The Brainweaver: Adam Filder

By Catherine STOWE

ADAM FILDER doesn't believe in premonitions – he's an experienced, well-respected surgeon, trusting his skills, his knowledge and the science. Until one day when he starts having incredibly accurate dreams about his future patients and how to treat them.

 

Under pressure from desperate cases and from Stitch – an uncontrollable character, a product of his own mind and dreams – Adam follows the procedures on his real-life patients and ends up saving lives in the most impossible circumstances. He's hooked.

 

Obsessed with remembering every second of his dreams, Adam and his friend Gene build a Dream Machine to reconstruct his dream stories. The result is good, but Adam wants more. He agrees to have his brain connected to the machine and operate under a highly augmented cognition with instant access to a world of libraries of medical research. But the upgrade comes at a huge cost: Adam is unable to distinguish between reality and his dreams anymore, between his human consciousness and the extended consciousness, between being a human and an intelligent neuronal structure trapped in a limited body. He begins a desperate search to find a way to recognise his friends, his patients, his passions and ultimately himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mihaela Damian
• Release date: Jul 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201735586

Book preview

Prologue

The double doors swing open violently and Adam is pushed through at high speed. He can hardly see, and suddenly realises he can barely move. He’s lying face-up on a gurney and manages to tilt his head slightly, enough to see he’s entering a long corridor. Everything – the people, the paintings on the wall, the florescent ceiling lights – is passing by at breakneck speed. He’s definitely in a hospital and on his way to an operating room. He knows all this by heart. He feels no pain, but the rush makes him sick.

The sudden impact with another set of swinging doors jars him. He’s pushed into a small room and the race stops there. It’s freezing, and voices with tones of despair bounce loudly between Adam’s ears and the white sterile walls. Silhouettes in green gowns are fitting their surgical masks and gloves on, hurriedly. He recognises Michelle.

‘What’s going on?’ Adam asks, choking on his own words.

She doesn’t answer. He asks again – this time he shouts – but the needle is already sliding down into his vein. The anaesthetic, or at least, it should be.

Random brief images start bombarding his dumbfounded mind, as if trying to clue him up on what’s going on. He sees people – some former patients of his, and others he does not recognise; some appear well and recovered, and others do not. A sudden rush of mixed emotions overwhelms him. He also remembers his brain is approaching the final transformations towards an intellectual apogee – a lottery that he willingly agreed to play with his scientist friend one evening, too readily and too superficially, for the enticed promise that he could save more lives. More lives at the cost of his own. Or worse, if he’s going to survive these transformations, at the cost of a potential psychological disaster.

He doesn’t feel ready for this transformation. Not anymore. But it’s too late to change plans, he’s already sliding into unconsciousness.

‘Tell me, Doctor, why are you doing this?’

Chapter I

Adam

Ten Months Earlier

It was late, and Adam left the hospital exhausted. He’d performed three surgeries that day, all difficult and incredibly draining, but they were successful and that was all that mattered.

He used the few minutes’ journey between work and the tube station to mentally go over the procedures and treatments he’d prescribed, and the possible follow-up steps. He always did that. It was like a reflex, to make sure he didn’t miss anything and that his patients were going to have the best possible outcome.

The tube station was still relatively busy, dotted with a few late-night commuters like him, and a bunch of noisy teenagers clearly heading to a party. He found the exact spot on the platform where the train door would arrive and, since the screen showed another five minutes of waiting, he called the hospital. Not much could have happened in the fifteen minutes since he’d left, but it was worth a check.

‘Hi! Dr Filder here. Is Irene about? Or Frank?’

‘I don’t think so…’ one of the nurses answered. Her voice got distant and Adam imagined her looking for them. ‘No, I can’t see them. Is it urgent? I can go and find them.’

‘It’s not, I just wanted to see how my patients are doing. Can you ask them to call me back when they have a minute, please?’

