by Ellen Smith
It wasn’t, but Déjà Deirdre was. The premiere must have aired earlier that week. The TV guide showed the episode would be replaying on loop all night.
Mara had just missed the beginning of the episode, but that was okay. Onscreen, Deirdre was walking down a side street of New York City. She looked pensively at the camera while New Yorkers jostled past her on either side, seemingly unbothered by Deirdre Collins on her quest to recall her past life map.
“I’ve always felt a connection to this city, even though I’ve never lived here,” Deirdre said. “When I started to feel that I’d had a timeline rectification, I paid attention to all the little things that were familiar to me, even if I didn’t know why. Who knows? Maybe it’s a sign that’s connecting me to my forgotten life. Whoever I was, whatever may have happened—I feel like my journey starts here.”
If Will were watching this with her, he’d be making sarcastic comments. So, she wanted to move to New York City and have a reality show film the experience. Never seen a B-list actress do that before.
Even though it was the middle of the night, Mara’s eyes were alert as she watched Deirdre sigh over making a deposit on a tiny apartment. Mara and Will’s one-bedroom looked like a castle in comparison. Deirdre took the cameras on a melodramatic tour, pointing out the view of the fire escape and the kitchenette she could span with her outstretched arms.
After a loud, well-timed knock, Deirdre flung open the door without even checking the peephole. It was her new next-door neighbor, offering a bottle of wine to welcome her to New York City. They immediately sat down on Deirdre’s couch to sip wine and have a lengthy, personal discussion about what types of crimes they would go back in time to rectify.
That’s not even well-rehearsed. If any of their neighbors had turned up on moving day with a bottle of wine, Mara and Will wouldn’t have been able to find a corkscrew, much less clean glasses. They definitely wouldn’t have started a conversation about philosophical what-ifs.
After the staged conversation was over and the neighbor left, Deirdre addressed the camera head-on. “It was so great to meet Saoirse today—I have a feeling we’re going to be best friends! Plus, she gave me some ideas about where to start my search. I’ve always felt like I was born to be a chef. I’m going to take the cooking class she recommended and see if I don’t uncover a forgotten talent! Who knows? Maybe in my first life, I was a chef after all!”
Mara rolled her eyes. This is unbelievable. Do people think time wrecks really work like this? That people just wander around having déjà vu moments because they have secret, forgotten lives?
Some people probably did, actually. It was hard to believe that all their memories of their current life—their post-Jason Mann life—could really be erased.
Thinking about it sent shivers up Mara’s spine. If they really did this, she and Will wouldn’t remember anything about the day they’d just had. Sure, it was just a normal, boring day—but it didn’t deserve to be erased into oblivion. Their home, their marriage, their whole lives for the past eight years were worth remembering.
But Will’s nightmares. Those deserve to be erased.
How many times since they’d been married had Mara wished that she could help Will the way he helped her? He could get heating pads for her shoulder, fill her prescriptions, even brush her hair and button her shirt if it was an especially bad pain day. But she couldn’t take away the night that had etched itself on his memory.
Until now.
American Scene Magazine
EXCLUSIVE: Interview with Deirdre Collins
Former nineties TV star opens up about timeline rectification, her new reality show, and the successes and failures that shaped her life
In the early nineties, you’d be hard-pressed to find a magazine cover or TV show that didn’t want to feature Deirdre Collins. Everything about Deirdre was larger than life: the bouffant blonde curls, the wide brown eyes, the personality that seemed to jump off the TV screen and join us right in our living room. Many of us grew up feeling that we did know Deirdre. Her disarming, self-deprecating approach on The Deirdre Collins Show helped launch the “confessional” TV program.
Now, Deirdre’s image seems locked in time for many of us: an icon of the nineties that somehow faded away when we entered the new millennium.
“Forget that,” Deirdre laughs. “I’m a washed-up has-been.”
Her easygoing laugh reminds me of why she rose to stardom in her early career. There’s something about Deirdre that makes you feel like you’re talking to your best friend.
Deirdre is equally straightforward and unassuming as she talks about her new reality show, which is the reason behind my visit today. We’re meeting in her New York City loft, which she’s occupying for the filming of her new reality show, Déjà Deirdre. As we talk, it’s easy to see that Deirdre is just as comfortable filming her life in the loft as she once was performing in front of a studio audience.
“Easy come, easy go,” she says airily, whenever I mention her former stardom. “But the truth is that it was a much longer, much more complicated journey.”
American Scene: At one time, you were the queen of confessional TV. What led you to the reality scene?
Deirdre Collins: Well, you know, entertainment has evolved so much in the past twenty years. And really, that was why I disappeared from the industry for so long. I didn’t change with the times. I had to really reinvent myself, in a way, before I could come back and be relevant in today’s world.
AS: What did reinventing yourself look like? What had to change before you were ready to, as you say, be in today’s world?
