The Sullivan Sisters

No Quick Fix

"You don't have to actually fix me or anything. You'll get paid either way."

A hearty laugh barreled out of Dr. Dayla's throat. The corners of his eyes crinkled a bit as he smiled. "'Fix' you. That's what you think my job is?"

Quinn sank down in the center of the leather couch across from the man as if the furniture hadn't already tried its hardest to swallow her whole the minute she planted herself in it. She observed the hard creases that lined his khaki pants. Much like the kind often found in her late father's old army uniform, they were the type of creases that told a story that his office décor may have missed.

He was proud of his heritage, that much was clear. His tastes almost looked like something she'd find straight out of her history book whenever she'd flip through the pages and read all about the Native Americans and the unique way of life that they proudly practiced before the Europeans could come along and turn their little piece of Heaven upside down. But Dr. Dayla's office was living proof that neither man nor disease could obliterate a culture as rich as their own. 

She decided that Dr. Dayla couldn't have yet reached his mid-thirties but the way he dressed, sophisticated and poised, nearly told Quinn otherwise. Then again, his face was clean-shaved which gave him a youthful look that was quite possibly even deceiving her. Aside from the beautiful décor, Quinn allotted him points for his glasses, too.

They were thick and black and even shaped like her own. He pushed them further up his nose whenever he intended to take notes on what few words she carefully permitted herself to set free. She wanted to roll her eyes at the habit but she had to save such a dramatic act for her departure (whenever that would be); more specifically the inspirational posters she saw on her way in.

Even Paloma poked fun at the brightly-colored clichés when she dropped her sister off. Though Quinn felt like it was more of a bandwagon hopping than anything considering ever since she agreed to attend therapy like the brunette wanted, Paloma made it her business to fulfill every one of her needs and the vast majority of her wants as if doing otherwise would make the teenager suddenly back out.

Quinn considered it, really, on more than one occasion but whenever the thought crossed her mind, she reminded herself why she agreed to something as unsettling as a session of therapy in the first place.

"Yeah, well, I figured that's why they pay you the big bucks." She gestured to the silver nameplate that sat neatly on the left corner of his desk. "Otherwise, Dr. Dayla would just be...Dayla. I mean, if someone comes in broken then they come here and, eventually, leave broken then, that means you didn't do your job, right? You didn't fix them."

"Most people call me Dr. Day; it's simple, fast, and easy to remember."

Exchanging pleasantries felt like a waste of time, let alone happy-go-lucky nicknames considering Quinn hadn't any intention of attending another session outside of the one she grudgingly agreed to that afternoon. Be that as it may, she was willing to say whatever necessary to put the experience behind her.

"Well, I'm not most people but if that's what you prefer." Quinn extended him a polite smile that lasted no more than a second. "Dr. Day it is."

"I'd have to agree—you're not like most people. I got that vibe from you from the very beginning."

Quinn hadn't the slightest clue as to how to respond to that, then she remembered she didn't have to.

"My work—my calling—what I do here, it's not 'fixing' people so much as it is helping them. That help can come in all shapes and sizes. Mostly it means making my patients secure in themselves so that they can become and continue to be a productive member of society and live genuinely happy, thriving lives that they, as well as their family and friends, want to be a part of."