‘Sure … Hang on, I see Frank! It’s for you – it’s Dr Filder.’

‘Yes, Dr Filder?’ said Frank. ‘Sorry, I was with one of the patients. You wanted to talk to me?’

‘Just briefly. How are things?’

‘All’s fine, nothing new. The patients are resting, and Mrs O’Brian asked for her dinner. I was about to fetch it for her.’

‘That’s good. It’s too soon for Mr Davis’ dinner, but what about Mr Henkel?’

‘He said later. I’ll ask again in an hour.’

‘Please do. Pain-wise?’

‘All good,’ said Frank.

‘OK. You can carry on with the painkillers I prescribed and tomorrow I’ll pop around to see how they feel. Ah, one more thing – I added 1mg Lorazepam for Mr Davis. He mentioned occasional insomnia and I wanted to make sure he’d rest well. It’s all in his file.’

‘Yes, I’ve seen that. No worries, I’ll make sure he takes it tonight.’

‘My train is coming … Thanks, Frank! I’ll call again later.’

‘As you wish, but things are stable and under control. No need to worry.’

‘That’s alright. You know me, I want to make sure things go well with the patients.’

‘Of course, Dr Filder, I understand.’

Adam hung up as he stepped inside the train – the door had opened just in front of him.

He grabbed the first empty seat. Opposite, an elderly woman in a brown fluffy coat smiled warmly when their eyes met. She gave him a gentle nod. Adam smiled back and rested his head against the window behind him. She had such a luminous smile and her wrinkles highlighted her beautiful eyes. Did she know him? He saw so many people, it would be impossible to remember them all. Especially those he met during the ER hours.

He glanced at her again, discreetly. She wasn’t there anymore. He yawned, closed his eyes and waited patiently for his stop.

The patients from today popped into his mind. He was happy with the outcomes of the surgeries and couldn’t wait to tell the patients the next day when he visited. Moments like this kept him going. He loved giving good news. Of course, his profession was still tiring and difficult at times, but in his tenth year of practice, he felt he’d mastered it. And he was never bored of it. There was always a new procedure to try, an inspiring success, or interesting skills to learn or pass on to the newer generations. Today, for instance, he’d had a group of fresh residents under his wing. They’d watched his every move during the surgeries – eyes, hands, intakes of breath – as if a piece of art were being crafted in front of them. In a way, maybe it was. At least that was what Adam had thought back when he was a student. The excitement at the first surgeries he’d attended … He could barely breathe. Now, it was his turn to be the scalpel’s wizard. His colleagues called him that many times. It made Adam smile because he imagined himself wearing a pointed tall hat and a long white beard, mending and patching away, with the scalpel as a magic wand. Grumpy and poker-faced, as Michelle told him once. ‘You should see yourself when you operate,’ she’d said. ‘No face movement, no expression.’

‘I do smile at the end, don’t I?’ Adam asked.

‘Sometimes. That’s a key moment for us all. Tense even. We always wait for your first reaction. Then we dare to relax. Or not, depending on how well the surgery went.’

She also told him they did so out of respect and trust. That moved him greatly. They’re such a crowd … Adam smiled with love.

Arrived home, he opened a bottle of his favourite red wine and switched on the TV. It was more like a reflex, and mostly for some background noise to keep him company. On one channel, in some dark crime scene, he spotted Agent Scully. She’d come to the clinic once and she looked even better in reality. He loved her voice, it was mesmerising. He’d managed to get himself an autograph. ‘What a child,’ he’d murmured, half excited and half proud of himself.

He wondered where he’d put it. He reached out to the top bookshelf and retrieved it from the middle of a novel he’d happened to be reading at the time. I wonder what her handwriting says about her, he thought, examining the back of an empty prescription with her signature on it – sure, it was dull and embarrassing, but a prescription was all he’d had for her to sign. In his defence, it was a doctor’s office, after all. She could have signed his scrubs; later he thought that would have been cool.

