TROLLEY

“I’ve never been to the hospital before,” says John. “Have you?”

The conversation taking place over the Lego bucket, which I‘ve been tuning out, now holds my rapt attention. I watch Devon’s face.

It’s a normal little boy’s face, except for the long mulberry birthmark across it. The birthmark is not raised, but it’s dark, unmissable. It does not look like a cut or a scrape; it is clearly a birthmark. Anyone who knows what a birthmark is can see that’s what Devon has on his face. But how do you learn what a birthmark is? Particularly an unusual mulberry birthmark.

In my head I’ve called it a mulberry birthmark since I first saw Devon arrive at day camp. I’d read Lord of the Flies that year in AP English class; “mulberry-colored” was the descriptor assigned to the birthmark of the first boy to die.

I liked the book, but I hated the class. All my classmates had known each other for years, it seemed to me. At the end of the school day I crossed the street from the high school to the elementary school, and I watched the kids until their parents could pick them up after work. When school lets out for the summer, I work six hour shifts each weekday for the same program, now rebranded to a day camp. It was the ecosystem that had sustained me while my parents worked, only now it sustains me monetarily – and to some extent, during these summer months, socially.

John has just as much irregularity to contend with as Devon does. Every other week, John is traded off from mother to father; Mom feels he should be on mood-regulating medication; Dad disagrees. Every time we try to make John get off the computer, he has a full meltdown, in the truest sense of the word. His body melts to the floor, his face melts into tears. Onlookers may pause for a moment to shake their heads, but then move on with their day and pay him little mind. No one asks him what’s wrong with him.

John has an obnoxious voice and a sly smile; he’s a hypocritical tattle-tale. There are dark purple rings around his eyes. When he’s not on the computer, there’s barely a moment that isn’t filled with his chatter. I like him.

At this moment, John is curious about Devon. All the children are. Some will ask, "What’s wrong with your face?”

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Then Devon pauses, and he internalizes what he’s heard. After a beat, he lashes out, or he runs away to be alone.
 

Devon’s not very verbal; he says little except to express basic needs. I teach him hand games, and he delights in them, insisting that we go again and again clapping each other’s hands in pattern and rhythm. He hogs my hands, giving no other impatient child a turn. If I sit cross-legged on the ground, he immediately wants to curl into my lap. Devon doesn’t like to play with other children, just with whatever toys they’re using. I wonder how many times in his life he’ll be asked what’s wrong with his face.

I can see Devon is now internalizing what John’s just asked him. John is surprisingly subtle in his approach; once he’s asked the question, he darts up a look at Devon’s marked face through his ringed eyes, but otherwise casually continues rummaging for the right Lego. Maybe he’s noticed others asking directly, and has ascertained that this is not the way to acquire the information he’s after.

To my astonishment and very great relief, once Devon has finished internalizing, he simply replies, “no,” albeit with slitted eyes, and continues to snap Legos together.

The three of us by the Lego bucket, kids around us, the day camp itself, all exist for a moment of real summer that may even stay with us after. I’ll never know for sure what was internalized; for me, the birthmark will always be on Devon’s face, though a hemangioma may fully disappear by late childhood, leaving behind only what’s invisible.