DC: For a long time after the spotlight moved off me, I thought, “That’s it. I’m done. My career is over because nobody is interested in what I have to say.” It was a very lonely feeling. And then I would see these entertainers still, you know, getting roles in movies or performing or signing book deals and think, “Why not me?” It took me several years to understand that if the entertainment industry was changing, I was going to have to change with it or else I’d be left behind. These other entertainers were staying true to themselves, but they were also changing their platform to reach the modern audience.
AS: In your opinion, how has the entertainment industry changed over the last few decades?
DC: We’ve gone from regularly scheduled programs on TV to watching our shows on our computers or recording to watch the next day—it’s not a bonding thing, for everyone to have to watch a certain show at seven o’clock on Tuesdays. And so much of what I did in the nineties was about conversations—I wasn’t just interacting with the studio audience, I was trying to encourage people at home to turn to each other and have those same conversations. But now we watch TV differently and interact with each other differently, so I needed to change the way I shared my message.
AS: And that’s what brought you to reality TV. Tell us what inspired you to start Déjà Deirdre.
DC: Well, it was really two things. First, it was that awareness of people tuning in and following reality shows the way they once bonded over talk shows. So I was really looking for a way to incorporate that into my career and reach that audience. And second, in around 2003, 2004, I remember that I started having these overpowering feelings that I didn’t really belong in this life path I was on. These years were really at the height of my personal crisis, so at first, I thought these feelings were simply about that . . . but then I was reading articles about timeline rectification, and I was like, “That’s it.” Finally, I had an explanation that resonated with me, but I still didn’t know anything about the life I’d left behind. I was talking with my agent about it and he just looked at me and said, “Deirdre, that’s a show. Let me pitch this.”
AS: Some people have claimed that you’re misrepresenting timeline rectification in your show. Do you feel you’re challenging the Department of Timeline Rectification or taking on the justice system with this show?
DC: No, no, not at al
l. I don’t. And if you remember from my original show in the nineties, I never tried to push anyone to a particular point of view or a certain conclusion. I just showed up and said, “Hey, this is what I’m dealing with. Anyone else? How do you handle it?” And then the audience would respond and there would be this great dialogue. So in that sense, I’m doing what I’ve always done. I’m just being real, and I’m saying, “Look, this is what I’m experiencing. Come join me for the ride.”
AS: Where do you see Déjà Deirdre going? Do you think you’ll eventually discover whether you did have a timeline rectification? Do you think you’d ever be able to find out the details of that?
DC: Well, for the last two questions, you’d have to take that up with the Department of Timeline Rectification. They don’t unlock those records for anyone, not even reality stars. (Laughs) But I can say that the big question in my show is one that everyone deals with: What makes me the person I am? Is it the sum of my experiences? Or is it all determined by what I choose to do with my life now? I think those are really essential questions and I hope that [Déjà Deirdre] can start some conversations about that.
Chapter Ten
WILL
Clarity. The more time passed after their appointment with Nayana, the more Will flip-flopped about the time wreck. Of course it was the right thing to do. Anything that allowed a person to take back their sin had to be right.
But it was a little wrong too. What gave anyone the right to decide which crimes could be taken back and which ones couldn’t? How did anyone really know Jason wouldn’t do the same thing again, given the chance? And Mara. Why should they give up everything they’d built together over the last eight years just to give Jason another shot?
“Giving Jason another shot” wasn’t a phrase Will liked to think about. It felt somehow ominous.
Mara hadn’t been much help in talking it through. The higher dose of painkillers seemed to be helping her shoulder, but she’d been asleep or foggy-brained all weekend. Will had found himself reading and watching more TV than usual just to occupy himself while Mara rested.
This was why Will had accidentally stayed up half the night, reading articles and opinion pieces about time wrecks. Some of them sent him straight back to his days at Deer Hill, with titles like,
Time Wreckers: The Unoriginal Sin
and
Don’t Be Fooled: Time Wrecks Aren’t about Grace. They’re about Convenience.
He could feel his ears burning as hot as if it were his old pastor saying the words. Of course, time wrecks were just another example of people playing God.
Then, when he was convinced that timeline rectification was wrong, no question, he’d read another type of article:
Timeline Rectification: Finally, a Healing Space for Criminals
and
Dispelling 5 Myths about Time Wrecks: Why They Aren’t Illegal, Immoral, or Even Ill-Advised
Those made sense too. Will had read and read until he looked up at the clock and realized it was two o’clock in the morning.
Now it was Monday, and Will wondered if his headache was God trying to punish him for questioning His authority.
Assuming there was a God.
Will wandered half-asleep through his first three classes of the day. He introduced the new sheet music for their spring concert. Listening to his middle schoolers sight read each piece was worse than he’d predicted. It couldn’t have helped that at least five of his students had forgotten their instruments. The rest were no more awake than he was.
“Let’s go back to the top and start again,” he said, after one particularly bad read-through. “Trumpets, watch for my beat. You’re galloping ahead of the rest of us. Flutes, take a minute to tune, please.” He thought of the old joke his own band director used to tell—how do you tune two flutes? Shoot one. He glanced up at the Against School Violence banner hanging over the door and decided not to share that joke.