To the handsome doctor who was sent to save my life today. Signed, Agent Scully.

He laughed because he hadn’t really been ‘sent’. He had put himself in charge. While taking a break in between two surgeries, he’d spotted her name (her real one) in the admissions file. It was a chance in a thousand it was her, and he took it. He wanted to convince himself and popped his head into the private waiting room. She was there, waiting for Dr Flea, who was on duty. Adam found Dr Flea, pulled her file from his hands and took Ms Gillian Anderson under his care. How difficult could it be to care for her? he asked himself. She might be a movie star, but still, her body can’t deviate too much from other humans.

That must have been five years ago and he still laughed thinking about it.

Adam noticed something on the front of the prescription he hadn’t seen before. It seemed like a phone number. Was it? He flipped the paper to the front and back. The pen was definitely the same, and it was the same handwriting.

He gasped with excitement. How had he missed this? Such an idiot. What if he’d called her up? Would she have answered, agreed to go for a coffee?

Adam stared at the piece of paper, not knowing what to do with it. In the end, he decided he’d missed the boat and threw it back randomly among the pages of the book, which he put back onto the bookshelf, somewhere in a corner, hidden enough that it wouldn’t be found too easily. While he was at it, mostly out of frustration, he started dusting off his sparklingly clean bookshelf.

Adam’s apartment was modern, large and bright, overlooking Central Park. He’d fallen in love with it at first sight. He was flying over from London and worrying about finding a place to stay, when the guy sitting next to him, who he’d been chatting with to pass the time, pulled out a photo, showing off his flashy place. A week later Adam moved in. He’d never understood how he managed to persuade the lad to sell it. What’s more, that fast. If everything else proves to be as lucky during my secondment, I’ll stay in New York, he thought. And he did.

To the apartment, he made changes: he added some artwork – large paintings and sculptures – a designer white sofa, and a funky table, and equipped it with the latest technology. Everything was high-spec and high-tech, and remotely controlled. Being a music producer, the previous owner had installed the finest possible sound system in each room. Adam found it a nice touch, so he kept it. The guy had also created an interface where you could tell it your mood and, based on that, it would play the right music for you, to cheer you up when you were angry, to relax you when you were tired. The guy must have had serious mood swings, and must have gotten fed up of searching for the right song, to take the trouble to set this thing up. Adam found the feature pointless, at least while he still had to tell it his mood. He wished the machine would at least guess it, or sense it, the moment he entered the door. On evenings like this, he was too exhausted to talk to anybody, human or machine.

After midnight, when Agent Dana Scully had solved her mysteries and crimes, Adam fell asleep on the sofa. His hand slipped off and dropped the surgical protocol papers he’d been working on. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was the fatigue, but he dreamt a lot that night.

He was in the operating theatre, about to start an operation. A large guy, middle-aged, bold and cheerful – although under full anaesthetic – was talking to Adam.

‘Tell me, Doctor, why are you doing this?’ he was saying.

‘Doing what?’

‘This. Trying to save my life. You know I’m not going to make it. Why are you prolonging my agony?’

‘Max, you’ll be fine. I don’t have any reason to worry about you, and you shouldn’t either. Why are you saying this?’

‘I know it, OK? I’ll give myself about two weeks. At most. You’ll see.’

‘Don’t be silly. Stop talking and focus on letting me make you better.’

‘Fine, go on, do whatever you have to do, if you really have to do it.’

Adam jumped straight up from his sleep. He remembered the same character appearing a few nights before, and he could recall details. ‘Max …’ he murmured, while trying to remember other elements. That was the name of the guy he operated on yesterday. It was him in the dream, because he had the same unusual accent. The man was only admitted to the clinic yesterday morning, following an accident. How had his name come into his dream the night before?

It was not first time Adam had dreamt about surgeries and his patients. On many occasions, his mind would run repeatedly through cases and clues, trying to solve more or less illusory medical situations. But what would one expect after spending his days (all of them, and always long ones) buried in wounds, blood and diseases? In the end, he accepted it as being part of the job.

