A woman in the garden of the the mental hospital was hard to figure out.
When Mac and I went outside to smoke, she was talking seriously with a younger man, perhaps about a budget or the construction of a new hospital wing.
She dressed like a corporate executive, wearing a pricey plaid suit, heels, and gold jewelry. Her dark hair looked like Dear Abby's bouffant.
“Call for my car,” she enthusiastically instructed the man. "I have a meeting." He nodded yes.
“Is she the hospital director, Mac,” I whispered? “No, she’s a patient," he said. "That guy's her son."
When Mac and I went outside to smoke, she was talking seriously with a younger man, perhaps about a budget or the construction of a new hospital wing.
She dressed like a corporate executive, wearing a pricey plaid suit, heels, and gold jewelry. Her dark hair looked like Dear Abby's bouffant.
“Call for my car,” she enthusiastically instructed the man. "I have a meeting." He nodded yes.
“Is she the hospital director, Mac,” I whispered? “No, she’s a patient," he said. "That guy's her son."
