Ashes of Foreverland (18 page)

She knifed her hand over the table. Dr. Ballard never took his eyes off of her. Neither did he move his hand.

Alex looked through the wire-mesh window. The guards sat in chairs as bare as the ones in the interview room. She wondered if Dr. Ballard could hear her, if maybe dementia had taken hold. She'd heard strange things about him, that he preferred long bouts of solitary confinements—sometimes weeks at a time.
Did I read that or see it on
60 Minutes
?

“Can you hear me?” she asked.

“Yes, Mrs. Diosa.”

She had the urge to run, to leave the briefcase her father gave her twenty years ago for graduation, to abandon her notes and belongings like rubbish and flee through the wire-mesh glass. It was his voice, the way it resonated inside her. She'd heard it before.
No. I've felt it.

Alex fumbled with the pictures, pulling the paperclips off of bundles Gina had assembled for her, bundles Alex took apart over and over late at night, reshuffling and reorganizing. She'd memorized every photo, every note, but now aimlessly looked through them.

Deep breath
.

He was smiling—the corner of his mouth curled like a hook. He cocked his head curiously.

My grandfather used to do that.
Alex jerked at the sudden realization, felt the warmth of familiarity soothe her flailing nerves. He didn't look anything like her grandfather. Still, she couldn't help but smile.

“I'm an investigative journalist,” she started. “I wrote for
The Washington Post
as well as
The New Yorker
,
60 Minutes
as well as producing several documentaries. I've written books on crimes against humanity in North Korea. You might be familiar with some of my work.”

She mentioned a few. He smiled.

“And what do you want?”

“I'm researching the Foreverland crimes.”

“Is that what you really want from me?”

“I'm looking for the truth, yes.”

“And what is truth?”

He didn't say
the
truth. He just said
truth,
like a Buddha searching for deeper meaning. She looked at the photos. Her hands were steady, but her heart fluttered. “I want to know how all this started.”

“Is truth relative, Mrs. Diosa?”

“Let me be clear, I'm looking for facts.”

“Ah, facts. That's different than truth.”

“I don't believe so, Doctor.”

His eyes flickered upward, looking just above her eyes, right in the middle of her forehead. A shiver raced beneath her scalp, a tingly net that wrapped around her head, microwaving her brain. There was a circular scar on his forehead, about the size of a chicken pock, where a hole used to be, where a needle used to go.

Now healed over.

“You're the inventor of computer-aided alternate reality,” she said. “It was your technology that spawned Foreverland.”

And your son.

His right eye twitched, as if he heard her thinking. He drew a deep breath and coughed into his fist. “I've been in prison for thirty years,” he said. “What do you want from me?”

“I know you didn't have anything to do with it, but—”

“Then why are you here?”

He asked that question as if it had nothing to do with what she was saying, like a Zen Master asking his pupil what the true nature of reality is.

No, no. Why are you HERE?

She found a photo of a group of old women standing in a patch of dead grass. Young women, ranging in ages from twelve to eighteen years old, were behind them. “This was the second Foreverland, I'm sure you know. Your wife helped these wealthy women acquire the young bodies of the girls behind them. Your wife erased the identities of these young girls so that they left behind their living bodies.”

He was nodding but looking at her in that examining way again.

“It's body snatching, Dr. Ballard. Murder. It never should've happened.”

“Why is that?”

“Why is...it's
murder
.”

“We are still human, Alessandra. We evolved to survive.”

“We're talking about teenagers.”

“Children die every day. In underprivileged countries, they die by the thousands. And you're concerned with a few?”

“I'm concerned that privileged men and women are kidnapping neglected children instead of accepting their own death. We're still human, Dr. Ballard, yes. Not immortal.”

He stroked the tabletop, blinking slowly.

She hesitated before reaching for the briefcase and dropped a manila folder on the table and displayed newspaper articles dating back decades.

“Your wife, Patricia Ballard, suffered from schizophrenia. You invented CAAR in an attempt to stabilize her mind. You continued to do so even after you were arrested the first time.”

He didn't look at the articles, didn't see the photo of a younger Dr. Ballard in his basement laboratory wearing a striped necktie, his thick wavy hair combed to the side. He didn't see the picture of the beautiful woman, either, or read about their only child, Harold Ballard.

“What did you expect to happen?” she asked.

The tone of her question came out all wrong. She only wanted to ask why he would take such a risk by sticking a needle in his wife's head. Instead, it sounded like she questioned why he would invent an alternate reality.

He sniffed briefly; his nostrils, like before, flared momentarily. He slightly craned his neck toward her.

“What,” he asked carefully, “is love?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Love, Mrs. Diosa. What is love?”

“You're saying you did it because you loved her?”

“What would you do for someone you loved? Would you not have compassion? Would you not sacrifice everything for that person?”

“You loved her?”

“True love, Mrs. Diosa, has many faces. Some not so pleasant. Would you agree?”

“I'm afraid I'm not following.”

“What would you sacrifice for someone you loved?”

“That's got nothing to do—”

“Would you sacrifice yourself? Would you?”

She shook her head. “Dr. Ballard—”

“Answer the question, please.” His smile was as gentle as his words.

“Yes.”

“Of course you would. And what if your sacrifice would save millions? Would you?”

She looked through the wire mesh. The guards looked asleep.

“Why are you asking me this?”

“I'm curious.” Soft smile. “Would you give yourself to save millions of people?”

“You're talking about a biblical savior.”

“Not necessarily. It could be any reason, perhaps a blood type or an antibody that makes you special. But you had to give yourself entirely, unconditionally. Would you?”

She shook her head. “Could you look at these pictures?”

