covered knife to lick clean. I push the cake around my plate with a fork while my mother nibbles on another almond. My grandmother says she’s too full for dessert.

My other aunt announces she’s just returned from a leadership convention in Arizona and wants me to try her new line of diet shakes. She thrusts a six pack of the shakes into my hands.

I feel so much better since I started drinking these, she says, and asks if I’d like to start off with an order of a dozen cases. She chugs one of the shakes and gets down on the ground on all fours, coughing and spitting like a sick cat. She vomits a hairball onto my grandmother’s antique rug. I can work from home, she says, wiping her mouth. And I’ve never been happier.

I get out the mop to clean up my aunt’s mess and my mother diffuses an oil that smells like ylang ylang, vetiver, and a hospital waiting room. This oil is called MAYBE THINGS AREN’T SO BAD, she says. She takes out another. This oil is called MAYBE YOU’RE MAKING THE WHOLE THING UP, she says. She takes out another. This oil is called MAYBE THESE THINGS YOU THINK OF AS BOUNDARIES ARE REALLY JUST YOU BEING AN UNGRATEFUL DAUGHTER, she says, and I choke on the oil’s fragrance, my lungs burning like when I used to hold my breath at the bottom of the swimming pool as a child.

The front door swings open, and a gush of fresh air rushes into the house. It is my three sisters standing in the doorway. They are wearing their cheerleading uniforms and carrying their pom poms. My cousins wrestle on the ground, doing moves like the neck breaker and the face buster, while my sisters stand on the sidelines showing off their latest cheer routine. The routine finishes with my sisters kneeling on the ground, arranged like the base of a pyramid. My mother climbs on top, then my aunt, and then my other aunt. My grandmother steps her way up my sisters like stairs, over my mother, over my aunt, and over my other aunt, to reach the very top of the pyramid. My sisters call for me to join them. We need a solid foundation! my youngest sister yells, but I stay seated at the dining room table, the plate in front of me still piled high with cake.

One cousin pummels another cousin with a chokeslam; another does the piledriver. The rest of the family cheers.

The doorbell rings and I answer it. There is a traveling saleswoman at the door. She wheels her suitcase full of wares into the house and takes a seat across from me at the dining room table.

What does she want? my grandmother shouts from the top of the pyramid.

She’s selling stuff, I explain.

I’m not selling anything, the saleswoman says. I’m just here to share some of my favorite products that are available for purchase. She unzips the suitcase and spreads out various types of makeup on the dining room table. She tells me if I buy the cream blush I will finally stop hitting the snooze button every morning. She tells me if I buy a tube of lengthening mascara I will start going to Pilates three times a week. She tells me if I buy a palette of eyeshadow I’ll no longer suffer from social anxiety, I’ll learn to speak another language, I’ll start meditating every day, meet a great guy, get engaged, buy a house, buy a second house, adopt a goldendoodle, get pregnant with twins, grow my own vegetables, stop punching myself in the face every day. This particular palette is limited edition, she tells me. You’ll want to stock up before it sells out.

I want to believe everything she says, to buy everything she is selling. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t. But my mother can. I can hear her stirring in her place in the pyramid. I know she wants to buy the saleswoman’s makeup. She lifts a hand to reach into her back pocket for her wallet and the entire pyramid wobbles.

The saleswoman takes out several brochures. I’d love to get you ladies in on the ground floor, she says. Soon enough you could have everything you’ve ever wanted like I do!

The pyramid is now leaning precariously to the left. Next it tilts dangerously to the right.

The saleswoman looks me up and down. I see potential in you, she says. She picks me up and shakes me upside down to see what I’m made of. Loose change, a silk scrunchie, a handful of birdseed, a tube of Chapstick, a few multivitamins, a used tissue, and a pair of corded earbuds tangled with the tines of a plastic fork and the string of a loose tampon fall to the ground. The saleswoman scoops everything up and stuffs it into her mouth and swallows it in a single gulp. 

How would you like to achieve your wildest dreams? she asks.

What do my wildest dreams look like? Maybe surprisingly, nothing like this.

Nearby, the pyramid continues to sway. I stand up, brush myself off, and close the front door. I know even the slightest of breezes could bring the whole thing down.

About the Author:

Alexandra Wuest is a writer based in New York. Her fiction has appeared in Electric Literature’s Recommended Reading, Peach Mag, and X-R-A-Y.