one of the boards hung off the roof by a nail. I had no idea when it had been built. I carefully opened the door. There was no terrible smell like you might expect, since it was so rarely used. I shined my flashlight on the wooden plank with the hole in its center.
âOh no,â Stacy said. âNo way. Oh, this is the worst thing ever. What am I supposed to do with that?â
âYou just sit on the board and go,â I said. âWant me to go first?â
âFirst and last. Iâll hold it, thanks.â
I went inside and did my business and came out again. âItâs no big deal,â I said. âGo on. You donât want to have to hold it all night.â
I could hear her teeth chattering and knew she was genuinely scared.
âPretend you use this latrine all the time,â I said.
âWhat are you talking about?â
âJust pretend. Iâm serious. You use it every day of your life. Itâs no big deal. As a matter of fact, youâre really, really glad itâs here for you to use.â
âYouâre crazy.â
âTry it,â I said. âYou love this latrine. You love it as much as you love Joey McIntyre.â
She laughed. âNow youâre seriously sick.â
I had to laugh myself. At least her teeth were no longer chattering. âPlease,â I said. âJust try it. Just pretend you love it. Say it. That you love it.â
âI love it,â she said.
âExcellent!â
âI love this fucking latrine!â she shouted, and she pulled open the door and went inside. I was so shocked that she said the f-word that I hardly realized she was actually inside, sitting above that wooden hole, peeing.
âI need toilet paper!â she shouted.
I cracked the door open and handed it to her.
In another minute she was outside again, shuddering.
âYou did it!â I said.
âAnd I hope I never have to do it again.â
We walked back to the springhouse. She was much calmer than she had been on our way to the latrine. I told her about Daddyâs Pretend Therapy as we walked.
âThatâs crazy,â she said.
âTell me it didnât just work for you.â
âWell, I donât really love it!â
âYou love that it was here for you when you needed it.â
âHeâs written actual books about pretending?â
âHe doesnât call it Pretend Therapy when heâs talking to other psychologists. He calls it Cognitive Behavioral Self-intervention. CBSI. But really, itâs all about the power of pretending.â
âThatâs crazy,â she said again.
I thought about the two therapists Daddy shared his Asheville office with. One of them, Peter, also thought my father was crazy. Daddy didnât think much of Peterâs approach to therapy, either. âPeter still thinks Freud hung the moon,â heâd complain, âbut we love each other, anyway.â The other therapist in Daddyâs office, Janet, worshiped my father ⦠at least according to my mother. Janet had come to Daddy as an intern, wanting to learn more about CBSI, and sheâd stayed on with him and Peter in the office they shared after she got her license. I knew Janet and Peterâand Peterâs wife, Helenâpretty well. All three of them were really nice.
âAnd you help him write his books?â Stacy was asking.
âNo, I type for him. He tells me what he wants to say and I type it.â
âWow,â she said. âThatâs so cool.â
We were back at the springhouse. Step by Step was playing on the cassette player for the fourth or fifth time and we lay down on our beds. Suddenly, Stacy bolted upright, her eyes enormous, as she pointed to the floor by my bed. âSomeoneâs under there!â she mouthed. âWe have to get out!â Sheâd put her flashlight next to her on the bed. Now she grabbed it and ran for the door.
âNo