A cymbal crash from the back row showed that the percussion section—mostly snare drummers—were horsing around while the flute players tuned up. He leveled them with a glare, satisfied when the percussion line fell quiet. Good. He still had a knack for discipline. All was not lost.
When the flutes were finally ready, Will lifted his baton to give the downbeat. “From the top. Watch me.” He began to count aloud, “One, two, three, and—”
The intercom crackled and the principal’s voice came on the PA system. “Code red. Students and teachers, be advised. We have a code red.”
For one long second, Will’s baton hovered in midair. The entire band room was still and silent, all eyes focused on him.
This can’t be happening.
A terrible calm settled over him. This was a moment straight out of his nightmare, but now that he was actually in it, everything felt surreal. The sick feeling of panic that usually rose in his stomach was gone, replaced by . . . nothing. It was almost comforting, letting himself go numb like this.
Will heard his own voice take over. “You know what this means. There are over sixty of you in here, and I need all of you away from the windows. First row, file into my office and close the door. Second row, sit along the wall outside my office. Third row, sit in front of them. Last row, bring a chair over with you and turn it over like we’ve practiced. Quickly and quietly, please. I need to turn the lights off and I don’t want people tripping over each other.”
The students had already started moving into position. Will had practiced this drill before, but had he practiced it with this class? He had seven class periods and they’d had plenty of emergency drills. Tornado, code blue, code red, code yellow. Had Cliff said it was a drill this time? Will tried to remember . . .
The last row of students finally found their places and pulled their chairs over. The seats and backs of the chairs now covered the front and tops of the huddled students. Like shields, Will thought grimly. He turned off the light and knelt by the door to the hallway. He jammed a music stand under the doorknob too. That should keep anyone from getting in—or at least delay them for a while.
A familiar knot of panic was rising in Will’s stomach. He forced himself to quash it back down. Go numb again. You cannot lose it now. Will looked back at the rows of students quietly bracing themselves against the wall. He was going to protect them. No matter what.
For three long minutes, the only sound in the music room was the ticking of the wall clock and the hum of the emergency light, glowing faintly in the back of the room. Then somebody let out a fart, and a few other somebodies shrieked “Ew!” and a lot more somebodies started laughing.
“Quiet!” Will ordered. The room fell silent again.
He heard footsteps coming down the hall. Quiet ones, but in the echoing school building, they were making their way closer to the door. He tensed.
Cliff. When Will saw the principal’s face appear in the window of the door, a mixture of irritation and relief settled over him. So it was just a drill. Not that he’d doubted it. Now the principal was making his rounds, making sure all the teachers remembered what to do in case of a real emergency. Through the window, Cliff motioned to him with one finger and Will slid the music stand out from under the doorknob.
When Cliff edged his way inside, though, he didn’t look like he was doing a routine check. He crouched down by the floor, so Will did too. “There was a report of a student sighted with a gun on campus,” Cliff said under his breath. He hadn’t been quiet enough, because the students nearest them immediately started whispering.
“Shh!” Will hissed. The whispers didn’t stop. Cliff kept talking anyway.
“The sighting was out by the basketball courts, outside the school, but of course we all need to remain on lockdown until the police come and clear the building. It may be a while. Ignore the bells, ignore everything, keep your students where they are.”
Will nodded. He wondered if everyone else in the room could hear his heart pounding inside his ribcage.
; “Are any of your students in this period diabetic? Any medical concerns that you might need help taking care of? The nurse and aides are on standby.”
Will forced himself to think clearly. “Three with childhood asthma. One with an allergy to bee stings.”
“That should be fine. If anyone needs an inhaler, push the button to the main office and a nurse will come as soon as it’s safe.”
The whispers among the students were getting louder. Will turned and issued another, “Quiet!”
“I need to keep checking in with the other classrooms,” Cliff said. “Hang in there.”
He slipped back out into the hall. Will replaced the music stand under the doorknob.
“What’s going on?” someone asked. Will debated for a full minute before answering.
“We’re on lockdown for a while, guys,” he said. “There’s something that needs to be checked out and it might take some time. But you’re where you’re supposed to be, everyone’s quiet, everyone’s out of sight, and you’ve got all the teachers and staff in the building looking out for you. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”
“Someone’s got a gun over by the basketball courts,” announced one of the students closest to Will. Was that Phineas? It sounded like Phineas. Even in the dark, Will quickly picked him out and gave him a withering stare.
“That,” Will said, “was not helpful.”
“We have a right to know,” Phineas said.
“Right now, you need to worry about staying quiet. I will tell you what you need to know, when you need to know it.” Will hoped he sounded authoritative. Panic was rising in his chest again. If someone with a gun wanted to get in the orchestra room, would a music stand really be enough to hold the door closed? Would he honestly be able to keep the shooter at bay?