He covered her hand with his. It was papery, but warm. He blinked slowly. “Answer me honestly. That's all I ask.”

She wanted to put the newspaper articles back, wanted to shove everything on the floor, sit back and listen to him. His voice had a soothing quality, a vibrato that resonated somewhere between her eyes. In her chest.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Of course you would.” He sat back and folded his hands in his lap. “Have you ever heard voices?”

“What?”

“In your head, have you heard voices? The chatter of another mind inside your head, arguing with you about everything, whispering to you at night? Have you?”

“I...” She clasped her hands under the table, swallowed and lied. “No.”

“Have you ever scratched yourself until you bled, hoping if you dug deep enough you would let the voices out?”

Alex shook her head.

“My wife suffered, Mrs. Diosa. And nothing was helping her. I would do anything to help her. I believe you would, too.”

“You're saying your wife was schizophrenic?”

“Have you ever wished for a better place?” he continued. “Have you ever closed your eyes and dreamed of a world where there's no pain, no suffering? A place many people call heaven?”

She swallowed spastically. Suddenly, she was sleepy.

His eyebrows pinched together. Lines wrinkled his forehead, the circular scar, the size of a BB, bulged on a crest of old skin. Sadness dripped inside her, as if emanating from across the table. So many emotions she couldn't explain, this interview was a carnival ride whirling through the night.

“Your son,” she whispered, cleared her throat and tried again. “Did you teach him how to do it?”

He looked disappointed and clucked his tongue.
Who is interviewing who?

“He must've seen you doing it,” Alex continued. “Went down to the basement, saw Mommy with the needle in her...”

The wind ran out of her. Her throat constricted. Not another word could fight through it. The doctor looked at his hands, nodding while he recalled.

“He was still a child,” he said, “when I was sent to prison.”

“Then how did he know how to do it?”

“He was always bright. And he loved his mother.”

“He loved her so much that he left her in the wilderness.”

Something triggered inside her, a stone pulled from the bottom of the pile, a landslide beginning to tumble.

“You don't understand what he created—”

“He destroyed children.” She slammed her fist on the table. She jumped at her own anger, while he merely sat back.

“The death of children,” he said, “was not intended.”

“Just an unfortunate side effect?”

“I was in prison.”

“But you could've stopped him.”

“Mrs. Diosa, unfortunate events happen every day. We call them unfortunate because they bring suffering. Now I asked you if you wanted to know truth.”

“You haven't told me anything yet.”

“God allows the world to suffer, would you agree?”

“You don't strike me as religious, Doctor.”

“And yet God allows torture and death. Criminals savage their victims—”

“What defines a criminal, Doctor?”

“Storms strip people of their homes, natural disasters wreck their lives, disease takes away loved ones. This is the nature of the world we live in, Mrs. Diosa. Would you agree?”

Her throat tightened.

“Good and bad, Mrs. Diosa, are part of life. One event is deemed good if we favor it, bad if we don't. Without our interpretation, it is just life. Just God. And God allows it all to exist; He accepts the world as it is, allows it to exist. Can you be like that, Mrs. Diosa? Can you allow the world to exist?”

“They were children...”

“Can you be like God? Can you allow reality to be as it is?”

He blinked so slowly she thought she'd entered a time warp.

“What if you can do better than God?” he asked. “What if you can create a world without suffering, would you do it? The children wouldn't suffer anymore, Mrs. Diosa.”

“What are you talking about?”

The slightest curl twisted the corner of his mouth. “What would you sacrifice to end the suffering? Would you climb upon the cross?”

She shook her head, tried to swallow.

She wouldn't say it out loud, wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Would she sacrifice herself for the world? Would she give up her family to end all suffering? Would she create Foreverland?

Yes.

He closed his eyes, nodding, as if savoring a moment, the taste on his dry tongue. It sounded like something was stuck in his throat. He was humming.

The interview door opened.

The female guard placed a glass of water on the table. Dr. Ballard drank as he looked through the tropical pictures.

A glass in prison?

This was all wrong. Paperclips, pens and glass were being passed around like Office Depot, not a supermax federal prison.

Alex felt depleted. She let her eyelids fall for a long moment. When she opened them, the old man had already reached the end of the pile. Both guards helped him stand before he made an effort. His right knee was stiff.

“Would you care to walk, Mrs. Diosa?”

“A walk?”

——————————————

T
he ground was damp and the air crisp, the sun above the distant mountains. It had recently rained. The roads were dusty on the drive in. Now everything was clean.

How long were we in there?

The doctor stood on a concrete slab with a cane, his right leg still stiff. But he wasn't hunched over anymore. In fact, his complexion wasn't ashen, either.

Maybe it's the sunlight.

There were no guards at his side. Beyond, the inmates played basketball or sat on picnic tables. If someone meant to do them harm, there was nothing they could do. But none of them looked at Alex, the only female in the yard. As if she didn't exist.

“And how are you feeling now?” he asked.

“A little nervous.”

“You looked a little pale inside. I thought a walk would do us good. You came so far to see me.”

He gestured at the track that circled the chain-link fences and barbed wire. Guard towers with black windows were stationed in the corners. He patted her hand.

“I wasn't expecting this,” she said.

“What were you expecting?”

This was supposed to be a hard-hitting interview, her one chance to unearth details the world had never seen about the man behind Foreverland. She felt like a little girl seeing the mountains for the first time.

The wonder.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

He was looking through her, like he'd done inside. His eyes were x-rays, seeing her thoughts and feelings.
What is he asking? Does he want to know about the hallucinations? The malfunctions? The nervousness? The vomiting and the uncontrollable grief that sometimes shakes me at night?

“Are you disappointed in your son?” she asked. “For starting Foreverland and using it the way he did?”