***

‘What do we have today, Michelle?’ Adam asked after arriving at the clinic in the morning, ready to get going, black coffee in one hand and laptop in the other.

‘Good morning, Dr Filder! Today we’ll have a lovely day,’ Michelle said cheerfully, and followed him along the corridor. Adam loved good old enthusiasm around the office on a Monday morning.

‘You had a good weekend?’ he asked.

‘As a matter of fact, I did,’ she said. ‘I have a friend visiting. We went sightseeing and dancing Saturday night.’

‘Dancing? Good for you!’ Adam said, and glanced at her, wondering whether the friend was a man or a woman.

‘Yourself?’ she asked.

‘I didn’t go dancing. I don’t think you invited me,’ he said.

‘No, I meant did you have a good weekend …’

‘I did, thank you. Doing stuff, thinking stuff, went for a run … So tell me about this lovely day that we’re about to have.’

‘Right. You have no surgeries.’

‘Great. Nobody sick, then! How’s our little girl, Luisa?’

‘She’s doing really well. She had the drains removed this morning and she’s also less fatigued. I wonder whether we should reduce her painkillers.’

‘I’ll go to see her. What about Mr Johnson? Max Johnson?’

‘He’s also doing well. He’s on 15 mg of morphine every three hours – no pain, no swelling or redness so far, pulse and blood pressure back to normal and stabilised.’

‘Marvellous! Let’s not change anything today. I’d like you to run another full blood count tomorrow morning. And move him onto 1,000 mg of paracetamol only. Every six hours. Is he getting out of the bed?’

‘Not yet. He’s not feeling up to it,’ Michelle said in a louder voice – she had problems keeping up with his stride, despite his often brief stops to greet people.

‘That’s fine, it’s still early,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow I want him to start. With assistance.’

‘Sure, will do. What about the antibiotics?’

‘No change of plan. Keep the IV, the same type for now. Let’s see the blood tests.’

On his way to room 305, Adam’s brain was rushing ahead. Luisa, Luisa … There’s something in my head about Luisa. I can’t put my finger on it. I’m missing something … Before opening the door, Adam stopped. That was it: she’d talked to him. Last night, in his dream. He was sure. What did she say …? He thought it was something about her mum … and an accident … He could still visualise her looking sad, with her two blond pigtails tied up with pink ribbons. The image touched him. Had he dreamt about her the nights before, like he had about Max? He couldn’t remember. Blimey, this wandering mind … He put it in the forget-it-because-it-is-weird category and left it there.

Luisa’s door was ajar and her high voice, singing a rhythmic children’s song, was coming from inside. Adam waited a few seconds in the doorway to observe how well she was moving. She was putting her slippers on, taking her time. Once all set, she carefully grabbed her fluffy teddy bear from the pillow and turned around. She saw Adam and smiled.

‘Morning, Luisa!’ Adam said. ‘How are we doing today? How is Teddy?’

‘Good morning, Adam! Teddy had his breakfast and I’m going to take him for a walk in the forest. He needs to walk after the surgery, you know?’

‘He had surgery, too?’

‘Yes, he did. Whatever I do, he does it, too. He’s my best friend.’ Luisa was still smiling, and Adam found something precious in her smile, something that made him feel alive, purposeful.

‘Is Teddy feeling better?’

‘Mmm … I think so,’ she answered, after careful consideration. ‘Yes, he is feeling better,’ she continued with confidence.

‘Do you think he wants to go home?’

‘I think he’s ready, Adam.’

He loved it when she called him by his name. It showed confidence, and he admired that in kids.

‘What about you?’ he said. ‘Are you ready to go home?’

‘Yes, because I feel much better, if that’s what you want to know,’ she answered with her endearing childish wisdom.

Adam helped Luisa take a few steps down the corridor.

