The Other Side of Me by Sidney Sheldon

I spun around, spilling some of the whiskey and dropping some of the pills.

My father was standing in the bedroom doorway. He moved closer. “I didn’t know you drank.”

I looked at him, stunned. “I—I thought you were gone.”

“I forgot something. I’ll ask you again: What are you doing?” He took the glass of whiskey from my hand.

My mind was racing. “Nothing—nothing.”

He was frowning. “This isn’t like you, Sidney. What’s wrong?” He saw the pile of sleeping pills. “My God! What’s going on here? What are these?”

No plausible lie came to my mind. I said defiantly, “They’re sleeping pills.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to—to commit suicide.”

There was a silence. Then my father said, “I had no idea you were so unhappy.”

“You can’t stop me, because if you stop me now I’ll do it tomorrow.”

He stood there, studying me. “It’s your life. You can do anything you want with it.” He hesitated. “If you’re not in too big a hurry, why don’t we go for a little walk?”

I knew exactly what he was thinking. My father was a salesman. He was going to try to talk me out of my plan, but he didn’t have a chance. I knew what I was going to do. I said, “All right.”

“Put on a coat. You don’t want to catch cold.”

The irony of that made me smile.

Five minutes later, my father and I were headed down windswept streets that were empty of pedestrians because of the freezing temperature.

After a long silence, my father said, “Tell me about it, son. Why do you want to commit suicide?”

Where could I begin? How could I explain to him how lonely and trapped I felt? I desperately wanted a better life—but there was no better life for me. I wanted a wonderful future and there was no wonderful future. I had glowing daydreams, but at the end of the day, I was a delivery boy working in a drugstore.

My fantasy was to go to college, but there was no money for that. My dream had been to become a writer. I had written dozens of short stories and sent them to Story magazine, Collier’s, and The Saturday Evening Post, and I had gotten back printed rejections. I had finally decided I couldn’t spend the rest of my life in this suffocating misery.

My father was talking to me. “. . . and there are so many beautiful places in the world you haven’t seen . . .”

I tuned him out. If he leaves tonight, I can go on with my plan.

“. . . you’d love Rome . . .”

If he tries to stop me now, I’ll do it when he leaves. I was busy with my thoughts, barely listening to what he was saying.

“Sidney, you told me that you wanted to be a writer more than anything in the world.”

He suddenly had my attention. “That was yesterday.”

“What about tomorrow?”

I looked at him, puzzled. “What?”

“You don’t know what can happen tomorrow. Life is like a novel, isn’t it? It’s filled with suspense. You have no idea what’s going to happen until you turn the page.”

“I know what’s going to happen. Nothing.”

“You don’t really know that, do you? Every day is a different page, Sidney, and they can be full of surprises. You’ll never know what’s next until you turn the page.”

I thought about that. He did have a point. Every tomorrow was like the next page of a novel.

We turned the corner and walked down a deserted street. “If you really want to commit suicide, Sidney, I understand. But I’d hate to see you close the book too soon and miss all the excitement that could happen to you on the next page—the page you’re going to write.”

Don’t close the book too soon . . . Was I closing it too soon? Something wonderful could happen tomorrow.

Either my father was a superb salesman or I wasn’t fully committed to ending my life, because by the end of the next block, I had decided to postpone my plan.

But I intended to keep my options open.