Thank you to my mother, who has read this book in every single iteration. Thank you to all the other people who beta read drafts and gave suggestions: Pamela, Nelle, Kate, and Maura. And thank you to Val for the proofreading. I am so appreciative!
A very big thank you to my agent, Christina Hogrebe, as well as all of JRA, for your support and faith in me, as well as helping to make this the best draft possible. And thank you to Jenna Jankowski and Anna Michels at Sourcebooks for helping to bring The Coworker into the world!
I always end my acknowledgments by thanking my readers. I have to, because wow, I have just about the best and most dedicated readers ever. I am so extremely thankful, and I hope you enjoyed this most recent fruit of my labor!
Afterword
Did you enjoy reading The Coworker?
If so, please consider leaving a review on Amazon! Also, check out my website, where you can sign up for my newsletter and get updates on my books:
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Also, even though I have managed to cure the superhuman strains of mutant typos that have invaded my books, now there are all these typo variants I can’t seem to get rid of. If you find any typos and point them out to me so I can fix them, I would be paternally graceful.
And now please enjoy a short excerpt of my new book, Ward D…
Ward D
Dear AMY BRENNER,
You have been assigned to overnight call tonight on our primary locked psychiatric unit, Ward D.
In preparation for your assigned shift, please observe the following guidelines:
You will be given a numerical code that can be used to leave Ward D. Except in the case of an emergency, you MAY NOT exit the unit during your shift.
Do not divulge any personal information to your patients. This includes details about your personal life or your home address.
The following objects are prohibited on Ward D: alcohol, flammable liquids, thumbtacks, pens, needles, staples, paper clips, safety pins, nail files, tweezers, nail clippers, tobacco products, electronic cigarettes, plastic bags, razor blades, weapons, or any items that could be used as weapons.
Do not expect to sleep during your shift.
The on-call attending physician tonight is DR. BECK. Please report to the attending physician on arrival at Ward D.
Sincerely,
Pauline Walter
Administrative assistant to the Chief of Psychiatry.
Mrs. Pritchett can’t sleep.
Or at least, she couldn’t sleep the last time she was here at the psychiatry outpatient office where I have been doing a medical school clerkship for the past two weeks. I am working with a psychiatrist named Dr. Silver, who I have nicknamed Dr. Sleepy (at least in my head) because eighty percent of the patients he sees are here for sleep problems. The medical school psychiatry rotation that I’m on is supposed to expose me to a general outpatient practice, with a mix of depression, anxiety, psychosis, etc., but it’s really just sleeping problems here. And I’m fine with that.
I still have the notes I took in my little spiral notebook from Mrs. Pritchett’s last visit. I hadn’t realized until this very second how illegible my handwriting has become. Aside from her age of sixty-four years old, I can only make out two sentences:
Can’t fall asleep.
And:
Cat
I underlined “cat” several times, so it must’ve been important, but I can’t read anything I wrote below that word. Something about cats, presumably. Maybe her cat was sitting on her face when she was attempting to fall asleep. That happened to me once.
Mrs. Pritchett is perched in the exam room, her chin-length gray hair combed into a neat bob, her big pink purse clutched in her lap. Unlike most exam rooms I have seen, this one doesn’t have an elevated examining table. It’s just a room with two wooden chairs in it. Mrs. Pritchett is sitting in one, I will sit in the other, and then when Dr. Sleepy comes in, he will take the second chair and I will stand, hovering over them awkwardly.
“Amy!” Mrs. Pritchett exclaims when I walk into the room. “I’m so happy to see you, dear!”
“Oh?” This is different from the usual bleary-eyed greeting I get from patients. “How are you sleeping?”
“So much better—thanks to you!”
“Really?” I try not to sound too astonished, but it’s hard not to blurt out, But I did absolutely nothing.
“Yes!” She beams at me. “Everyone else just prescribed a bunch of sleep medications, but you actually talked to me. More importantly, you listened. And that’s how I realized the reason I couldn’t sleep was that I was missing Mr. Whiskers so much since he passed on six months ago.”
Oh, cat. Now it all makes sense. “I’m so glad I could help.”
She smiles tearfully. “And that’s why after talking to you, I went out and I got a brand new kitten. Ever since I took home Mr. Fluffy, I have been sleeping like a log. It’s all because of you. Because you took the time to listen.”
What can I say? As a medical student, I don’t have much knowledge, but I have lots of time to spend with patients. And it’s a good thing, because Mrs. Pritchett proceeds to show me about five billion Polaroid photos of her brand new kitten.
“Also,” she says when we finish looking at the photos, “I got you a thank-you gift!”
A thank-you gift? Seriously? Wow, this is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in about two years.
However, some of my excitement wanes when Mrs. Pritchett stands up from her chair. And I would say it vanishes entirely when she grabs a giant painting that I hadn’t realized was in the back of the exam room. The picture had been turned to face away from us, but now I can see it clearly.
It’s a portrait of a cat.
And it is almost as big as I am.
“This is a painting I had commissioned of Mr. Whiskers,” Mrs. Pritchett says proudly. “And I would like you to have it.”
“Oh,” I say. “Um. Thank you!”
A black cat is prominently featured in the giant portrait. Clearly, this is larger than life, unless Mr. Whiskers was a bobcat or perhaps a small lion. And why does he look so angry in the painting?
“Doesn’t it look realistic?” Mrs. Pritchett says.
Yes. He truly looks like he is about to leap out of the painting and maul me.
I lug the painting out of the exam room, unsure where I am going to put this thing in my tiny little apartment. For now, I leave it in the hallway.
Dr. Sleepy is working in the office next door to where I had been sitting with Mrs. Pritchett. This other office has a desk and a computer set up on top of it, and Dr. Sleepy is tapping away at the keys when I rap my fist against the open door. When he looks up at me, he pushes his half-moon reading glasses up the bridge of his nose and gives me one of his mild smiles.