‘Why is your teddy blue?’ he asked.

‘Why not? I think it’s really pretty,’ she said, stroking his fur. She looked left and right, hid Teddy behind her back and beckoned Adam with her finger. ‘I have a secret to tell you,’ she whispered.

Adam lowered his ear to her.

‘He’s not real,’ she said. ‘Shh!’

Adam smiled and made a zipping-lips gesture.

Adam barely knew Luisa and she was no different to any other kid he’d treated, but the fact she called him ‘Daddy’ must have had an impact. The day of the surgery, they’d been getting her ready. Adam was always good with kids and able to put them at ease. Luisa was particularly nervous that day. He felt her little arm shaking when he took the blood sample. Then she did something that took him completely by surprise. She looked straight at him, smiled and said, ‘Daddy,’ in the warmest voice possible.

Adam was overwhelmed and his heart melted in a second. The next day, he asked her, ‘Why did you call me that, Luisa?’

‘Because I was too scared,’ she said, ‘and I wanted it to stop being scary, like when my daddy used to give me needles. He was a doctor, like you, and I was not scared at all. I called you Daddy to feel better.’

‘Did it help?’ Adam said.

‘Yes, it did,’ she said, while preparing Teddy for bed.

Although it probably didn’t mean much to her two minutes after, it did touch Adam deeply. It was the first time he’d been put in the position of being a father. Even if just theoretically.

He was happy with the girl’s recovery and he hoped in a day or two he could send her home. She was healing and Adam was looking forward to delivering the happy news to her mum in the afternoon. The scattered memories of his dream were chasing him.

‘All set for Geneva?’ Michelle asked when Adam returned Luisa’s file.

‘Yes. Can’t wait!’

***

There was a storm over the Atlantic and the plane arrived after a delay. It was spring, early morning, and it was Adam’s first time in Switzerland. As he stepped outside the airport, the sun hit his face. He put on his shades, smiled and breathed in deeply. The air was fresh. He felt like he was on holiday, despite the workshop, the conference and the two liver transplants he was going to assist with.

The taxi took him past the lake. The weather was perfect: mist at low altitude, above which he could see the Alps, the tops covered in snow.

Outside the hotel, two old colleagues were waiting for him.

‘Adam, man, look at you, you haven’t changed a bit. How do you do it?’

They were probably being honest, since Adam looked as fit as always. He had a healthy diet, did regular exercise, never smoked and drank in moderation. And only red wine. He had a thing for it. At university, everybody called him the Matador. Supposedly he looked like one, or maybe it had something to do with the red of the wine. There was an incipient attempt to call him Dracula at some point – because he was a nice person, it didn’t stick.

‘Hey, guys! You haven’t changed much either.’

‘Yeah, yeah, drop it. Look at us, we must be at least ten biological years ahead of you,’ one of them said, patting himself on his large belly.

‘Must be all the Swiss wine, cheese and chocolate,’ Adam mocked them gently. ‘But I thought you guys would spend most of your days up on the hiking trails, sweating it all out.’

‘We wish. Don’t let yourself be fooled by that nice scenery, Adam. These looks’ – and the man pointed again at his belly – ‘and those looks have nothing in common. It’s the bad habits. One of them being working ridiculous hours.’

They had all completed their medical studies more than fifteen years ago in London, and had only seen each other once or twice briefly at conferences since. Jonathan and Mathew were both working at the Geneva University Hospital – Mathew as a top psychiatrist, and Jonathan specialising in reconstructive plastic surgery.

Adam loved being back in Europe, and was looking forward to his stay. Even though it was for two weeks, it was like travelling to an exotic place. Interesting work, conferences and workshops during the day, clubs in the evenings and skiing at the weekends. Since Adam had recently got his pilot’s licence, he showed off his skills by taking Mathew and Jonathan up for a flight above the mountains.

Adam had never liked Jonathan, but he’d come to Switzerland open-minded, prepared to give him another chance.

‘What’s new with you, Jonathan?’ he asked. ‘You’re still in reconstructive? I saw your name in a big conference programme last month. You seemed quite popular.’

‘I seemed? I smashed them all, the press and everybody else.’

‘It was an interesting topic.’ Adam tried to invite Jonathan into a more substantial discussion, since the subject was genuinely fascinating. But would it be that easy?

‘Yeah,’ Jonathan said. ‘But they were a bunch of idiots. Nobody understood what I was talking about. And why didn’t they publish my paper afterwards? They use the Fords’ name when it suits them. But I’ll show them, they can’t mess with us. My father could ruin them in one week.’

Adam didn’t know how to respond, and realised nobody in the world would have the patience or the motivation to educate this individual. He was the same spoilt old brat. His family was rich and had a lot of connections, and surely that was how he’d gotten ahead in his career. Scratch my back, because I have a lot of power to scratch yours. Sometimes the scratching was only one way, since Jonathan would many times forget to return the service. As a result, his friendship turnover was high. Surprisingly, he had kept his connection with Mathew all these years. God knows why, since Mathew never gave the impression of being a person of great influential power. And even more surprisingly, Mathew had put up with this arrangement. Maybe because, unlike anybody else, he had the patience (and probably the skill) to confront him, like he had one day during Adam’s visit:

‘Why did you get yourself this pilot licence?’ Jonathan had asked Adam.

‘No particular reason, it’s just a passion of mine.’

‘You have a passion for getting licences? Interesting.’

‘What’s wrong with wanting to be a pilot?’ Mathew jumped to defend Adam, sensing the sarcasm. ‘You’ve always said that’s something cool to do, haven’t you?’

‘Yeah, but that’s different.’

‘Different my arse. What do you have that Adam doesn’t?’

Jonathan seemed to be boiling, but he bit his tongue and said nothing. Somehow, Mathew had managed to stop him.

Despite his deplorable character, Jonathan had an indirect influence on Adam’s relocation to New York. Before graduation, his posh colleague was offered an important position in the city. He didn’t take it, but the situation inspired Adam. With no familial obligations or girlfriend, he had nothing keeping him in London and was craving change. He’d looked around at opportunities, out of curiosity at first, and in less than a month he was packing up to travel for an interview with the Bial West Clinic. Adam was offered the job on the spot and took it.

It was an important accomplishment for Adam and Jonathan didn’t miss the opportunity to claim it. One evening, in a bar, he said, ‘What are you there, Filder? A nurse or something? Come on, I’m pulling your leg, I hear you’re quite a local celebrity. Although … if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be there, let’s face it.’

Yep, total jerk.

Mathew, on the other hand, was easy to talk to. Normal, nothing special, but next to Jonathan, he was a joy. They liked chatting about interesting cases they’d come across. One evening Mathew told them a story about a guy who had become obsessed with his dreams.

‘In what way?’ Adam asked, curious.

‘He was convinced they meant something. That they were predicting things. He had a detailed list of meanings, like a dictionary he’d built over the years.’

‘Dreams can mean something, right?’ Adam said, with his recent dreams in mind.

‘They can, and I have my own list of meanings, too. Only my list is different from my patient’s. The hardest job was to convince him mine was the right one. Not easy. He was religious and strongly opinionated by nature.’

‘If he was so convinced he was right, why did he come to see you?’

‘It was the weirdest thing. His wife made an appointment one day,’ Mathew said. ‘For herself. She wanted a divorce and she was stressed out. She loved her husband very much, but he was driving her crazy. He was insisting she should do all sorts of strange things, otherwise something bad would happen.’

‘What sort of things?’ Adam asked.

‘All sorts. Like not taking the eight o’clock bus because there was a terrorist on it, like going to the doctor’s because she might have a tumour, and even leaving her job for – I can’t remember what reason. She couldn’t move,